Rudy jumped out, hurried to the gate, and pressed four numbers on a security pad. By the time he ran back to the passenger seat the steel gate had slid open. After Max drove through, the gate closed behind them. They now had complete control of the property’s hundred acres.
The drive wound up through oaks, pines, and poplars for nearly two miles. In this part of the Blue Ridge Mountains hunt clubs were common. The family had owned this one for nearly twenty years and was considered a good neighbor. Which meant they minded their own business. In rural Warren County privacy was next to godliness.
Checking on Liz Sansborough, Rudy saw that she’d rolled over onto her other side. He studied her in her sleek, yellow jogging clothes, her auburn hair falling out of her ponytail. With her full lips and wide-set eyes she was pretty. Her hands were scraped from when she’d tried to cushion her fall after the bicycle struck her. Other than that, she didn’t have a scratch or a bruise on her.
That will soon change, Rudy thought.
HER EYELIDS FLUTTERING, LIZ HEARD herself moan.
She felt dizzy, sick to her stomach. Where was she? What had happened? As the stench of exhaust burned her nose, she began to remember—two men in the park, a bicycle knocking her down, someone offering to help her stand, the sting of a hypodermic. Just before she passed out they’d thrown her into a van. The van. That must be where she was now.
The vehicle stopped.
So did the engine. Two doors opened and banged shut.
She forced herself up into a sitting position just as the rear door swung open. Two men stared at her, the same two who’d kidnapped her. One briefly aimed his AK-47.
Then they yanked her out.
Rallying, she slammed her knee in a hizagashira strike into the belly of the larger one. Swearing, he grabbed her and threw her down hard. Gravel bit into her palms. She felt dizzy again. She forced herself to lift her head and look around. The van had stopped in front of a two-story log house. Next to it was the berm of what appeared to be an outdoor shooting range. Farther over she saw a swimming pool, covered for cold weather.
What is this place? she wondered in a daze.
One of the men was aiming a cell phone at her, holding it so long that she realized he must be making a video.
“Say something,” he ordered. “Say, ‘Help me, Simon.’ ”
She hurt everywhere. Her vision was blurred. “Go to hell.”
The other man swung his hand, his palm connecting with her cheek. “Say it.”
Pain exploded through her face.
He swung the other hand and slammed the other cheek.
She pitched over, tasting blood.
“Say it. Goddammit.”
Need to—
Her eyes closed. She smelled pine trees.
Escape.
She heard water trickling.
A stream?
A forest?
Some kind of camp?
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FOR THE TENTH TIME, SIMON childs scanned the items on the restaurant’s breakfast menu. Yet again, he glanced past the hostess toward the entrance. Once more he looked at his watch—a vintage Rolex that Liz knew he admired and that she’d given him as a prewedding present.
Twenty minutes to ten.
He and Liz had made plans to meet here, in Georgetown, for breakfast at nine and then go to a final meeting with their wedding-reception caterer. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t phoned to tell him she was going to be late. He’d called her three times but had reached only her voice mail. Amid the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversations, a voice interrupted his worried thoughts. He looked up, surprised to see the hostess standing next to him.
“Mr. Childs, this arrived for you.”
She handed him a small box wrapped in silver wedding paper. He frowned, seeing his name on an attached card.
“A messenger delivered it,” the hostess explained. “He pointed toward you and said to tell you that Ms. Sansborough apologizes for being late.”
“Thank you.”
As she returned to greeting more guests, there was a faint buzzing sound from the box in his hand. It vibrated. In an instant, he realized why. He tore off the bow, ripped off the wrapping paper, and yanked off the box’s lid. Inside was a cell phone. He pressed the Answer button and held the phone against his ear.
“Liz?” he asked.
“She’s been detained,” a female voice said.
His chest tightened. “What do you mean ‘detained’? Who is this?”
“Someone who’s concerned about your fiancée’s welfare.” The woman’s voice had a Russian accent and the confidence of someone accustomed to exerting authority. “I sent you a video attachment. Unless you want to disturb people sitting near you, I suggest that you watch it outside. I’ll call you again in three minutes.”
The transmission went dead.
He walked swiftly toward the door, sidestepped a couple entering, and hurried out to the parking lot. Ignoring the cold morning air he scrolled through the phone, found the video attachment and pressed it.
And saw Liz lying on gravel.
“Say something,” a man’s voice ordered. “Say, ‘Help me, Simon.’ ”
Liz looked groggy, stunned. But managed to say, “Go to hell.”
A hand with a jagged scar on it streaked into view, the palm crashing into one cheek, then the palm of the other battering her other cheek, drawing blood. “Say it. Goddammit.”
The image abruptly changed to one in which Liz slumped on a padded bench. There were zip-tie cuffs on her wrists that were looped around some kind of metal pole. Both cheeks looked raw and swollen. Blood smeared her nose and chin.
The same scarred hand clasped her injured cheeks.
“Let’s try again. You know what I want.” The camera moved closer, her blood-covered face filling the screen. “Say it.”
The hand squeezed so hard that its knuckles whitened.
Her eyes widened.
She tried to scream, but the hand kept squeezing. Crushing.
She writhed, managing to say past the hand, “Help . . . me . . . Simon.”
The video ended.
But he continued to see Liz’s battered face.
The phone vibrated.
He jabbed the Answer button and said, “I will find and kill you.”
“You don’t have time for useless threats,” the woman’s voice said. “Last night, in Washington, the FBI arrested an associate of mine. His name is Nick Demidov. I want him released.”
“We don’t have anything to do with the FBI.”
The woman’s harsh laughter reminded him of an old Russian expression—the ruthless walk over the dead.
“You’re an MI6 operative on temporary assignment to the FBI for a special Russkaya Mafiya task force. And your fiancée used to work for the CIA, probably still does. I’m giving you less than twelve hours to get Nick free, so use your influence. Call in favors. It should be easy. He’s not important. The FBI will admit that they just swept him up because they hope he’ll lead them to someone higher.”
“If he’s that low level, why does he matter to you?”
“He’s my brother. Our mother is upset, as am I. Poor Nick isn’t smart, which is obvious, given that he allowed himself to be arrested. But he’s family. You’ve got until nine o’clock tonight to deliver him.”
“But—”
“Keep the phone I gave you. It has an open mic. Even when it’s turned off, the phone transmits everything you and anyone near you say, so don’t even think about warning your buddies at the FBI about what’s going on. If I even slightly suspect you’re playing games, the next video will show your fiancée’s ears being cut off.”