The brink, p.10
The Brink, page 10
Ellen was gone.
The interior of the van showed signs of a struggle.
Ellen was gone.
A small white rectangle caught his eye, lying on the center of the floor. Cafferty reached inside and plucked it between his fingers.
It had the Foundation’s name printed across in bold letters and the address for its Paris headquarters below.
Ellen was gone, and Van Ness had her.
And it was his fault.
“What is it?” Munoz asked.
Cafferty didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Instead, he attempted to control the rage erupting inside him like a supervolcano.
“Tom,” Bowcut said. “Is it the Foundation?”
He slowly nodded. “He’s got her.”
Enraged, Cafferty crumpled the card in his hand and balled it into a fist. The thought of Ellen being accosted by Foundation thugs raced through his mind. If they touch her . . .
But this was bigger than Ellen. She was everything to him, but he wasn’t the only one on this team. And he definitely wasn’t the only one in this city. He stood there, his mind flipping back and forth, rapid-fire, between Ellen and the lives of the millions of innocent people all around him.
Cafferty was on the brink. He could feel it.
Ellen’s kidnapping now confirmed that there was only one way to stop Van Ness, the man who was blackmailing the world and threatening humanity’s existence with nuclear war and a terrifying new type of creature that could live aboveground.
“We’re going to Paris. We’re going to stop this bomb. And then . . .”
“Tom?” Munoz asked.
“And then I’m going to kill him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ellen had lost track of her kidnappers’ car route since they had left the major roads surrounding London. All she knew was that they had initially headed west and were now winding their way through the dark countryside. The female driver, who appeared to be the leader of her captors, glanced over her shoulder toward the back seat. A stone-faced man sat by her side with a firm grip on her shoulder.
The multiple zip ties bit into Ellen’s wrists as she tried to force them looser, straining against the rigid black plastic, but they held firm. The same happened with her ankle restraints. Escape appeared unlikely at present, though she hadn’t resigned herself to whatever fate the Foundation had planned. Her experience in the caverns below New York had taught her that, and the knowledge that she needed to get back to little David reinforced her already cast-iron will to survive.
Perhaps I can reach out to this woman on a personal level. If even a scrap of humanity exists inside of her . . .
“You’re British, right?” Ellen asked.
“Very perceptive,” she replied sarcastically. “And you’re from New York.”
“You can’t be comfortable with London being reduced to ashes.”
The woman eyed Ellen through the rearview mirror. “If you knew what I’ve done and had seen what I’ve seen, you’d know it’s an acceptable loss.”
“Acceptable loss? You have to be kidding me.”
“If it’s any consolation, my brother lives in the city.”
“How is that a consolation? You’re prepared to let him die?”
“For the Foundation’s mission, I’d let anyone die.”
Ellen could hear it. Her captor had drunk the Kool-Aid. She was a true believer. Converting her to the good side was unlikely. But what other choice did she have? She pressed on.
“How does killing millions of people, including your brother, help defeat the creatures? Where’s the logic in that, if the Foundation wants to protect humanity?”
“I’m sure Mr. Edwards can enlighten you on the plane,” the woman replied.
The mention of Edwards being on the jet sent her mind racing. She knew he was Van Ness’ number two, and if he had come along for the ride, this appeared more than a simple assassination.
It was probably another one of Van Ness’ games. A power play. The twisted German thrived on manipulating people for his own amusement while putting them into the exact position he wanted them.
And knowing Tom and his impulsive nature, he would oblige. She just hoped he didn’t do anything rash and walk directly into a trap.
The driver flipped open the glove box and grabbed a pack of Marlboro Lights. “Mind if I smoke, Mrs. Cafferty?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
The woman lit the cigarette anyway and took a deep drag. She lowered her window a couple of inches and groaned with satisfaction as she puffed out a stream of light gray smoke. The man holding Ellen didn’t move an inch.
The stench invaded the back of the car. It reminded her of being trapped in one of New York’s surviving cigar lounges, though the bad attitudes that lingered alongside the smoke in those places was thousands of miles away from here.
“Oh, and one request,” the woman said, eyeing Ellen through the rearview mirror.
“And that is . . . ?”
“Shut the fuck up until we arrive. To be perfectly blunt, your accent disgusts me.”
For the next few minutes, the car continued to snake around country roads until the woman flipped on the turn signal and navigated through an open chain-link gate.
“We’re here,” the man said casually, speaking for the first time. “Get ready to move.”
Ellen forced herself up and peered out the window.
Spotlights blazed down from the roof of an aircraft hangar. To the right of it, a single runway stretched into the darkness. A Learjet sat at the near end. Its back door was open, and a set of steps led down to the tarmac. Ellen wondered how many people knew this place existed. Woodland surrounded the entire private airstrip. She couldn’t see any commercial signage or anything else to betray the location.
The woman steered the car onto the runway. She grabbed her phone from the center cup holder. Before she had a chance to dial, two stocky men, dressed head-to-toe in black, descended the Learjet’s steps.
