Alpha: Omega Part 12

"How the f.u.c.k is that possible, Harris?" Roth said, snarling. "I thought you had this place more secure than the Pentagon?"

"I did," Harris said, his voice a little too calm. "About an hour ago they set off some kind of low-tech EMP bomb that fried our circuits. At the same time, they hit my guys on the beach as a distraction. Lucas and Thresh both took heavy fire. Lucas is down but not out, and Thresh is-well, I'm pretty sure Thresh could lose a limb and still wreck s.h.i.t, so I'm not worried about him. They also went after the Eliza, which, along with the the beach hit, was just a distraction. While that was going on four men infiltrated Layla's room and took her. Dane gave pursuit and took out two of them, but received a wound to the throat in the process. Not sure he'll make it. They had a launch waiting down by the beach, and by the time we had comms up and running and could coordinate with each other, they were gone. This was a pro hit, Roth. These weren't Vitaly's usual half-a.s.sed gorillas with AKs. It was quick, precise, and coordinated, and done by serious professionals."

I was having trouble processing what he was saying. "Hold on, Harris. You-you're saying someone kidnapped Layla? And someone is dying? Why did the gunfire not wake us up?"

Harris lifted his a.s.sault rifle. "Suppressors. Ops like this, you can't have machine guns going off in the middle of the night or the local government would be all over our a.s.ses."

"People were killed?"

"Vitaly's guys lost six men and one was injured. Lucas took a round to the thigh and will be out of commission for a few months. Thresh took two rounds, one to the shoulder blade and one to the bicep, two more direct hits on his body armor, but that'll leave nothing but bruises. Dane took a single round to the throat. He's alive for now, but I don't like his chances."

"What about-what about Layla?" My voice cracked as I said her name.

"Before he lost consciousness Dane was able to communicate that she was unhurt." Harris's jaw clenched, his molars grinding. "It's both good and bad that we're dealing with Vitaly directly now rather than his crazy-a.s.s daughter. You did the world a favor when you took her out, Kyrie. Vitaly has a different approach than his daughter. He doesn't do things rashly out of pa.s.sion. He won't kill her or even hurt her unless it benefits him. If he wanted her or all of us dead, he would have just hit us with an airstrike or something. If he knows where we are and chose not to wipe us off the face of the planet, he has something else in mind. So that works in our favor. He won't kill her unless he has to, because he really wants you two-" he pointed at Roth and me with a sweep of his index finger, "but we know he will kill her, which works against us. We don't know where he has her, or what his long game is, which also works against us."

Cal cleared his throat. "Hold on a f.u.c.king second, people. I have so many questions I don't even know where to start. Who took Layla, and why? And when you said Kyrie 'took her out', what does that mean? Who did she take out? Kyrie...killed someone? And-"

I left Roth's side and put my finger to Cal's lips, silencing him, although I had to reach up to do so. "Calvin, little brother. Do me a favor, okay? Shut the h.e.l.l up."

"Don't tell me to shut up, Key. Layla is gone, people are dead, and now I'm hearing that you killed someone? How did I not know about this? You've got to tell me what the h.e.l.l is going on!"

"Cal, look-"

Roth stepped forward and put himself between Cal and me. "It's a very long story, Cal, and we don't have time to fill you in. The short version is this: I've got enemies you don't want to know about-for your own good. My enemies are Kyrie's enemies now, which she found out to her detriment several months ago. She did what she had to in order to stay alive, the details of which are her story to tell, not mine. And because my enemies have become hers, they've also become yours. Which means I've had-or rather Harris has had-men watching you for nearly a year now. Every move you made, every date you went on, every night spent studying or f.u.c.king or partying, they've been there out of sight, watching and protecting. You never knew, because you didn't need to. But now that Layla has been abducted, you've been forced into a more serious situation. Going forward, you will be given information on a need-to-know basis, and you'll stay here in this bunker under guard and you'll keep your mouth shut, because it's for your own good. We'll have you returned to Chicago as soon as we deem it safe to do so, which could be a matter of days, or a matter of weeks. Months even. All of your needs will be seen to. I've been paying for your tuition and room and board for months now, and I will continue to do so for the foreseeable future, because you are important to your sister, and thus you are important to me. But, for now, what I need from you is for you to step back and shut up. Got it?"

Cal's mouth snapped shut and his eyes glittered. "Got it."

