Covering fire was laid down. Drake and Dahl stepped out, launchers poised on their shoulders, took aim, and squeezed the triggers.
Two steel grappling hooks shot out at rocket-like speed, embedding themselves deep into the stone wall of Frey’s vault before bursting through the other side. Once they encountered space, a sensor triggered a device that deployed the hooks themselves, making them clamp hard to the wall on the other side.
Dahl tapped his ear. “Do it.”
And even from down here Drake heard the sound of two Hummers slammed into reverse, cables attached to their reinforced bumpers.
Frey’s impenetrable wall exploded.
Kennedy kicked out in warning as Kaleb shambled towards her, catching his knee and making him stagger. She used the moment’s respite to scramble to her feet. Kaleb came again and she slapped his ear with the back of her hand.
The crowd above her bleated in pleasure. Thousands of dollars-worth of rare wine and fine whisky showered down onto the dirt of the arena. A pair of women’s lacy knickers floated down. A man’s tie. A pair of Gucci cufflinks, one bouncing off Kaleb’s hairy back.
“Kill her!” Frey screamed.
Kaleb came at her like a freight train, arms spread, guttural sounds coming from deep in his belly. Kennedy tried to skip away, but he caught her and lifted her bodily off her feet.
Airborne, Kennedy could only cringe in anticipation of the landing. And it came hard, rock and earth slamming into her spine, driving the air from her lungs. Her legs kicked, but Kaleb came inside them and planted himself atop her, elbows first.
“More like it,” the killer grunted. “Now you’ll squeal. Eeeeeeee!” His voice was manic, a pig’s slaughter screeching in her ear. “Eeeeeeeeeee!”
Searing agony made Kennedy’s body convulse. The bastard was an inch away now, body lying on hers, lips dripping saliva onto the cheeks, eyes like hellfire, squirming his crotch into her own.
For a moment she was helpless, still trying to catch a breath. His fist slammed into her belly. His left hand was about to do the same when it paused. A heartbeat of thought, and then it snaked up to her throat and began to squeeze.
Kennedy choked, gasping for air. Kaleb giggled like a madman. He squeezed harder. He studied her eyes. He bore down on her body, pinning her with his weight.
She kicked out with all her might, knocking him to the side. She was well aware she’d just received a pass. The bastard’s twisted needs had saved her life.
She snaked away again. The crowd jeered at her — at her performance, at her dirty clothes, at her scratched ass, at her bleeding legs. Kaleb rose like Rocky from the edge of defeat and spread his arms, laughing.
And then she heard a voice, weak but spearing through the raucous cacophony.
Ben’s voice: “Drake’s coming, Kennedy. He’s coming. I got a text!”
Dammit… he wouldn’t find them here. She couldn’t imagine he’d search this area of all the places in the chateau. His most likely target would be the vault room or the cells. It could be hours….
Ben still needed her. Kaleb’s victims still needed her.
To stand up and shout when they couldn’t.
Kaleb ran at her, reckless in his egotism. Kennedy feigned terror, then planted her back foot and sent an elbow slam straight into his onrushing face.
Blood spouted all over her arm. Kaleb stopped as if he’d run into a brick wall. Kennedy pushed her advantage, hammering his chest with her fists, punching his already broken nose, kicking at his knees. She used any method she could to disable the executioner.
The crowds roar increased but she barely heard it. One swift kick to the balls sent the asshole to his knees, another to the chin flipped him onto his back. Kennedy fell into the dirt beside him, panting through exhaustion, and stared into his disbelieving eyes.
There was a thud close to her right knee. Kennedy looked over to see a broken wine bottle embedded neck up in the dirt. A merlot, still dripping its liquid red promise.
Kaleb swung at her. She took the blow on her face without flinching. “You need to die,” she hissed. “For Olivia Dunn,” she wrenched the broken bottle out of the ground. “For Selena Tyler,” she poised it above his head. “For Miranda Drury,” she added, her first blow shattered teeth and cartilage and bone. “And for Emma Silke,” her second blow took his eyes. “For Emily Jane Winters,” her final blow made mincemeat of his neck.
And she knelt there in the bloodied earth, victorious, the adrenalin firing up her veins and pounding through her brain, trying to claw back the humanity that had momentarily deserted her.
FORTY-FOUR
Kennedy was ordered back up the ladder at gunpoint. The body of Thomas Kaleb was left twitching where it was to die.
Frey looked unhappy, speaking into a mobile. “The vault,” he rasped. “Save the vault at all costs, Hudson. I don’t care about anything else, you idiot. Get off that damn couch and do what I pay you for!”
He ended the connection and stared at Kennedy. “It appears your friends broke into my house.”
Kennedy gave him sly eyes before turning them on the gathered elite. “Seems like you fools are gonna get a little of what you deserve.”
There was quiet laughter, the tinkle of glasses. Frey joined in for a moment before saying: “Finish your drinks, my friends. Then leave in the usual way.”
Kennedy summoned some bravado, enough to give Ben a wink. Damn it though, if her body didn’t ache like a bitch. Her ass stung and her legs throbbed; her head ached and her hands were covered in sticky blood.
She held them out to Frey. “Can I clean this off?”
“Use your shirt,” he sneered. “It’s no more than a rag anyway. No doubt it mirrors the rest of your closet.”
He waved a hand in the royal manner. “Bring her. And the boy.”
They exited the arena, Kennedy feeling the exhaustion and trying to still her spinning head. The ramifications of what she’d done would live with her for decades, but now wasn’t the time to dwell. Ben was at her side and from the look on his face clearly attempting a form of telepathic encouragement.
“Thanks, man,” she said, heedless of the guards. “Was a cake-walk.”
Following the left-hand fork they headed down another corridor that ran away from their cell block. Kennedy summoned her wits.
Just survive, she thought. Just stay alive.
Frey received another call. “What? They are at the vault? Moron! You… you…” he sputtered, enraged. “Hudson you… send in the whole army!”
An electronic shriek severed the connection abruptly, like a guillotine cutting off the head of a French Queen.
“Take them!” Frey turned on his guards. “Take them to the housing block. It seems there are more of your friends than we first thought, dear Kennedy. I’ll be back to tend your wounds later.”
With that, the deranged German marched away at pace. Kennedy became acutely aware she and Ben were now alone with four guards. “Keep going,” one of them prodded her towards a door at the end of the hallway.
When they passed through it, Kennedy blinked in surprise.
This part of the chateau had been completely gutted, a new arched roof built overhead, and small brick ‘houses’ lined two sides of the space. Little more than large sheds, there were about eight of them. Kennedy knew instantly that more than a handful of captives had passed through this place in its time.
A man worse than Thomas Kaleb?