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“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course it won’t.” OH2 wanted to explode. “Because there won’t be another chance.” He was furious, his words clipped. How could something as simple as a baby kidnapping go so wrong?
“I’ll handle it.” The voice was calm and assured as the visitor crossed to the bar to pour a drink.
So damned arrogant.
A glance over the shoulder. “You?”
OH2 hesitated, then thought, what the hell? It had been one lousy couple of days. “Oh, fuck. Fine. Sure.” A drink might help. Something had to. This . . . this failure would never do. Never. He heard ice cubes clinking and the gentle glug as alcohol was poured.
The visitor turned and offered him a short glass.
OH2 snatched it quickly, and as his guest hoisted a glass, he didn’t bother with his own silent toast, just took a long swallow of the cool, calming scotch. It slid down his throat easily, the smoky scent of the alcohol seeping into his nostrils. For a second, he closed his eyes and mind to the madness that had become his life. Yeah, a drink definitely helped calm his tense muscles and tight nerves, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. “We have to do something.” Opening his eyes, he found his guest staring out the window to the panorama of city, sky, and desert.
“I know. I got it.”
“Really? Because it doesn’t seem like you ‘got’ anything.” Another cool swallow. “We shouldn’t be in this position.”
“Just a minor setback.”
“Major,” OH2 corrected. “A major setback.” He downed the remains of his drink, filled his mouth with ice, and, cracking a small cube, made his way past the visitor to the bar, where he picked up the uncapped bottle and poured himself another three fingers. Carefully he sipped, slowing the alcohol train down a notch. He needed to think, to plot, to . . .
He blinked.
Felt suddenly dizzy.
Shaking his head to clear it only made things worse.
What the hell?
The world seemed to spin, turn upside down. His knees buckled, and he dropped the remains of his drink, ice cubes skittering across the carpet. His fingers scraped the edge of the bar, but he couldn’t catch himself and fell back against his desk, sending papers and his phone flying.
He collapsed onto the carpet. His head hit. Hard.
Thud!
Pain burst behind his eyes.
Blinking, he still didn’t understand. As the desk, bookcases, and wide windows spun around him, he scrambled to get to his feet, but he couldn’t make his limbs move, couldn’t even get his knees under him. Nausea boiled in his stomach.
In a lightning bolt of clarity, he remembered he wasn’t alone.
“For . . . for God’s sake . . . Help me . . . ,” he ordered, his voice a rasp. He was sweating and writhing, trying not to vomit, unable to focus. His heart had begun to beat a wild, frantic tattoo, so fast that he thought it might explode.
That was the first inkling of his problem—that he’d been drugged. The drink he’d gulped so thirstily had been spiked.
With what? Oh, Jesus.
Eyes starting to blur, he saw the phone receiver that had toppled to the floor. He stretched his fingers and reached for it, then watched helplessly as it was kicked away by the polished toe of a boot.
“Not today,” his visitor said without emotion, then added, “Well, not any day.”
I’m going to die . . . this . . . this maniac is killing me!
His body started to convulse and, rolling onto his back, unable to control his muscles, he witnessed the slow stretch of a smile curve his assassin’s lips.
CHAPTER 10