Roth turned to Harris. "Contact Ella and tell her-"

"Already done. I've got a man on her as we speak, sitting in her living room, watching the exits. I've got visuals on Robert, your parents, and Kyrie's mom as well, and I've heightened security on all of them. s.h.i.t is locked down."

Roth crossed the room to stand in front of Harris. Roth had two inches on him, and used them to good effect, staring down at him with anger in his eyes. "Swear to me right now that this couldn't have been prevented, Harris."

Harris stared back, chin lifting. "It was a calculated strike, Mr. Roth. It was f.u.c.king surgical. The whole thing with Layla took less than three minutes from first contact to when Thresh lost visual on the Zodiac. There was nothing else we could have done, sir. I've got two wounded and one dead or...as good as dead."

Roth stepped back. "What are we doing to get her back?"

"I will rip this planet open to find her," Harris said. "I swear on my immortal soul I will find her, and I will end the life of every motherf.u.c.ker involved in taking her." The vicious look in Harris's eyes sent shivers down my spine.

"Get her back, Harris," I said. "Please get her back."

Harris moved to stand in front of me. "I'm so sorry, Kyrie. You have my word. I got Roth back, I got you back, and I'll get her back. I promise."

Roth took me by the arms, turning me to face him. "I hate to have to say this, love, but I think we have to postpone-"

I cut him off. "You think I'd get married when my best friend is missing? Really? I love you more than life, Roth, but I'm not getting married without Layla. She's my family. So get us aboard the Eliza and get us out of here."

Harris pointed at Alexei. "Alexei, you're with them, Sasha, you too. You are to maintain direct visual at all times. Guys, I'm sorry, but privacy is going out the window until this is over. Either Alexei or Sasha will be in the room with you twenty-four hours a day. We've got the ship refueled and stocked, so you won't be making landfall anytime soon."

"Are you going after Layla alone?" I asked.

"h.e.l.l no. I'm bringing Thresh with me. I'd rather have him at my side than a dozen other men. Thresh is...well, he's one of a kind. He makes the Terminator look like a p.u.s.s.y."

Harris turned to scan the monitors, and then keyed his mic. "Eliza, prepare to receive primary. Immediate departure, emergency profile Zulu-Echo-Romeo-Oscar." He turned back to us. "You guys are gone. Cal stays here. I'll send an update when I can, but don't expect word from me for a few days."

We were out the door in a matter of seconds, Alexei in front, Sasha behind. I glanced back and saw a man lying p.r.o.ne on the roof of the building, holding a sniper rifle.

Harris stood in the doorway, ball cap turned backward. "I'll get her back."

"You better." It was all I could say.

I didn't even say goodbye to Cal. I saw a glimpse of him over Harris's shoulder, and he looked pale, even a little green. His usual bravado was replaced with an embarra.s.sed silence.

Layla. G.o.d, Layla.

Be safe, hooker. Stay alive. Harris is coming for you.

Part Two:.

Layla.

9.

KIDNAPPING IS FUN.

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.kf.u.c.kf.u.c.k. I do not like being kidnapped. I don't recommend it.

I've seen some pretty gnarly s.h.i.t in my life, but that scene? I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life, that's for d.a.m.n sure. One second I was sleeping and having a nice little dream about Harris-although I'd deny that if pressed-and then the door was exploding and four dark shapes surrounded me. They tossed a black bag over my head, jerked my arms behind my back and wrapped zip-ties tight around my wrists, and shoved me forward.

The a.s.sholes didn't even let me put on my f.u.c.king pants. That's right, they kidnapped me wearing nothing but a thigh-length white V-neck T-shirt and my favorite red thong. No shoes, no pants, no bra.

Then they forced me into a run, one guy on each arm, pretty much carrying me across the courtyard. I couldn't see s.h.i.t, because it was nighttime still and because they'd put a d.a.m.n sack over my head. This was a legit third-world mafia kidnapping. I heard something behind me go poppoppop-poppop-poppoppop. And then there was a wet thwack, a grunt and the hands on my left arm fell away. Someone had been shot, I realized. Different hands grabbed my free arm and lifted me, carried me in a flat-out run.

Poppoppop-poppop; this was a different weapon, similar silent clicking, but a different tone. The good guys were getting closer. My kidnappers were firing back with everything they had. Then I heard a gurgle from behind.

