Grave Vengeance (7 page)

“Well, he’s not missing anymore. I locked the fucker in the trunk.”

“You caught them?” Why hadn’t he told her before? Probably because he was too busy digging a bullet out of her body.

Dmitri frowned. “The driver got away. He ran across four lanes of traffic and disappeared into the woods. His partner, though, made the incorrect assumption that a firearm gave him the advantage.”

“What did you do to him?”

“You mean aside from locking him in the trunk?” The grin he flashed was pure evil. “I broke all five fingers on his dominant hand as well as both arms. Then I bound him with duct tape and shoved him in the trunk.”

She blinked. Blinked again. “And nobody stopped or called the police while this was all going on?”

He shrugged. “If anyone called the police, we were long gone before they arrived.”

“Jesus.” Not thinking about her injury, she reached up to scrub a hand across her face and cringed at the slash of pain. “What do you want to do with him?”

He looked at her as if the answer was obvious. “Interrogate him. What else?”

I
nterrogation. The word twisted Gwen’s stomach in knots.

The years peeled back in her troubled mind, to the days at the Pit when Dmitri was tortured. Strapped to the chair. Pumped full of drugs. Beaten and bloodied.

Unable to meet his steely gaze, she stared straight down at her shoelaces.

“If it doesn’t bother me, it shouldn’t bother you,” his deep voice rumbled from a few feet away.

She looked up at him, aghast. For a split second her vision flashed, and she saw him hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, his naked body covered in welts and his feet barely touching the floor. “How can it
not
bother you?”

“I simply refuse to acknowledge it.” There was an edge to his voice and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He could deny the truth all he wanted, but she knew better. “We have a job to do, Gwenya. Failure isn’t an option.”

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. If he could push the past aside for the sake of their mission, so could she. Gathering her courage, she tipped up her chin, squared her shoulders, and blew out a heavy exhale. “Okay. How do you want to play this? You want me to take the first shot at him, or would you rather do it?”

He rubbed one hand against the back of his neck. “Why don’t you go first? A woman playing bad cop might throw him off balance.”

Good point. Most men automatically placed the woman in the soft-touch role. And even though she hated to admit it, this was her area of expertise. All of her jobs at the Bureau had involved either protecting or extracting intelligence. “How hard do you want me to push him?”

“That’s up to you. It’s not like you have to worry about killing him.”

She mentally cringed. Another image of Dmitri bubbled up from her memory, this one from the time Williams beat him so badly he lost consciousness for a day and a half. No wonder Dmitri had killed the bastard first when he broke free.

In the name of duty she’d do as he asked, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. And she certainly didn’t want Dmitri to watch. That would be way too uncomfortable for both of them.

“All right, let’s get this over with,” she said. “Where is he?”

“Still locked in the trunk. Where do you want him?”

Quickly, she surveyed the interior of the shop. “How about that little office in the back?” Rounding the counter, she flipped on the light and peered inside. There wasn’t much to see besides an old wood desk, two mismatched chairs, and a three-drawer beige file cabinet. A calendar with bikini girls hung on the wall behind the desk, right next to a corkboard cluttered with pictures and papers. “Think you can secure him to that chair by the cabinet?”

“It shouldn’t pose a problem.”

“Good.” She glanced down at her ruined shirt. “I’ll change while you get him in place.”

In the time it took Gwen to remove her bloodied shirt and put on a clean tank top, Dmitri had hauled Tommy out of the trunk, dragged him into the office, tied him to a chair, and covered his eyes with a bandana. Her shoulder ached from the simple act of changing, and her wound had bled through the bandages. Dmitri took one look at her as he emerged from the office and shook his head.

“What?” Was her tank top on backward or inside out? She glanced down to check.

“You’re bleeding through your shirt. Come here.” He walked behind the service desk and retrieved the first aid kit. Placing the little plastic box on the counter, he pulled out the gauze and medical tape. Gently, he pushed aside the strap of her top. “Hold this.”

With a nod, she gripped the fabric with her left hand and pulled it away from the wound. Dmitri worked quickly, his touch light as he removed the old dressing and cleaned the area with an antiseptic wipe.

“I feel better knowing you’re uncomfortable with the prospect of interrogating Cooper,” he said without looking at her. There was a hint of warmth in his voice that let her know he was being sincere. He placed a fresh bandage over the wound and secured it with a few pieces of medical tape.

“What kind of person would I be if I enjoyed this?”

“The kind I was expecting.” He met her gaze, and something flickered in his eyes that she couldn’t quite identify. Before she figured out what it was, he turned his head and cleared his throat. “Limit your movements with this arm for the next hour or so. Otherwise, it’ll take longer to heal.”

“Okay.” With her good arm, she reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Several moments passed while he stared down at her, his eyes hard and uncompromising, but not without compassion. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Yeah.” The casual lie rolled off her tongue. The injury and the alcohol had left her shaky, but she refused to admit weakness to Dmitri. “Anything in particular you want me to ask?”

He shook his head. “Just find out what Ziegler’s up to.” Rounding the counter, he put the remaining supplies back in the first aid kit and put the kit away. “Hold on, there is one thing.” He dug a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I found this when I searched his wallet.”

