“Call me if he moves. I’m going to get us out of here.”
Skylar took a seat and readied the omelet pan. She’d found it a most satisfying weapon, despite the stereotype. It was very personal, not like a gun or even a knife. She had felt his skull reverberate through the stainless steel, and found it exhilarating. Not for the violence or dominance, but for the justice. Delivered personally by her to the man who had conned her, lured her, and attempted to burn her alive.
Their plan had worked as expected. Prior to implementation, her primary concern had been passing herself off as Sandy. Not just her appearance but also her voice. At Chase’s suggestion, she and Sandy had spent two hours side by side before a mirror, dialing in her diction. Clearly, that had been sufficient.
While they practiced in Sandy’s bathroom, Chase rented a yacht that was already slipped at D Dock. Knowing that Tory would be wary and watching, he bought supplies and immediately boarded the Miami Viceroy. The three of them continued refining their tactics by phone.
The real break came when Tory mentioned the omelet. With that precious tidbit, the whole takedown plan fell into place. Prior to that, they’d been contemplating pepper spray disguised as cooking spray, and a cry to summon Chase.
The yacht’s motor rumbled to life as Skylar pulled a phone from her purse. She called Sandy. “We got him.”
“Hallelujah! I can’t thank you enough.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Skylar needed to call Amy and Emma as well, but those calls could wait. Technically, they weren’t safe yet—and neither were Sandy and Skylar. None of them would be safe unless and until Tory led them to the people behind this, whatever this was. Skylar had no guess as to who they were, but when the time came, she’d be happy to make them omelets as well.
Skylar didn’t consider herself to be a violent person. She carried spiders outside and avoided movies that revolved around guns. But she wasn’t horrified by what she’d done. Perhaps waking up with burn marks from the crematory had rewired her brain. Or at least added a new circuit. Whether permanently or temporarily remained to be seen.
Frankly, she was fine with it either way. Shrinking violets had never been her favorite flower. She always cringed when weak women were cast in movies, although she reserved judgment. You never really knew how you’d behave until you wore those same shoes, whether they be sandals, loafers, or heels. Now that she’d been dropped in the jungle, Skylar was pleased to find that she’d grown thorns and was comfortable wearing combat boots.
While that bit of self-realization rolled around her mind, the big burrito before her began writhing. “He’s awake!”
The boat slowed immediately, but didn’t stop moving. Within a few seconds, Chase was by her side. Gun out and ready.
“We’re still cruising.”
“Autopilot. I want to get a bit further from shore before we settle down to business.” Chase handed his Sig to Skylar, grabbed the edge of the blanket in the middle, and lifted. This caused Tory to roll, which he did until unwrapped.
Ignoring her own discomfort, Skylar pointed the gun at him. She’d never fired a weapon, but had seen enough demonstrations during cop shows to know the basics. Hold firmly, but not too tight. Squeeze the trigger without jerking. Anticipate a powerful recoil, but don’t be afraid.
Skylar almost screamed when she saw Tory’s face. The blisters were now even larger and beginning to crust. The swelling made him unrecognizable. She was certain that he couldn’t see anything from his left eye. His right was questionable. She couldn’t believe that he wasn’t moaning or sobbing or begging for a doctor. Perhaps his nerve centers had simply been overwhelmed. Or maybe her frying pan had damaged his brain.
“What’s my status?” he asked, his tone strained but controlled. His volume was loud as if he was having trouble hearing.
It was a clever question. Simple yet multifaceted. It made her doubt that she’d done cognitive damage.
“Hard to tell at the moment, Tory,” Chase said, revealing their knowledge of his true identity. “Depends on how well your mouth works.”
57
Cold Conditioning
AARO LAGO HAD TAUGHT HIS SON Tory to ignore pain by teaching him to disregard cold. It was a valuable skill in Oulu, Finland, where the daily high was below freezing for five months out of the year.
Aaro’s plan was to drive the sensation of cold, and with it the pain, down below Tory’s consciousness to where it no longer registered. Aaro accomplished this by taking his boy out skiing or fishing or chopping wood in the dead of winter, without a hat or coat. Just gloves to keep his fingers limber.
While they were working up a sweat, he’d hit his son with logic problems. Complicated induction or deduction or mathematical puzzles whose solutions required the focused attention of a nimble mind. Tory wasn’t allowed in out of the cold until he had the answer. And bless his heart, Aaro stayed right there with him, also baring his body to the great god of the north.
If the sun was shining, they’d skip the riddles in favor of calisthenics, then hike out to the middle of a frozen lake and play chess.
At first, the physics of it boggled Tory’s mind. How could his father not be cold? Did his bigger body somehow defy the laws of nature? Why didn’t he shiver? Why weren’t his lips turning blue? How could he talk in a normal voice when the wind was whipping and the wolves were howling and the dogs were curled tighter than garage door springs? Was it something he’d learned as captain of the national cross-country skiing team? Or had he been born with an abnormal nervous system? If so, had Tory inherited those genes?
“Just ignore it,” Father said. He didn’t chide or shout. He just repeated the three-word phrase, then threw another logic puzzle on the pyre of his son’s mind, time and again, while Tory’s teeth chattered and knees knocked and fingers failed.
As the problems became more complex, the concentration required deepened. Eventually, there wasn’t bandwidth for anything else. Solving the riddles required the full range of his mental faculties.
Ultimately, it worked.
By forcing him to push everything else aside, those complex problems trained Tory to ignore the pain.
Once he learned the trick, once his body realized what was possible, Tory found himself capable of exercising it at will. Like juggling or whistling, it became an acquired skill. One that worked against all forms of discomfort and distraction, not just climatic extremes.
Lying on the floor of a boat, tied up tight as a sail in a storm with his face smoldering like an old campfire, Tory found his containment skills strained to their max. It wasn’t the physical pain that kept poking its nose under his mental tent. It was the psychological terror. His left eye was blind, probably permanently so. The superheated oil had sent a shock wave of pain directly down his optic nerve and into his brain. He’d never felt such searing white pain. Not from bullets. Not from knives. Not from reindeer antlers or wolverine claws.
His right eye still functioned, but at a greatly reduced level. He could only see through a crack of puffed flesh. That was a torment every boxer knew. Debilitating and frustrating but ultimately transient.
Fortunately, he had the master of all puzzles to occupy his mind, to fill his protective tent. How could he get out of this mess?
“What do you want to know, Mr. Chase?” What Tory could see of the man standing before him was unreliable. But Tory knew this had to be him. Somehow he’d convinced Sandy Wallace what was awaiting her. He must be persuasive, given the conviction it took for her to go through with her frying pan trick.