Nadia Wolf: My Traitor Part 13

"Because it hasn't stopped," French answered. "Even after the ma.s.sacre, the stealing hasn't stopped. There've been a few ambushes like ours, made to look like the enemy. But it's not. It's Venom."

Remy nodded in understanding, yet still questioning French. "We've been given forty-eight hours to take him down. But if I'm the key, as you say, then I need to know everything you know."

"I stayed behind. I was considered dead anyway. And it's not as if I had family to return to. Who would miss me? You and I are kind of the same like that." He shrugged as he twisted the pen in his hand. "And I was caught, hooked by the stories I had been told by the locals. The tales sounded like they came from the pages of a science-fiction novel. At first, I was going to give up, but then stories began to align, and I knew I was getting close. As far as I can tell, Venom's work began ten years ago, but it wasn't weapons he was stealing. He only turned to that after his failure." Remy felt the weight of French's stare. "But now I'm wondering if it was actually a success."

"What was it?"

French tapped the pen on the desk, the rhythm fast and steady. "None of what I'm about to tell you is doc.u.mented. There are stories about Venom aiding remote villages that were ravaged by war in return for help by a few of their strongest men. He left with those men, never to return."

"And the men never returned either," Remy surmised.

French nodded. "Most never returned. But one did."

"Did you talk to him?" Remy asked, holding himself back from shaking the information out of French.

"I tried, but he was so addled that I couldn't understand anything he said. The villagers said that he came back that way." French rubbed his forehead. "They said he was the walking dead, that he was a bad omen."

"And what do you think?"

"He was experimented on. His arms were littered with scars from injections. If I hadn't known his story, I would've thought he was a junkie that fried his brain."

"And the reasons for the experiments?" Remy questioned, not liking the direction of the conversation.

"By following Venom's path, by following his stories and what he's currently up to, I think he was trying to make a human weapon."

Remy clenched his jaw to stop it from falling open. "You're nuts."

French opened the top desk drawer and retrieved a notebook, worn and dirty. He tossed it over to Remy. "Take a look. These are the stories I was told. Some of these villages are so remote that they sometimes don't see strangers for years. And it's not just in Iraq. The more I researched, the more missing people I discovered. Everywhere."

Remy scanned through the pages, feeling sicker by the moment.

"It's the reason I pulled Ava back. It's the reason I had to get you involved. I knew she'd be able to find you and bring you to me. That's the only reason I kept her around, and the reason I kept her at a distance."

Remy glanced up at French, and for the first time, he saw what he was missing before. He found French's motivation. It was Ava.

Jeremy French was in love with Ava, and it was tearing him apart.

Remy cleared his throat. If his hunch was correct, then French had to hate involving Remy. It wasn't as if he and Ava were secretive about their past relationship. Everyone knew. Maybe that's why French was being such a jacka.s.s.

"You still haven't told me how this involves me," Remy said, snapping the book closed. He would study it later. Right now, the clock was ticking, and they needed a plan.

French set the pen on the desk and relaxed back into his chair. "Do you ever remember waking up and wondering what the h.e.l.l happened . . . where you were?"

"My early twenties were filled with mornings like that."

"But was there ever one that stuck out in your mind more than others?"

Remy briefly thought back, but in all reality, it'd take months to remember all of his hangovers. And he didn't want to remember them. He was a different man now. When he thought of his youthful past, he didn't like what he saw. One time, he couldn't even remember his own name. It felt as though his mind was being ripped in two.

"You just thought of something," French said. "What was it?"

"Only that I hate hangovers."

"Tell me about the one you were just thinking of."

"We're wasting time," Remy said.

"The only time being wasted is by you. If you want my help, then you have to be honest with me."

"That's a two-way street."

French crossed his arms, waiting.

"Fine," Remy said. "But I don't understand how this will help."

French sat silent.

Remy dragged a hand over his head, trying to remember all the details. "It's a rather short story. I woke up one morning and I couldn't remember anything, not even my name. I was in so much pain I wanted to call for help, but I couldn't even do that. It was as if I was paralyzed in my bed. No sight. No sound. Nothing."

"You said you were in your bed. Where was that?"

"I was on leave and staying at a friend's house. But that night I must have checked into a hotel."

"What hotel?"

Remy shook his head. "I don't remember. But what I do remember is getting the riot act from David. He said I was MIA for two days."

"How long ago was this?"

"About eight years ago."

French stood, knuckles planted on the desk. "There it is. The key."

Remy shifted in his chair. He had always felt uneasy about that time. It was one of the reasons he'd stopped partying like he used to. Another night like that and he was afraid he'd find himself in the grave instead of an unfamiliar bed.

French reached over, taking Remy's arm and twisting it over to reveal the inside of his forearm.

