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“You Americans are so cocky.”
“Fuck you.”
The man who had been using the knife on Zorra wiped the blade on her hair.
“You’re about to change your mind. We will have the codes to access the CIA database. You will give them to us.”
“What makes you think me or Zorra have any codes to access anything? We’re operatives.”
“So you say. Something I would suspect. CIA are lying dogs,” he sneered.
At his nod, his knife friend nicked Volk’s arm, and he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of wincing. It was minor, a scratch, but then, that was just the first one.
Minutes later, Volk gasped for breath, his exposed skin burning with little cuts the bastard had salted. He threw his head back, making a guttural noise as the knife blade slammed into his upper chest and shoulder. Blinding pain crashed into him, and he refused to scream.
“What are you doing, you fool? We need him alive.” The lead guy shoved the knife wielder away.
“He’s not going to talk,” Knife Wielder snapped. “We’re better off waiting for his partner to bring the CIA bitch to us.”
His tormentor signaled the knife wielder into silence. “Shut up and get a medic in here to stop the bleeding. We can’t afford to have him bleed to death.”
Volk was never going to tell them anything and neither was Zorra. Eventually, they were going to die. But he had a glimmer of hope when he realized they were coercing Karasu to bring Rose to them. She would never do that. Which meant she was working a plan. Really, these bozos were between a rock and a hard place. If they went through with their threat and killed them, Karasu’s coercion would end. But he couldn’t be certain they didn’t have other people under their thumb.
In fact, he would be a fool to think they didn’t. His shoulder ached like a bitch as blood ran freely down his arm and chest. His vision blurred and he slumped forward.
* * *
Preacher leanedhis shoulder against the wall of a brick building and watched street traffic. He and Karasu were bonded now. Her confession of what had happened in her past still shredded him and he wanted to get his hands on Savic even more now. He hauled in the crisp air, his rage so intense he needed his combat breathing to get him back to normal. He wanted to kill the bastard himself. Piece by Piece. Little by little. It was as if a lifetime of rage had broken loose in him, all of it focused on the degenerate who had taken away Karasu’s innocence and thrust her into the world she lived in now. Savic and Vak were in cahoots with NSH, so they were targets number one and two. Already in their sights.
After the emotional and explosive episode at the safe house, Karasu told him about Volk and the NSH threat that they would kill him if she didn’t bring them Rose. She’d told him she hadn’t responded, hopefully buying them time. Then she told him everything about her plan to find the secret NSH bunker. She had worked in La Paz and dealt with a shady minor drug smuggler who loved to play pool. He wasn’t answering her calls, but she knew where to find him. If anyone knew about what was going on in the underworld of La Paz, it was Mario Poma. Preacher had alerted Iceman, but Ice had already known, describing the attack on them at the camp. The NSH guys were as bold as brass, but that wasn’t too much of a surprise. Whoever was directing them had no regard for human life. It seemed that all of his lackeys were expendable. He promised to keep Ice in the loop. If they got a viable target, they would need the team.
A cab pulled up to the curb outside the target location. The door opened and a stiletto-heeled boot with small metal buckles up the side touched on the pavement, then a shapely calf encased and outlined in black leather to the knee, until finally Karasu emerged from the back seat. She wore a black chain-mail miniskirt and halter top under a black motorcycle jacket. Movement in front of the Rojas Pool House slowed as Karasu sauntered across the sidewalk toward the entrance, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Neither could any man on the street. That outfit was a thing of domination fantasies. Her makeup was understated except for the black lipstick on her lips and heavy eyeliner, highlighting her almond eyes. Her hair was loose and flowed around her like black silk. He knew for a fact she was armed and boy was she dangerous.
“It’s no hardship being your backup, babe,” he said, the sensitive earbud easily picking up his voice and transmitting it into her earbud.
“A man who knows his place is worth his weight in gold.”
There was a soft male chuckle through the earpiece…Gonchaya was close. Preacher hadn’t seen him, but he sensed it.
She put a soft sway in her step, and he smiled when one bold man tried to cop a feel of her spectacular ass. He got an elbow in the face for his trouble and Preacher was sure he was glad of it.
Nothing wrong with an ass-kicking woman, he thought and crossed the street as another man moved out of the shadow converging from the other side. Preacher recognized Gonchaya. They moved together up the stairs into the hall.
Focused bright lights from the brass shades of the fixtures suspended low over a dozen green baize surfaces. An indistinct shape moved in the semi-darkness beyond the light, creating a haze, disappearing in the shadows. There was something disconnecting about the darkness that hovered thick and heavy beyond the brass fixtures. It was as though it dismembered the players, leaving only the arms and hands playing the game.
The adjacent bar vibrated with a lively Latin beat from the loudspeakers and the murmur of the crowd, but this room was quiet, intense, the only sounds were the sharp report of ball against ball and the terse utterances as the players called their shots. They were all focused on the game, each intent on the next shot, on laying down a winning game. There were no casual bystanders, no spectators tonight—just the players.
At the second table from the entrance, shards of reflected light glanced off the brightly colored balls as they disappeared, one by one, into the black wells of the side and corner pockets. When only the white cue ball remained, a well-dressed man came into view, bisected by an upright pool cue.
“That’s him,” Karasu said as she continued into the hall, Gonchaya and Preacher keeping back, flanking her. Poma was oblivious to Karasu, as he grabbed up his winnings. He never saw her coming as she slipped her arm around his shoulders, delivering the small pinprick to his neck.
Gonchaya and Preacher grabbed the man as he slumped from the fast-acting, but short-term sedative. They moved through the dimness, no one paying attention to the drunk and his friends. When they reached the bar, Karasu made eye contact with the bartender, and he inclined his head toward a darkened hallway.
They headed away from the main room, Karasu leading the way until she stopped and opened a door. They dragged him inside and sat him down in the chair in the center of the room, zip tying his hands and feet, gagging him. His head slumped, his chin resting on his chest.
Karasu took a bag from Gonchaya, and he turned away as she quickly changed into her catsuit, donned the motorcycle jacket, tucking a Glock into a holster under her arm. When she was finished, she looked at her watch and tapped the unconscious man none too gently on the cheek.
“Wakey, wakey,” she murmured.
