Elite Operatives: Demons Are Forever Part 2

"You send men and women out there daily to do exactly that," she said. "You've trained them to believe that dying for this organization is honorable. How is my dying for the woman I love less worthy?"

"It's not. But I'm saying you won't be able to think clearly. If you get yourself killed, you won't be any good to Ca.s.sady."

"And how will working for you lessen my odds of getting killed?"

"Special op Chase," he replied.

"Landis...Coolidge?" Jack mumbled. She was surprised to hear that name after so many years.

"Just you and her, with all the resources we can offer and money can buy."

"You want to a.s.sign me a babysitter?"

"A partner and friend. You've worked with her before. You used to be close and you know she's one of our best." Jack took a step back and ran her hands through her hair. "I don't think I can accept these terms. I..." Pierce started to reach for her again but stopped. "Jaclyn, listen to me. I know how you feel about us...about me. You feel betrayed and you have every right to. What we did to you was wrong, and I've never regretted anything more. If I could take it all back I would, but-"

"Don't push it, Pierce. I'm not buying a word of your heartfelt remorse. Nothing you say about what happened then will make a difference."

* 27 *

Pierce looked away. "I know," he said with an uncharacteristic tone, his voice breaking. "I know. But..." He looked at her. "This isn't about me or the organization. This is about Ca.s.sady, and I know how much you love her. I'm not asking you to do this for me. I'm asking you to do it for her. Do it because you want her back alive." Jack flinched when Pierce suddenly put his hand on her shoulder.

"Do it because you know what it'll do to her if you get yourself killed," he said.

Jack pulled away and walked to the opposite side of the room.

With her back to him, she stared down at the familiar campus where she'd spent the first half of her life. The last time she'd been here was for Ca.s.sady's memorial service.

d.a.m.n. Pierce was right. She would need his help to find Ca.s.s sooner rather than later. Her own resources would take time and an exchange of favors with people she'd vowed never to contact again.

She'd left that life behind and doubted her less-than-honorable "friends" would help her, anyway. Unless she owed them, which she didn't, they conveniently forgot any previous favors or contracts she might have done for them. "Get Coolidge."

"We have a general meeting in an hour, and Coolidge will be there." Pierce frowned. She was in the same clothes they'd found her in after a three-day drinking binge. "Get yourself cleaned up.

I'll have someone bring you something to wear. You'll want to be there for this one."

"You mean sit with your puppets?"

"My ops."

"As what? Phantom's ghost? They all think I'm dead. Ca.s.s told me you never informed them about my resurrection."

"That's correct. You're about to do that yourself." Jack wasn't sure she was up to this revelation. She knew how most ops regarded treason or running away. Although many had considered it, none ever actually did. Call it misplaced loyalty or plain cowardice. No one ever left.

"Fine. Now get the h.e.l.l out of here."

* 28 *

ChaPter two.

New York City Heather Snyder leafed through the sketches for the upcoming juniors' line and sighed. After three years at Cesare Ch.e.l.line Fashions, a small design house in the Garment District, she was still just a patternmaker, consigned to one of five large works.p.a.ces in a factory-like room without a window. The new line played it safe: trendy colors, conservative lines, everyday fabrics. She longed for the day when someone important in the firm seriously considered some of the dozens of more innovative designs she'd come up with in her spare time. Her inspiration was Coco Chanel, the legend behind the timeless little black dress. Heather, too, favored simple but sophisticated outfits geared toward comfortable elegance.

Like most in her industry, Heather dressed to impress, regardless of her current low-level status at Ch.e.l.line. Her work wardrobe was cla.s.sic, refined, and professional, consisting mostly of well-tailored suits with feminine blouses, understated jewelry, and matching pumps. Today's dark-olive suit and creme silk blouse-good colors for her gold-brown hair and hazel eyes-were guaranteed to turn heads and elicit compliments.

She had an hour left in her shift when her cell phone chimed, alerting her to a text message that read Dario at 7.

The text reminded her she hadn't heard from Gigi since her friend's bizarre and disturbing phone call three weeks earlier.

* 29 *

Normally they met for coffee or breakfast at least once a week to catch up, and she often got three or four texts as well, chronicling Gigi's latest escapades. As her worry grew, Heather left several messages, all unreturned.

When the clock hit five, she hurried home to change for her appointment. Her one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a Greenwich Village walk-up was clean and comfortable, if cramped, and the view unspectacular. But the rent was reasonable for Manhattan, and she loved the eclectic mix of artists, writers, musicians, actors, and other creative types who comprised a good portion of her neighbors.

After a quick shower, she perused her closet for a s.e.xy but stylish dress for the evening, settling on a clingy, ink-blue number that showed off her legs and dipped low in front to expose a tasteful amount of cleavage. High heels, musky perfume, and a bit more makeup than she wore to her day job, and she was ready.

She hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to Bemelmans.

Ensconced within the prestigious Carlyle hotel, the art-deco bar was her favorite of the half-dozen upscale watering holes she frequented and never failed to provide a good selection of possibilities for an evening's entertainment.