“A word of warning,” the woman said. “If you want to keep your pretty smile, don’t struggle with the guards. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they get off at punching people’s teeth out. And probably have no problem with smacking a woman around.”
“Thanks for being so considerate,” Ellen said.
“I’m just doing my job,” she replied.
“That’s what concentration camp guards claimed, too. I suppose you’re not that different if you’re willing to let millions die for your boss’ twisted ideology.”
The woman turned in her seat. “A second word of warning. Say anything like that in front of Van Ness and it’ll be the last thing that comes out of your mouth.” And then she flicked the still-glowing cigarette butt at Ellen’s face.
Ellen screamed, but she barely got burned.
The woman began to laugh.
Ellen defiantly spit right at her face, bringing the woman’s laughter to a quick end.
“You bitch—”
Both back doors flew open, letting in the cold night air, and one of the men pushed the driver away before she could attack Ellen.
“You know better than to play with Mr. Van Ness’ toys,” he said.
The man slipped a knife from his belt and sawed through Ellen’s ankle restraints with the serrated edge of the blade. Ellen used all of her inner strength to not smash her knee into his face. He was shaven headed with a nose that looked like it’d been broken several times. He grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved her into a standing position on the runway.
The stench of airplane fuel hung in the air.
The Learjet’s two engines whined.
A thin, bald man stared down from one of the plane’s windows.
The Foundation lackey took a firm grip of Ellen’s shoulders and marched her to the plane. She didn’t see the point of resisting. Spitting was one thing, but she knew there was no way she could take one of these guys, let alone two. Besides, she had her hands tied behind her back. She had no clue as to her location, so had no idea where she would escape to. And she valued her teeth. The way ahead was to remain subservient until a better opportunity arose.
“Up the steps,” the guard ordered. He shoved her in the back. “Right now.”
Ellen climbed into the brightly lit cabin. Two sets of oversized cream leather seats faced each other. On the far left one, a balding, skinny old man in a beige suit gave her a wry smile. Closer up, she recognized him from Bowcut’s reconnaissance photos in Paris and Munoz’s portfolios of the known Foundation staff. Just like the woman in the car had said, Van Ness’ number two had been waiting for her. He didn’t appear particularly threatening or intimidating, but then again, neither did a faucet riddled with Legionnaires’ disease.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Cafferty,” Edwards said in a raspy voice.
“Are you pretending this has any scrap of civility?” she barked back at him.
Edwards peered beyond Ellen at the guard and motioned his head toward the seat opposite him. Once again, a shove propelled her forward. The guard stayed close behind; his breath warmed the nape of her neck. He removed her wrist ties and twisted her shoulders, forcing her down into the seat. Then he moved around the back of her and secured her to the seat with a thick black strap.
Ellen glanced across to Edwards, who returned a neutral expression. If the man had any emotions, she couldn’t tell. He stared back at her silently, studying the woman.
“What do you want from me? What is this all about?” she asked.
“What this is about . . .” he replied in a monotone voice.
Slowly, he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a jet-black razor-sharp creature claw. He grabbed her arm quickly, holding it down on the armrest.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“. . . is this, Mrs. Cafferty.”
He scratched the sharp tip down her arm, causing her to wince and leaving a long visible mark on her skin. Visions of her first encounter with the creatures made her swallow hard and close her eyes. That claw circling her pregnant belly, gouging her flesh, and corkscrewing down toward her unborn baby.
The jet jerked forward and picked up speed along the runway. Edwards leaned back in his seat and slipped the claw back in his jacket pocket. He didn’t make a sound. He just stared at her with the same expressionless face. On the psychopath scale, she guessed he was off the charts.
The Learjet’s wheels lifted off the runway and they powered into the night. Ellen looked out the window to avoid Edwards’ creepy stare. She felt his eyes on her the whole time it took to break through the clouds and reach a cruising altitude underneath the star-studded sky.
“But first, there’s some business to attend to,” Edwards said, picking up where he left off despite the minutes of silence. “Mr. Van Ness would like your husband in Paris.”
“Why not kidnap him, then?”
“Oh. I’m sure you’d agree that the emotional turmoil this will put him through is much more fun.” A smug smile spread across his face, the first emotion he had displayed, but it quickly dissipated. “But you already know how to put your husband through emotional turmoil.”
“Excuse me?” Ellen asked.
“You know, inserting Lucien Flament into your life was my idea. I can only imagine how seeing that French ‘reporter’ on his big day tore your husband apart inside. Still, you should thank me for providing you with a child. How is little David?”
Fire burned in Ellen’s eyes. She ignored the question and looked away.
Edwards’ spindly hand gripped the back of her head and twisted her face toward him. His expression had transformed from stoic to intense. He glared into her eyes, unflinching. “I asked you about little David.”
“Leave him out of this.”
“I’m sorry, but you and your husband brought him into this when you started your deluded pursuit of the Foundation. What did you expect would happen?”
“No,” Ellen whispered to herself as it appeared her worst fear was about to materialize. “Not David . . .”
