The ascent was steep and the going got much slower: December meant a crap load of snow had already fallen on the ground this far north.
He’d only been to this property once before—and it had been for the same purpose. The boss man was not someone you wanted to piss off, and if you did, it got you snatched and brought up here where no one would ever find you.
He had no clue what that woman had done to offend, but that was not his problem. His job was to get her, disappear her—and hold her until further instructions.
Still, he had to wonder. The last asshole he’d delivered to the hidden place had embezzled five hundred thousand dollars and twelve kilos of cocaine. What the fuck had she pulled? And shit, he hoped he wasn’t up here for as long as that other job had lasted.
He’d also gotten a rotator-cuff injury courtesy of that assignment.
The boss didn’t like to do the torturing himself. He preferred to watch.
Hard to claim New York State worker’s comp for the shit he’d done to the guy.
But, whatever, Two Tone didn’t mind that part of the job. He wasn’t like some guys, who were into it, and not at all like the big man, who didn’t like getting his hands dirty at all. Nah, he was in the middle, happy enough to take care of shit provided he was paid well for it.
“How much farther are we—”
“Another quarter mile.”
“It’s fucking cold up here.”
Gonna be colder when you’re dead, motherfucker.
The boss had hired this asshole about six months ago, and Two Tone had been saddled with him a couple of times. He kept hoping that the dumb shit would be fired the good ol’-fashioned way, but so far, no luck.
Bastard would make an excellent floater in the Hudson River.
Or in a hole. Matter of fact, wasn’t his name Phil?
Talk about inspiration.
After a final bend in the road, the underwhelming goal was reached: The single-story “hunting cabin” blended perfectly into the landscape, the low-slung building all but disappearing in the midst of the snow-covered underbrush and fluffy evergreens. In fact, the exterior had been deliberately constructed to look run-down. Inside, though, it was a fortress with a lot of fucking dark secrets.
And what was in the trunk was going to be added to that tally.
He’d never heard of a female being brought here before. Wonder if she was hot? Impossible to get a read on that when they’d been carrying her deadweight out of that house.
Maybe he could have some fun as he passed the time.
“What the fuck is this place? It looks like a fucking outhouse. Does it have heat?”
Two Tone closed his lids and ran through a number of fantasies that involved bloodshed. Then he cranked open his door and stood up, stretching the kinks out. Man, he had to take a piss.
Walking over to the door, he muttered, “Get the thing out of the trunk, wouldja.”
No keys to worry about. Access was fingerprinted.
As he went along, he had to use a flashlight to zero in on the pseudo-decrepit entrance. He was about halfway to goal when he turned back, some instinct talking to him.
“Be careful opening that up,” he called out.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Phil went around to the trunk. “What the fuck can she do to me?”
Two Tone shook his head and muttered, “Your funeral. With any fucking luck—”
The second that latch was released, all hell broke loose: Their captive exploded out of there like her ass was spring-loaded—and she’d found a weapon. The red glow of a flare pierced through the darkness, illuminating the cluster-fuck she dealt out as she buried that brilliant tip right in the face of Two Tone’s idiot backup—
Phil’s howl of pain flushed an owl the size of a ten-year-old kid out of the tree right next to Two Tone and he was forced to hit the deck or lose his own head.
But then he had to be back up on his feet.
That woman took off at a dead run—proving, like that flare shit didn’t, that unlike Phil she was no dummy.
“Son of a bitch!” Two Tone tore after her, following the ripping and tearing sounds as she went seriously off-road. Switching his flashlight to his left hand, he fumbled to get his gun out.
Not how this should be going down. Not in the slightest.
The bitch was fast as hell, and as he lumbered after her, he knew she was going to outrun him—and the last phone call he wanted to make to the boss was, “Oh, hey, I lost your project.”
He could end up being the next person taken into the “cabin.”
Discharging his weapon was the only shot he had. Ha-ha.
Skidding himself to a halt, he latched onto a birch tree, upped his muzzle, and started pumping off rounds, the shots echoing through the early dawn.
There was a higher-pitched curse—and then the sounds of running ceased. In their place? A concentrated rustling, like she was writhing on the ground.
“Fuckin’ A,” he panted as he jogged forward.
If it was a terminal wound, he was screwed nearly as badly as if she’d gotten away.
The flashlight skipped around the landscape as he closed the distance, highlighting trunks and branches, underbrush, the snowed-up ground.
And then there she was. Facedown in the needles, gripping one knee to her chest. Except he wasn’t falling for it. God only knew what else she had up her sleeve.
“Get up or I’ll shoot you again.” He put a fresh clip into the butt of his gun. “Get the fuck up.”
Moaning. Rolling.
He pulled the trigger and put a bullet into the ground right by her head. “Stand up or the next is through your skull.”
The woman pushed herself off the ground. Debris hung from her black clothes and parka, and her dark hair was fuzzed up. He didn’t bother rating her on his fuck scale. First and foremost was getting her into the secured location.
“Hands up,” he ordered, training his weapon at the center of her chest. “Walk.”
Her limp was bad, and he could smell the blood as he fell in behind her. No more sprinting for her.
It took them four times as long to get back to the car, and when they did, he found Phil still on the ground and not moving. Breath was going in and out of his open mouth, however, the subtle wheezing sounds suggesting that the pain was all-consuming.
As they passed, Two Tone checked out that face. Oh … shit … third-degree burns all over, and one of those eyes was not coming back. Except the bastard was probably going to live.
Right?
Fucking great. But he’d deal with that later.
When the pair of them came up to the door, he knew he needed to retain control of this situation.
With a quick move, he grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her headfirst into those hard-ass panels.
This time, as she slumped to the ground, he knew she wasn’t coming up for air for a while. But he still gave her a chance to twitch it out before he put his gun away, pressed his thumb into the fingerprint reader, and opened the way in.
Flicking the lights on, he took hold of her armpits and dragged her inside. After locking them in together, he pulled her across the concrete to the stairwell … and then carried her down into the basement below.
There were three cells filling out the lower level, just like the ones on TV with iron bars, concrete floors, and stainless-steel pallets for beds. The toilets were functional not for the comfort of the prisoner(s), but for the boss’s sensitive nose. No windows.
Two Tone didn’t take a deep breath until he had her in the first of them and had locked the door.
Before he went aboveground to confirm capture with home base, put the camo tarp over the Crown Vic and deal with Phil, he went to the cell next door and urinated for what felt like an hour and a half. Zipping up, he stepped out and looked at the stained wall across from him.
The pair of shackles that hung from the two sets of steel chains were going to get used soon.