Page 83 of Hotter than Wildfire

“She’s gone, Harry.” Sam stepped forward, face sombre. “Nicole was in the bathroom and when she came back, Ellen wasn’t there. She’d thrown up in a wastepaper basket. She just ran out, the chair was thrown back from the desk. I clicked on her computer monitor and, shit man, I saw why she ran.”

Oh God. “What? What was there?”

Sam hesitated. “Not good.” He turned to Nicole, said gently, “Wait outside, honey,” and kissed her cheek.

Looking sad, Sam placed the laptop on Harry’s desk while Nicole closed the door behind her. Harry clicked on the space bar to turn the screen on and felt a rush of rage at the image. He processed it immediately.

A dark-haired young woman, pretty underneath the tears and terror, duct taped to a chair. He quickly scanned the background but there was absolutely nothing there. Not even a digital image specialist could pick up anything, he was sure. A bare gray space, no reflections, no objects.

Just stills of a poor terrified woman, straining against the restraints, bucking with pain, a big hand pinching the brachial plexus.

It was excruciating, the kind of pain that could reduce a person to shuddering bedrock, down to something barely human.

“Wait,” Sam said. His face was dark and grim. “There’s more.”

Another still. Something torn and broken appeared. Red and savaged. Barely human.

“Christ,” Harry breathed.

“Yeah,” Sam grunted.

“Fuck,” Mike chimed in. Harry hadn’t heard the door open and close. Mike had extrasensory perception when it came to trouble. “That’s serious shit.”

“There’s audio.” Sam clicked on the icon and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s real bad, Harry.”

A surreal digitized voice that sounded like it came from the lowest reaches of hell buzzed. “Ellen Palmer, this is your friend Kerry…”

He listened to the message through to the end, fury rising.

Bullshit. That woman was dead. They were fucking with Ellen’s head, trying to get her to show.

Harry was sweating. He looked up at his two friends, his brothers. “She saw that. That’s why she vomited.” He clicked on his email and read with growing horror the message she’d sent him. “And Christ, that’s why she’s gone. She went to the FBI.”

“Well, fuck.” Sam looked puzzled. “She wants to go to the FBI, why didn’t she wait for you to take her?”

“I think she wants to ask for protection while they put together a case.” Harry met his brothers’ eyes. “She blamed herself for what happened to Nicole. She kept saying it was her fault. She’d be totally freaked if this was a friend of hers.”

“Wasn’t anybody’s fault except for that fucker Montez,” Sam responded heatedly.

“Yeah, I know. Try to convince her of that. I’ll talk to Welles, see what I can do.” Aaron Welles, former Ranger, now FBI. A good friend. Harry would explain the situation, they’d debrief Ellen and he’d convince her to come home. Actually, going to the FBI was a good move and one he’d have gotten to eventually.

“Shit!” Harry and Sam turned to Mike, who was pointing to the monitor that showed the building’s security cams. “She didn’t make it to the FBI. Look at that!”

The three men watched in horror at the scene unfolding. Mike had rewound. The white letters in the lower right hand corner said Monday, April 14, 12:05 pm. A quarter of an hour ago.

Ellen running out of the building, stumbling. The quality of the digital tape was so good Harry could see the silver tracks of tears on her face, the trembling of her hands. She turned right and walked quickly on the wide sidewalk, glancing back often, hoping for a passing cab.

Across the street a tall blond man stepped out of a Mercedes and ran toward her.

Harry’s blood froze. Adrenaline flooded his system making the scene appear as if it were in slow motion though he knew it was in real time. He was in combat time as he watched the takedown.

Ellen turning her head around once more, soft curly hair swinging over her shoulders, wiping at the tears on her face. Hurrying, but slightly unsteady on her feet. Eyes, mouth blurred with shock. He could tell the exact moment she saw the tall blond man running toward her, the slight hesitation. The instinctive attempt to help. As she slowed to see what he wanted, the black Mercedes left the curb, slowly made its way down the street.

“Oh hell. Haven’t seen him in years.” Mike’s deep voice. Harry nodded without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Who?” Sam asked. “Who is he?”

“Piet van der Boeke.” Mike’s deep voice was clipped. “South African merc. Go to guy for a lot of people. Really good at tracking. He’ll kill if the price is right.”