Selecting a seat near one end of the impressive black-granite bar, she ordered a Diet c.o.ke and sipped it slowly. Within the first half hour, three men approached and tried to chat her up or buy her a drink, but none were suitable, so she deflected their come-ons with polite but firm excuses. The fourth, a handsome thirty-something businessman in a crisp blue suit, was more promising and, in light of the advancing hour, worth her attention.

"Good evening. Are you waiting for someone or can I buy you a drink?" the dark-haired stranger asked.

She smiled at him and removed her purse and coat from the adjacent bar stool, inviting him to sit. "I was rather hoping you'd notice me," she replied, eyeing him appreciatively. "I'm Amber."

"Mike." With a pleased grin, he took the stool and hailed the bartender. "Chivas 25, neat," he told the man, "and whatever my stunning friend would like."

* 30 *

"I'm good for now."

"Are you a native?" Mike asked as the bartender poured his drink.

Heather nodded. "I live in the Village. You?"

"In town for a medical conference. I'm a pharmaceutical rep."

"Lucky me." Heather raised her gla.s.s. "Here's to whatever fates brought us together. I'm in the mood for some fun tonight, and I was beginning to think I'd have to go home without company." Mike's eyes lit up as they clinked gla.s.ses. "I can't believe you don't have your pick. Are you an actress? Model?"

"That's very sweet of you, Mike. But, no. You could say I'm in the fantasy-fulfillment industry," she replied coyly. "Perhaps you'd care to discover more?"

Surprise registered briefly on his face, then his eyes glinted in l.u.s.tful antic.i.p.ation. "Most definitely. I have a suite here. Shall we continue this party in private?"

"I prefer my place, if you don't mind. It's not far, and it's...well stocked with everything we might need. Full bar...fun accessories.

One small catch, though. My boyfriend likes to watch, and he'll orchestrate the festivities. Does that work for you?" Mike's eyes narrowed as he considered her proposal. He downed the remains of his Chivas and smiled. "Lead the way." They caught a cab, and as Heather gave the driver the address of the brownstone owned by the Direct Connect escort agency, she stroked Mike's thigh provocatively. She was growing weary of her part-time work as a high-cla.s.s call girl, but at least she only had to work one or two nights a week to make enough to meet her obligations. The money she got from the men she picked up was significant, but it was Dario, her regular and enigmatic client, who provided the bulk of her additional income.

Mouchamps, France Doctor Andor Rozsa closed the kitchen shutters of his two-bedroom stone cottage, which did little to keep out the chill wind * 31 *

seeping through the ancient windowpane. All the windows needed upgrading and the fireplace required maintenance, too; it didn't draw right, and now and then a backdraft of smoke would waft through the room. He hadn't been here in many years and the place suffered from lack of attention, but he didn't dare allow a workman inside as long as his prisoner remained chained in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Andor had nowhere else to go, and this small village in France was as good a place as any to lie low for a while. He'd bought it under another name, in cash, and nothing in his records or computer hard drives could lead anyone here. Interpol and who knows how many other ent.i.ties were trying to hunt him down for unleashing the Charon virus, a lethal chimera of the H1N1 virus and bubonic plague bacteria. His plan to infect millions had gone exactly as antic.i.p.ated, but just as he was about to cash in on his scheme with the release of the antidote, his woman prisoner and her a.s.sociates had ruined everything. He'd lost his home in Budapest, his job at a prestigious pharmaceutical lab, all his virus formulas, the millions in his Grand Cayman account, and he'd even had to blow up the secret lab where he developed his lethal contagions and harvested organs for sale on the black market-the side business that had financed his scheme.

His best option for getting out of this mess was his prisoner.

Though he still knew nothing about her or who she was working for, he'd managed to obtain her cell phone when he Tasered her in his office at the lab. He called back the number she had dialed twice while searching his facility and was able to reach one of her a.s.sociates with his demands. She had to be a precious commodity to her employer, given her incredible ability to find the lab and break into his office to retrieve all his records and lethal virus formulas.

He'd scored some necessary operating cash by squeezing Dario Imperi-the man he'd been selling black-market organs to in the US. Imperi had millions, and everything to lose if Andor exposed him to authorities. He had kicked off his plan to collect on what Imperi owed him two weeks earlier, not long after the explosion in the lab, by mailing a greeting card to the man's PO box marked Personal. Contained within was a postcard of downtown Budapest, * 32 *

with the words I'll be in touch, along with a fine dust that would ensure compliance with his demands.

He'd followed up with a call to Imperi's private number a week later, using a cell phone outfitted with a scrambler.

"Yes?"

"It's your Hungarian a.s.sociate."

"You're putting both of us in danger by contacting me," Imperi replied angrily.

"Calm down, my friend. I'll not bother you further if you cooperate. I merely want what you still owe me."

"Cooperate? Are you mad? There's far too much heat on you for us to ever do business again."

"You received my postcard?" Andor asked.

"What was that all about? What game are you playing?"