"What are you doing?" Remy asked, ripping his arm away.

"Did you wake up with needle marks?"

Remy felt the blood drain from his face. He'd never liked drugs. Never took them. He thought they were a waste of money and brain cells. And being hooked on something, depending upon the next hit, was not an option or lifestyle he wanted. So, when he had seen the marks on his arm that morning, he thought he had reached the lowest rung on the ladder. He was ashamed and sick that he'd succ.u.mbed. He was weak.

"Did they run the length of your arm?" French asked.

Remy nodded, the words stuck in his throat, the feeling of shame washing over him anew.

"Congratulations," French said, his dry tone at odds with his remark. "You are the first, and I believe only, person to survive the experiment with your brain still intact. And that is why you are the key."

Chapter 12.

Ava didn't bother to look back at the man she had just immobilized. He'd be pa.s.sed out long enough, and with the bindings now secured on him, it'd give her even more time. His rifle, now slung on her shoulder, felt like an old friend; a friend that would give her a bit of leverage.

Leverage for what, she had no idea. It wasn't as if she had a plan. Her first thought was to escape, but she had no idea what obstacles she'd run into on the outside. For one thing, she didn't even know where she was and had no gear or rations to get very far.

So, she went to look for her captor. Dumb, yes. But if he was after Venom, and Remy was on a ship filled with Venom cargo, the two would collide eventually. She wanted to be there when it happened.

Ava stepped out of the holding room and into a hallway. The overhead bulbs blinked as if they were starved of electricity. The walls and floor were thick with dirt and grime.

She walked quietly down the hall, listening for sounds. Up ahead, the corridor split both left and right. Ava was about to turn left when she heard noises to the right. It sounded as if men were chanting. She knew she should turn left and head away from them, but there was something pulling her in the other direction.

There were many who had scoffed at her reasoning over the years, since it was mainly intuition that she followed, but it had kept her alive this long so she didn't see why she should change what worked. Intuition wasn't just a feeling. It was a combination of knowledge, experience, and instincts.

Ava turned to the right, following her gut and ears. The sounds came from beyond a dented metal door that was propped open, allowing sunlight and dust to float inside.

It was the way out.

Ava hurried over to the door and pressed her back against the wall beside it. The oppressive arid heat surrounded her. G.o.d, was she back in Iraq? She swore she'd never return, not even if the CID sent her.

Holding the rifle steady against her, she quickly peeked out to find that it was indeed the exit, and it was very likely that she'd returned to h.e.l.l. Unfortunately, she could go no farther. A ring of men, about forty in all, watched two fighters in the middle of a circle, shouting foreign words that she thought were more for encouragement than heckling.

Why couldn't she understand them? While she wasn't fluent in Arabic, she could carry on a simple conversation. But she didn't understand one word that was being said.

Where in the h.e.l.l was she?

There was one way to find out, she thought as she surveyed the motley crew; some dressed in swat, some in flowing cloth, and some in T-shirts and jeans. The only consistent accessory worn by all were rifles. And they were old. She looked down at her pilfered rifle and sighed. It was so old and abused, she wasn't sure if it would fire at all, or maybe it'd just backfire on her.

She glanced back at the men, watching as two shirtless fighters engaged, both attacking and blocking with a mix of hands and feet. It looked exactly like mixed martial arts.

She wanted to scream. Who were these men?

And were none of them remotely worried that she'd attempt to escape? That leaving one man to guard her wouldn't be enough?

Numbskulls. The lot of them.

She could easily step out and spray bullets, killing them all in one pa.s.s . . . if the rifle worked. But she wouldn't. There was something about this group that made her stand down. While the two fighters were fairly skilled, the rest of the crew looked as if they'd just arrived from a country farm, except the one closest to her. He could pa.s.s for a Hollywood socialite.

And they wanted to take down Venom?

She stepped out into the sun, relying on her sixth sense to guide her. None of the men heard her, even though her footsteps were loud on the hard-packed ground. She stood far behind the socialite, absorbing the action around her and staying out of sight. His wafting heavy cologne drowned out all other smells that had been present just moments before. Sad as it was, she preferred the cloying scent compared to the powerful odor of ripe bodies and the dry, stagnant air almost too dusty to breathe.

The men continued to fight, each taking hits, but one delivered more blows than the other. So, the leader of these misfits could fight? She watched as he delivered another blow, clearly holding back from injuring the other man.

As she watched the progression, her gaze caught on a man standing apart from the others. He wore swat black like some of the others, but it was his eyes that worried Ava. She could see the cold hatred in those dark eyes framed by a swath of black fabric that covered his face. He scrutinized the action, wanting to take part but not to spar. No, he wouldn't hold back.

He was dangerous.