"Dane! s.h.i.t!" A voice, male, low, American.

That wet gurgle, then the voice of someone calling out to the guy who'd clearly just died trying to help me...nightmare fuel right there.

I felt my feet hit the sand, and I heard the surf followed by the quiet rumble of an outboard boat motor. I was lifted clear off the ground, and a gust of wind kicked up, tossing my T-shirt up to bare my a.s.s cheeks and a good portion of my naked t.i.tties.

This was not lost on my kidnappers: I heard them exchanging what I a.s.sumed, judging by the tone of their voices and the lecherous laughter, were disgusting guy-comments about how s.e.xy I was. I didn't need to speak whatever barbarian language those f.u.c.kers spoke to understand what they were saying. So I did the only thing I could. I started thrashing and kicking, biting at whatever flesh was closest to me.

"LET ME GO YOU f.u.c.kING f.u.c.kS!" I screamed. I felt my foot connect with bone, and I kicked again, as hard as I could. I heard a grunt and a curse. "I'll kick all ya'll's f.u.c.king a.s.ses. Put me the f.u.c.k down!"

Something hard, cold, and round touched my temple. "Shut up, c.u.n.t, or you die. Be still, or you die." This was in a thick accent, Greek, or Italian, or-who the h.e.l.l am I kidding? I don't know one foreign accent from another.

I went completely still and let them set me in the boat, cold, hard, wet rubber under my thighs. The gun barrel was pressed against the back of my skull, digging in hard. It hurt like h.e.l.l as the boat was shoved into the water, and then the outboard motor kicked to life and I was thrown to the side as the pilot pulled the craft sharply around. We hit a wave and I was tossed airborne, only to slam back down with a slap of flesh on rubber and a curse, which only earned derisive laughter from my captors.

I had no way to brace myself for the next wave, not being able to see, or grab onto the sides of the Zodiac. So I was tossed like a rag doll as the boat hit wave after wave, and the farther we got from sh.o.r.e, the larger the waves got. This was a tiny boat, I sensed, and we were heading out into open water. I wondered how far they were taking me, and why, and where, and who, and how soon I could expect to raped, tortured, and killed.

Thank you, Kyrie, for the terror-inducing warnings as to what I could expect if these d.i.c.k-nuts got hold of me.

Well, they've got hold of me. So now what?

The worst part about being tossed around in the stupid little boat was that with every slam of the boat bottom on the water, cool salt spray hit me, soaking my face and my T-shirt. Did I mention my shirt was white, and that I was naked underneath it? No bra, and a tiny little thong. I mean, that thong barely covered my hoochie-coo in front, and didn't cover a d.a.m.n thing in back. I like to both look and feel s.e.xy, but not for the benefit of goons like these.

Also, I had been kinda hoping to let Harris get an eyeful of what I've got going on-which didn't happen, obviously. What can I say?

So...slam, slide down a wave, rocket back up, airborne-slam...and I'm wetter and nakeder. More naked? I don't know. Grammar isn't my strong suit under the best of circ.u.mstances and certainly not when I'm under duress. I've almost got a college degree, so I can put together a coherent essay on pretty much any topic, but it takes some effort to make sure I've edited the ghetto out.

It wasn't cold out, not by a long shot. But being three-quarters naked and wetter by the second will leave you shivering regardless of the temperature. So my teeth started chattering, my skin was covered in goose b.u.mps, and my nips could cut gla.s.s.

None of this was lost on my captors. More than one pair of fingers pinched my nipples, hard enough that I ground my teeth together to keep from whining about it. I wasn't about to let these f.u.c.kers see me hurt. Let them pinch. Let them see me in a wet white T-shirt. I had one goal from here on out, and that was to stay alive. Dignity, virtue-heh, who am I kidding? I ain't got none of that anyway-privacy...none of that mattered. Men had died. This wasn't a game. It wasn't a prank or a joke. Real bullets had been fired, and real blood had been shed. Someone named Dane had gotten shot because of me. He was probably dead trying to protect me.

I spread my feet to brace them against the sides of the boat, leaning forward as we slid down a wave, then felt myself leave the bench and slam back down. G.o.d, my t.i.ts hurt from the constant bouncing. I'm stacked as h.e.l.l, and I do mean stacked. I'm not saying my t.i.ts are my best a.s.set, because I've got a pretty bangin' a.s.s too, but dem t.i.tties? Big, juicy, and bouncy. All natural, of course. Which meant that without the support of a bra, they were flopping all over the d.a.m.n place with every slam of the boat onto the water. I'd have killed for a bra, or even to have my hands free to keep 'em pinned down.

