A gunshot rang out. Kennedy screamed in shock. The next second she heard a body collapse and turned to see the old man hit the ground, a hole blown through his chest, blood leaking out and sprayed across the cell walls.
Her mouth dropped open, disbelief shutting down her brain. She could only stare as Frey turned to her one more time.
“And you, Kennedy Moore. Your time is coming. We will soon explore the depths to which you are capable of sinking.”
With a turn of heel and a grin, he was gone.
FORTY-TWO
Abel Frey chuckled to himself as he headed for his security section. An inventive few moments and he’d trodden those idiots into the ground. Broken both of them. And finally killed that old idiot Parnevik stone dead.
Wonderful. Now to even more pleasurable pursuits.
He opened the door to his private quarters and found both Milo and Alicia sprawled out on his sofa, just the way he’d left them. The big American was still carrying an injury, wincing with every movement, courtesy of that Swede, Torsten Dahl.
“Any news from next door?” Frey asked immediately. “Has Hudson called?”
Next door was the CCTV control centre, currently being overseen by one of Frey’s more radical cohorts — Tim Hudson. Known about the chateau as ‘memory man’ for his extensive computer expertise, Hudson had been one of Frey’s earliest disciples, a man willing to go to any extremes for his fanatical boss. They were chiefly monitoring progress of the installation of Odin’s Tomb, with Hudson at the helm — swearing, sweating and nervously gulping Yaegers down as if they were milk. Frey was eager to see the Tomb set in its rightful place, and fully prepared for his first notable visit. Also being surveyed were his captives, Karin’s quarters, and the cells of his new inmates.
And the party of course. Hudson had arranged a system that put every inch of the club under some kind of scrutiny, be it infra-red or standard feed, and every action of Frey’s elite guests was being recorded and examined for its weight in leverage.
He had come to realise that power was not knowledge after all. Power was hard proof. The discreet photograph. The HD video. Entrapment might be illegal, but that didn’t get in the way if its victim was sufficiently terrified.
Abel Frey could engineer a ‘date-night’ with a starlet or a rock-chick any time he chose. He could acquire a painting or a sculpture, obtain front row seats to the hottest show in the glitziest town, attain the unattainable, whenever the whim took him.
“Nothing yet. Hudson’s probably passed out on the couch again,” Alicia said, lounging with her head propped on her hands and her legs draped over the edge of his sofa. When Frey glanced at her she parted her knees subtly.
Of course. Frey sighed inside, naturally. He watched Milo groaning and holding his ribs. He felt a jolt of electricity raise his heart-rate as the thought of sex and danger mingled. He raised an eyebrow in Alicia’s direction, gave her the universal ‘money’ sign.
Alicia swung her legs down. “On second thoughts, Milo, why don’t you go check again. And get a full report from that idiot Hudson, hmm? Boss,” she nodded towards a silver platter of nibbles. “Fancy something?”
Frey studied the plate as Milo, as oblivious to what was happening as a politician is to his foolishness, sent a pretend glare towards his girlfriend then groaned and limped out of the room.
Frey said: “Biscotti looks good.”
No sooner had the door clicked into place than Alicia handed the plate of biscotti biscuits to Frey and climbed up on his desk. On all fours she turned her head towards him.
“Want some fine English ass with that biscuit?”
Frey flicked the secret button under his desk. Immediately a fake painting slid aside to reveal a bank of video screens. He said: “Six,” and one of the screens flashed into life.
He tasted the biscuit as he watched, absent-mindedly stroking Alicia’s rounded buttock.
“My battle arena,” he breathed. “It’s already prepared. Yes?”
Alicia wriggled seductively. “Yes.”
Frey began to stroke the groove between her legs. “Then I have about ten minutes. You’ll have to make do with a quick one for now.”
“Story of my life.”
Frey turned his attention to her, always aware of Milo only twenty feet away behind an unlocked door, but even with that, and the sensual presence of Alicia Myles, he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lavish cell of one of his newly acquired captives.
The serial killer — Thomas Kaleb.
The ultimate face-off was imminent.
Part 3
Battleground…
FORTY-THREE
Kennedy ran to the bars when Abel Frey and his guards appeared outside their cell. She screamed at them to remove the Professor’s body or let them go free, then felt a rush of trepidation when they did just that.
She paused outside the cell, unsure what to do. One of the guards gestured with his gun. They walked deeper into the prison complex, past several more cells, all unoccupied. But the scope of it all chilled her to the bone. She wondered what depraved iniquities this guy was capable of perpetrating.
It was then she understood he might be worse than Kaleb. Worse than all of them. She hoped Drake, Dahl and a back-up army were closing in, but she had to face and overcome this dilemma believing that they were on their own. How could she hope to protect Ben as Drake had? The young lad trailed along at her side. He’d barely spoken since Parnevik died. In fact, Kennedy thought, the boy had said only a few words since their capture back at the Tomb.
Was he seeing his chance of saving Karin slip away? She knew he still had his mobile safely in his pocket, switched to vibrate, and also that he’d received half-a-dozen calls from his parents that he hadn’t answered.
“We’re in the right place,” Kennedy whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Keep your wits about you.”
“Shut up, American!” Frey spat the last word as if it were a curse. To him, she fancied it most likely was. “You should worry about your own fate.”
Kennedy sent a fleeting look behind. “What’s that supposed to mean? You gonna make me wear one of your little dresses you made?” She imitated cutting and stitching.
The German raised an eyebrow. “Cute. We’ll see how long you stay feisty.”
Beyond the cell complex they entered another, far dingier section of the house. They were angling sharply downward now, the rooms and corridors around her in disrepair. Knowing Frey though, this was all a misdirection to throw snoopers off.
They travelled along a final corridor that led to an arched wooden door with big metal straps across the hinges. One of the guards keyed in an eight-figure number on a wireless numerical keypad and the heavy doors began to creak open.
Instantaneously she saw a chest-high metal rail that encircled the new room. About thirty to forty people stood around it, drinks in hand, laughing. Playboys and drug barons, high-class male and female prostitutes, royalty and Fortune 500 Chairmen. Widows with vast inheritance money, oil-rich sheiks and millionaires’ daughters.
All stood around the barrier, sipping Bollinger and Romanee Conti, nibbling their delicacies and exuding their culture and class.
When Kennedy walked in, they all stopped and took a moment to stare at her. Her chilling thought was to evaluate her. Whispers ran around the dusty walls and prickled her ears.
That’s her? The cop?