Ava decided her course of action and backed away. She wouldn't allow the entire armed team to discover her. She might be bullheaded, but she knew her limits. And she knew never to test the untried reflexes of recruits. But she would deal directly with Natan later.

She continued to back away, thankful for the decent tree growth surrounding the rusted metal building only slightly bigger than a barn. The surrounding foliage made a good hiding spot for their militant group. Unfortunately for them, it helped her too.

However, if she was truly in Iraq like she thought, then this coverage wouldn't carry her any real distance, especially not to the south where there was nothing but miles of desolate rocky sand. But, if she was in the northern highlands, then there were a few more options for escape, especially with the Turkish border at the north.

Right now, it didn't matter where she was. She had no desire to go anywhere . . . at least not until she'd had a chat.

As Ava disappeared into the wooded copse, the door banged open, vibrating the building. The guard that had been a.s.signed to her stumbled out, clutching his stomach. He doubled over, retching on the ground.

Ava winced at the sound.

The fight halted as members rushed over to aid the man. She heard the signal as they realized what had happened. She didn't have to understand their language to know the sound of an alert. It was universal. It always began with murmured confusion fading into silence of realization, and then finally the outraged cry, calling for action.

Men charged in every direction, disappearing into the wooded area. One hurried past her, not even taking the time to notice she was barely three feet away and hardly hidden from view. She'd have to find a better spot, but she wasn't going to run. The men obviously believed she was already far away, so she was perfectly safe right next to the building for now.

Ava peered around a tree to see if it was clear. The open area near the building was now vacant except for Natan. He stood tall and straight, his face tilted up to the sun as he let out a furious bellow. The man with the bloodthirsty eyes appeared from the tree line opposite of Ava. He spoke to Natan, irritation in his tone. With an annoyed growl, Natan stalked to the door and ripped it open, disappearing into the cool interior. The other man stayed where he was and scanned the area, pausing briefly at her hiding spot. She held her breath, not daring to move even an inch. Did he see her? He turned, continuing to scan before heading back into the trees where he came from.

Ava leaned heavily against the rough bark as she took a long, steady breath. She didn't think that he had seen her, but maybe he'd sensed something. And now that he was in the woods, she no longer thought this was a good place to hide.

But the building . . .

The militants might be gone for hours searching for her, leaving Natan alone inside. It was the perfect opportunity, but she wasn't sure if it was the right time. The man had just sparred, his adrenaline was kicked up, and he was livid. But if she gave him time to cool down, she might miss her chance.

Plus, she no longer wanted to stay in the woods.

Her mind made up, she stepped from her spot and treaded quietly into the open. Her eyes and ears strained for any sign of trouble, her senses on alert. When she didn't detect anyone, she ran for the building, keeping her rifle at the ready.

Shots rang out mere steps from the door. She felt heat as a bullet nicked her upper arm. Before she could take cover inside, she was forced back, slammed into the ground.

The man with the murderous eyes had caught her. He must have been waiting for her. As he reached down and grabbed Ava by the neck, she clawed a fistful of the dry, rocky ground and flung it, keeping her eyes squeezed tight.

With a growl, he dropped her to wipe his eyes clean. Ava jabbed him in the ribs twice before he blocked the third and knocked her down with a punch she didn't see coming. Her rifle skidded to the side.

Ava jumped back on her feet, already defending herself against his attack. There was no way she could pick up her rifle. His offense was too quick. While he wasn't as skilled as Natan, he was fierce. He used force to make up for what he lacked. He fought using the same MMA techniques. She wondered if he knew what to do if she broke the rules.

Remy broke the rules.

When Ava had first met Remy, he tested her, making sure she was properly trained. He didn't hold back, and he didn't play by the book. He fought dirty. After getting her a.s.s served to her, she hated him; she despised him for making her look weak, feel weak. She had trained hard, and he destroyed her like she was nothing. But she didn't give up. She returned every day to take another beating. And while she hated him, she admired him. He didn't show her mercy because of her gender. He wasn't like the others. He was different.

Later, after weeks of humiliating defeats, he finally explained. "Think beyond the rules, beyond your training," he had said. "It's not merely a matter of surviving. If that's all it's about, you could crawl into a hole and wait. We are a team. We depend upon each other. I fight dirty because that's what happens in life-or-death situations. There are no rules. The more prepared you are now, the better chance you have. You're not a survivor, you're not a soldier, you are a fighter. I'd take a bullet for any of my soldiers. I expect the same in return."

Ava nodded in understanding.

"I would take a bullet for you too," he said, smiling. It was genuine and warm, and it was the first time he had ever smiled at her. She felt it all the way to her toes. Her hatred had shifted in that instant. In a crazy one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, she fell in love with him. Right there on the training mat. Her first instinct was to go to the infirmary; maybe she'd knocked her head on their last round. But somehow she knew he was the one.