All the while, the men were talking about me. I heard two voices, one deep and gravelly, as if he had a cement mixer in his voice box. The other had a smoother voice, but his had a more worrisome tone. Calm and quiet, but even though I couldn't understand a word, I could tell he was talking about me. He leaned close every now and then and muttered in my ear. His fingers pinched my nipples, traced my kneecap and up my thigh.

I fought to keep still: he still had his gun pressed to the base of my skull.

Let him touch. Let him say whatever filthy bulls.h.i.t he was saying. Honestly, the fact that it wasn't English made it easier to ignore. I still knew he was talking s.h.i.t, though, because s.h.i.t-talk sounds the same in any language.

And then he dug his hand between my legs, under the hem of my shirt, and jammed his finger against my opening. Which, considering how negligible the thong was, meant he got a good two knuckles deep into me, by virtue of the little patch of fabric over my p.u.s.s.y slipping aside to let his finger in. I kept still, didn't squeeze my legs shut like I wanted.

I mean, I could have broken his wrist if I'd wanted to-I knew some basic self-defense moves, and a good bit of groundwork I'd learned from an ex-f.u.c.k-buddy who was an MMA fighter. He'd shown me how to do leg locks and wrist-breaks and takedowns and s.h.i.t like that, all courtesy of his black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Of course, he and I had practiced naked and always ended up doing the nasty on his apartment floor, but I'd learned the moves. Point is, I could have wrapped my leg around his arm, twisted in place, and snapped it like a twig. But with a gun to my head? Nope. Let him cop a feel.

But then something odd happened: cement mixer voice guy barked something sharp in whatever language they were speaking, and the hand fell away, but not without what sounded like a petulant curse from Groper Mcd.i.c.knuts. We slid up another wave, crested, slammed back down with a wet splash. By now my shirt was absolutely soaked, probably totally see-through, plastered to my skin.

I'm not shy, not by any means. I've got no problem with nudity under most circ.u.mstances. Feed me tequila at a party, and I'm the girl who might end up flashing the room just for kicks. It drives my more straight-laced best friend Kyrie bats.h.i.t crazy, because she thinks I should have more-I don't know...decency? Prudishness? Concern for my image? Maybe so, but that's not me. I don't give a s.h.i.t. t.i.ts are t.i.ts; you've seen one pair of b.o.o.bs, you've seen 'em all.

But what I don't like is having the choice taken away. If I want to flash a roomful of h.o.r.n.y drunk dudes, I will. Because s.h.i.t, if I do, I'm likely to get a good bang out of it, and that's never a loss. But having the choice to cover up taken away, that p.i.s.ses me off. Not that I could do anything about it under those circ.u.mstances, but I was still p.i.s.sed off about it.

At least anger gave me something to focus on besides fear and worry.

Scary-smooth voice whispered something else to me in his language, which I ignored. And then he spoke in English. "Maybe we stop the boat, yes? Have some fun. Yuri, he follows the orders. Me? I think boss won't know difference if we stop and have a quick f.u.c.k of you." Something sharp touched my breastbone, right at the apex of the V of my shirt.

He had a f.u.c.king knife to my skin while we were in a boat in the middle of the f.u.c.king ocean? Crazy dumba.s.s. I fought fear, fought the urge to scream, to beg. I didn't want to be cut open. I didn't want to "have a quick f.u.c.k of me."

Cement Mixer said something, again short and sharp, a command.

The knife slid down between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, dull edge to my skin, sharp edge slicing open my shirt. Down, down. The tip nicked the inside of my thigh, and I flinched as it p.r.i.c.ked me, loosing a trickle of blood. My shirt flapped open in the wind now, leaving me bare to the air.

I kept still. Clenched my teeth, shut my eyes inside the black bag over my head. Bit down on the whimper as salt spray stung the knife-p.r.i.c.k on my thigh.

The motor cut out, and Cement Mixer repeated his command, and this time he accompanied it with the distinctive sound of pistol slide being pulled back and released. I knew that sound. Yes, I've hooked up with drug dealers too, and gang-bangers. Even an on-duty detective, once, and he pulled the slide on his piece with the same exact motion as the drug dealers. I can see the movement: arm held out straight, piece tilted at an angle, jerk the slide, and let it go.