"How are you feeling? Having headaches? Getting a nagging cough that medicines are doing nothing to help?" There was silence on the other end for several seconds. When Imperi spoke again, Andor could hear the fear in his voice. "What have you done?"

"I dusted the card with one of my formulas to ensure your quick cooperation. As soon as you give me the fifty thousand US you owe me for my last shipment, the antidote will be delivered to you."

"You're insane! I can't-"

"You can and you will, if you want to live more than a few days."More silence. "It'll take time for me to-"

"No. You're going to transfer the funds right now. I want to see the money in my account before we hang up. No negotiations." He recited the name of the bank and his new account number, certain that Imperi was busily scribbling down the information.

"How do I know you'll hold up your end of the bargain and won't be trying this again?"

"You have my word. I'm a scientist, not a criminal."

"You're a deranged idiot," he heard Imperi mutter as he waited, watching his online bank account for the deposit to be completed. As soon as it was, he transferred the money to a second Grand Cayman * 33 *

account, so Imperi couldn't recover it or trace him. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Dario. And by the way, you won't need an antidote. You have a slightly altered strain of the common cold and your symptoms should go away on their own in a few more days." Imperi was cursing as he hung up the phone.

The fifty grand would sustain him while he awaited the big payoff from his prisoner's a.s.sociates. Andor glanced at his watch.

Time to feed the captive. He hated having to deal with her himself- the stench down there was unbearable, and he'd always had staff to deal with the wretched human animals he'd held captive for his virus trials in the lab.

* 34 *

ChaPter three.

Ca.s.sady Monroe scrutinized the bare room yet again as she paced the few steps the length of heavy chain allowed, though she'd already memorized every detail of the s.p.a.ce. She was weak and dehydrated, and her right wrist was raw and sore from the thick shackle that bound her to the chain.

Andor Rozsa had kidnapped her and kept her alive for reasons she couldn't understand, and every time she asked him questions he ignored her. He never talked to her at all, for that matter. She vaguely remembered him hovering over her very early in this nightmare, asking her questions, but she'd been so heavily drugged she couldn't recall anything specific.

Since then, he came only briefly once a day, his heavy descending steps announcing dinnertime. He would open the door and signal her to sit, and only then place a cup of water and a bowl of soggy oatmeal on the floor far enough away that she'd have to fully extend her body to reach them. His ascending steps always precipitated another loss of the hope she clung to, hope that he'd free her or tell her why she was here.

She'd ascertained only that she was in a bas.e.m.e.nt. The walls were bare concrete blocks, devoid of windows. Constant humidity hung in the air, the place reeked of mold, and the pendulous bulb in the center of the room gave a depressing sepia color to an already wretched environment. She didn't know how she got here, where here was, and at this point had even started to lose track of how long * 35 *

she'd been captive. Besides drugging her for however long, he'd taken her watch and cell phone, so time had blurred.

Most distressing of all was her knowledge of what Rozsa was capable of. He'd had no qualms about killing millions with his virus or experimenting on how many untold unfortunates in his lab. Was he keeping her for some kind of new experiment? And if so, what further h.e.l.l might she have to endure?

Her EOO training had drilled in her to never give up, but what did that mean under these circ.u.mstances? She would never go down without a fight, but she had no one, nothing to fight against. Her only option to end this madness seemed to be to stop eating and drinking and let nature take its course, but choosing that way out went against her nature.

Her only source for solace was Jack and the memory of their brief time together. The dimple on Jack's cheek when she smiled, and, G.o.d, how Ca.s.sady loved to make her smile, sustained her now.

As long as she concentrated on Jack's image, recalling every freckle and scar, her mind should remain intact.

She licked her chapped lips and sat back down on the dirty blanket, a rag that clearly once belonged to a dog. Just as well, she thought, since her own odor had become unbearable. She hadn't been allowed to wash since her arrival to nowhere, and her clothes never seemed to dry from the extreme humidity. Aside from the blanket, the only item in the room was the bucket he'd supplied for her bodily needs.

As she leaned against the cold brick wall, her stomach rumbled and she placed her hand on it. As with any part of her body that hurt, she would pretend her own touch was Jack's hand. She shut her eyes and dozed until the sound of boots awakened her. By now, she knew exactly how many steps before he entered the room. Seven. She counted down and sat up as the familiar noise of a heavy bar and the clanging sound of his keys echoed through the small s.p.a.ce.

Rozsa entered and Ca.s.sady, as usual, remained very still. She didn't want to startle or anger him and lose any opportunity to make him talk. He avoided eye contact at all times, but always stood at the door to inspect the room and her bucket.

* 36 *

The stench in the bas.e.m.e.nt was so overpowering Rozsa wrinkled his nose in disgust and kept his mouth slightly open to avoid breathing through his nose. He stared at the bucket for several seconds before apparently deciding he could no longer avoid the loathsome task of emptying it. He set down the oatmeal and water by the door, picked up the bucket while watching her warily, and left briefly to complete his task. He repeated this pattern every few days.