Edwards slipped a phone out of his pants pocket. He scrolled through the camera roll to a video, hit play, and held the screen toward her face.
On-screen, Ellen’s parents pushed David’s stroller through a public park close to their home in West Virginia. He sat facing out, wearing his red fleece coverall decorated with penguins. This was part of the retired couple’s daily routine since agreeing to look after her son. Ellen had done the same walk several times.
The video continued tracking her parents. A normal-looking woman dressed in yoga pants and a vest walked by her parents, greeting them warmly as she passed. She was clearly a familiar face to them, perhaps a neighbor. As the elderly couple passed, though, the young woman abruptly turned around, no longer smiling, and silently followed them, matching their stride. The woman glanced toward the secret camera for a brief moment, then drew a pistol fixed with a long silencer and switched her aim between the backs of Ellen’s parents.
Ellen’s hands balled into fists. Little David . . . her parents . . . they had no way of knowing they were trapped in the Foundation’s web. And any reaction from her now could put them in further danger.
She held back her anger. She held back her shouts and insults.
She held back her tears.
“It does amaze me how easy it is to ingratiate yourself into people’s lives, to become their trusted confidant, their best friend, and, on rare occasion, their lover. Tell me—did you consider putting Flament’s name on David’s birth certificate?”
Once again, Ellen refused to rise to his barbed comments. But if she ever had the chance, she’d drill a bullet through this monster’s brain.
“Nothing to say?” Edwards asked.
It took all Ellen’s willpower not to tell him to go fuck himself. But she could still see the video of her parents with David. Could still see the gun pointed at them. Instead, she calmly said, “You’ve already captured me. I’m sure Tom will follow to France. So why stalk my child and parents?”
“If your husband does anything not according to our plan—and I mean anything—my team will kill your child and your family. Their deaths won’t be fast.”
Ellen bowed her head and drew in a deep breath. She had little chance to escape and even less of a chance to warn her parents about the grave danger they were in.
“Oh, there’s no need to be so upset,” Edwards said.
“You just threatened to kill my family!”
He leaned closer. “Yes, but you shouldn’t let that worry you. You see . . . you won’t be alive to see it happen.”
Chapter Fifteen
Shafts of moonlight shone through the barred window into the small, filthy cell. Reynolds sat in the corner, clutching his knees and slowly rocking back and forth. His ribs ached from the kicking the guards had given him for throwing his tray of food. His jaw did, too—that was for mouthing off. The Foundation had also turned the heat up and down at regular intervals, and the temperature was dropping again.
Others had clearly been kept here against their will before him. Someone had attempted to scrawl what looked like a phone number on the wall, but it was incomplete. Dried smears and spatters of blood betrayed the previous violence. He was kept in almost total silence, apart from the sporadic echo of distant voices. Worse was the feeling of death that hung in the air.
The image of Van Ness and the idea of his insane demands kept swirling in his mind. The deranged lunatic thought he could blackmail the United States. Reynolds figured Van Ness was smart enough to realize America would not capitulate, even with the former president’s pleading. Which made his life worthless to the Foundation.
So why am I being kept alive?
Reynolds shivered and hugged himself tighter. Ice crystals started to form on the window beyond the steel bars. His only hope lay with the CIA tracing his location and attempting a rescue. But those chances were slim, if the Foundation had indeed kept him hostage for almost a year. He didn’t doubt Van Ness’ words, though, because of his thin arms and legs, the visible ribs, and a shrunken gut where he once sported a paunch the ex-marine in him had always hated the sight of.
The silence was interrupted by the sound of multiple footsteps approaching the cell.
His refusal of food had been hours ago, and the guards had informed him that his next meal was breakfast at sunrise. His mind spun at the thought of who was approaching and why.
Reynolds groaned to a standing position and winced at the stabbing pain in his ribs. He vigorously rubbed his arms and body so he could stand tall and firm to meet whoever was coming for him.
Outside, a bolt screeched along its rail.
The door creaked open.
Two guards stood there, emotionless. One had a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. The other pointed a pistol at Reynolds’ face.
“Outside,” the one with the gun commanded. “Mr. Van Ness is waiting. If you make us late, I’ll knock your teeth out.”
“Maybe you’ll get yours knocked out if I stall,” Reynolds replied defiantly. “I’ll accept that trade.”
Another guard walked in front of the cell, armed with a cattle prod. This was the stocky South African man who had threatened the beatings earlier, then consequently delivered on his promises.
“You sure you want to test me?” the guard said ominously.
This time Reynolds decided against resisting. He headed between them, along a dark corridor. A striplight flickered overhead, momentarily brightening more cell doors on either side. Moans and wails came from several of them. Considering the Foundation had the balls to take the president of the United States, he reckoned that it had a few more blackmail prizes here. Perhaps even other foreign leaders who refused Van Ness’ demands.
The guard with the pistol walked by his side, shoving him in his back every few steps. He resisted the temptation to attack.
Whatever the consequences, so be it.
Two more guards waited by a large steel door at the end of the corridor. That made five, the most he had seen, though he had little doubt this was a much larger operation.