Smooth Voice said something, but it was placating and rebellious at the same time. I felt him move slightly, folding the knife maybe, or sheathing it? I wasn't sure. But then he cupped my b.o.o.b, gripped it with a hard, cruel grip, laughing. I kept still, ground my teeth together and held my breath.

BLAM!.

I was splattered with wetness, hot and sticky. Something heavy hit the rubber at my feet, and I smelled iron.

I kept still. Cement Mixer muttered to himself, grumbling it sounded like. I smelled him as he moved past me, cigarettes and salt spray and body odor. I felt the boat rock, heard him grunt with effort, and then the boat was rocked again violently, followed by a splash.

I heard velcro ripping, and then something heavy and scratchy was tugged over my sack-covered head and jerked down roughly over my torso, crushing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to my chest. He didn't fasten the vest-his bulletproof body armor, I a.s.sumed, and didn't untie me to let me put my arms through. But I was covered.

"Thank you," I said.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up." He said this angrily, greatly irritated, in accented English.

"Okay, then."

The motor coughed to life we set out again, up and down, up and down, for long minutes I couldn't count. We had to have traveled more than a mile at least, judging by how much time had pa.s.sed. I had no way of judging our speed, but it felt like we were traveling pretty d.a.m.n fast.

And then I heard a rumble in the distance, the heavy growl of mammoth diesel engines. The tone of the outboard motor lessened and our speed slackened. The diesel clatter increased in volume until it was directly overhead, and then Cement Mixer cut off our motor and I felt us coast and halt with a b.u.mp against the large vessel.

The boat shifted as Cement Mixer-Yuri, I think he was called-as Yuri leaned over to me and s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag off my head.

Jesus s.h.i.ts, he was f.u.c.king ugly. Thick brows, heavy forehead, high cheekbones, fleshy lips, beady eyes, pox scars dotting his face. But he'd stopped the dead guy from raping me, so I owed him one.

I glanced up, and saw the other boat. It was a fishing boat, high prow, low stern, c.o.c.kpit just big enough for one or two people, boom arms and nets and lines hung off the sides. There was a rope ladder tossed over the side, and a number of figures milled around on the deck, several carrying machine guns. Or maybe they were a.s.sault rifles. I didn't know the difference, and for real, who the h.e.l.l cared? Not me, that was for d.a.m.n sure.

Yuri moved to sit beside me, reaching down to his waist and producing a long, wicked-looking knife. I tensed, but he moved slowly, watching me.

"I cut you free," he said in his guttural voice. "Do not move."

I leaned forward and stretched my arms out behind me, tried to open my wrists as far as the zip-ties would allow. There was a momentary tightening of pressure as he pressed in with the knife, and then the plastic parted and my wrists were free. I kept still, knowing my best plan was to cooperate and wait for an opportunity. Mostly naked on a boat in the middle of the Caribbean, hours before dawn, surrounded by men with machine guns? Not the best time to be stubborn lunatic Layla.

That time would come, but it wasn't now.

Yuri gestured with the knife, stabbing the tip at the rope ladder. "Climb up. No bulls.h.i.t, or you die."

I put my arms through the openings of the vest and then slid across the bench to the rope ladder, grabbed a rung, and hauled myself up. Can I just take a moment and point out that this maneuver is not as easy as they make it seem on TV? The fishing boat was riding up and down on the waves, and so was the little black rubber boat I was on, and neither were going up or down at the same time. Plus, I was shaky with fear, and had guns pointed at me. Also, I've never climbed a rope ladder before, and they're not easy to use either.

And I had to pee.

So yeah, it was a difficult operation, getting a good grip on the rope ladder, getting a foot on the ladder and not losing my balance. If I fell, I'd probably end up in the water under the boat, which sounded like even less fun than I was having already. But I managed it, and climbed up, up, up, swung a leg over onto the deck, and straightened to face a group of men so hardened, rough-looking, and heavily armed that I almost peed myself. Seriously, each one had a machine gun on his shoulder and most had a pistol too. Several had lit cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths.

They all just stared at me like I was a fish that had sprouted arms and legs and decided to forgo the net and just climb aboard for the slaughter.