Gwen unfolded the sheet to find a picture of what appeared to be a circular stone artifact. The surface looked polished but the edges were rough, with a series of etchings covering every square inch. Holding the paper closer, she studied the intricate markings. A vague sense of familiarity swept over her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Egyptian? Sumerian? Honestly, she had no idea. It was going to drive her crazy until she figured it out.

Or until she ripped the answer from Tommy.

She folded the paper and shoved it in her pocket with a renewed sense of determination. “I’ll find out what he knows.”

“Anything you need?”

“Just my bag.” Normally, she’d carry it herself, but the injury to her shoulder made that impractical. “I left it in the bathroom. Could you move it to the desk for me?”

“Not a problem.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said as he started to leave.

“Name it.”

Averting her gaze, she stared at the wall above his head. “I . . . I can’t have you in there while I’m doing this. It’s . . . well . . . you know . . . too weird, I guess.”

What looked like relief flashed over him and disappeared just as quickly. “As you wish.” He grabbed her bag and placed it in the room. When he came out, he asked, “How will I know if you need me?”

“Is there any chance he’ll get loose?”

He looked insulted that she’d considered the possibility. “No.”

“In that case, I won’t need you.”

He arched a brow. “And how will I know when he’s ready to talk?”

She caught his gaze and held it. “Trust me, you’ll know.”

Turning her back, she stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her. More than half a century had passed since she’d last questioned a prisoner. A sliver of self-doubt crept into her thoughts, unsure of her ability after so many years. What if this was one of those “use it or lose it” kind of skills? Ruthlessly, she brushed the uncertainty aside. One way or another, she wasn’t giving up until Tommy talked.

At the far end of the room in front of the file cabinet, Tommy sat bound to the chair. His arms and legs were secured with plastic zip ties. All the fingers on his right hand were bent at odd angles, as were both forearms a few inches above his wrists. A blue bandana covered his eyes, while the rest of his face was covered with bruises.

For a long moment, it was 1962, and she saw Dmitri bound to the chair. He was staring at her with a look of such hatred it chilled her down to the bone. She shook her head as she squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, her mind was back in the present.

Tommy’s head turned toward the sound of her footsteps. Tugging at the ties that bound him to the chair, he shouted, “Who’s there?”

Gwen took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
You can do this.
After putting on her best poker face, she whipped the covering away from his eyes and tossed it on the desk. His eyes squinted against the glare of the light, a look of surprise crossing over him when she came into focus. Clearly, he’d expected Dmitri to provide tonight’s entertainment.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she said. “We worked in the same unit for about a year back in the eighties before I got transferred to Chicago.” She stood before him, her arms folded across her chest. “But in case you forgot, my name’s Gwen. I’ll be your interrogator for the evening.”

Tommy looked her up and down and dismissed her just as quickly. “I’m not telling you shit.”

“Yeah, that’s what most folks say before they get to know me.” She walked a tight circle around him, checking the restraints on his wrists and ankles. Dmitri had been liberal with the zip ties. No way was this guy going anywhere. “Ask them later, and they usually have a different attitude.”

“Whatever.” Tommy sounded bored, but his hands continued to tug against the bindings. “He’ll find me, you know. And when he does, you’ll pay for this.”

“Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes.” With her left hand, Gwen unzipped her bag and rooted around until she found the small knife she kept tucked in one of the inner pockets. The blade was short—less than four inches—but would serve its intended purpose. “While we’re waiting around for my imminent doom, why don’t you tell me where I can find Patrick?”

Tommy let out a snort of laughter. “He’s up my ass. Want to take a look?”

“Maybe later.” She unfolded the blade as she stepped toward him, her expression purposefully blank. “But first you’re going to answer my questions.”

“Or what?” The bastard had the balls to smirk.

Despite the preferences of the boys at the Pit, she preferred to avoid physical coercion as a means of extracting secrets. In her experience, she achieved far greater success playing the role of good cop, cultivating a subject’s trust in order to obtain the most accurate information.

But soft interrogation required time and patience, and she lacked the luxury of either. Samuel expected results, and he expected them immediately.

Steeling her resolve, she grabbed the bandana and jammed it in Tommy’s mouth. “You remember my partner, the big, angry Russian guy who broke your arms and fingers? Well, he agreed to stay outside until he heard the first scream.” With a maniacal grin, she leaned in close and spoke softly. “I can’t have him interrupting our fun because you decide to squeal like a little pig.”

Tommy’s eyes widened. He said something that sounded kind of angry, but the words were garbled through the gag.

“I’ve always been curious about the limits of immortality,” she said conversationally as she stepped back and cleaned her nails with the tip of the blade. “I know a few reapers who’ve been banged up more times than Wile E. Coyote.” She gestured with the knife toward her own injury. “Get shot, and the wound repairs in a matter of hours. Break a hand, and the bones knit back together. But if we lose a limb, it doesn’t grow back. And you know, that makes me wonder just how far the healing process goes.”

Kneeling down beside the chair, Gwen unlaced his running shoes. She took her time removing his shoes and socks, dragging out the moment for as long as humanly possible.

“Ah, much better.” She smiled. “Shall we begin?”

He screamed through the gag.

“Oh, stop being such a big baby. It’s not like I’m taking off your fingers. Well, at least not yet.” Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized his bare feet. Everything hinged on him believing she’d actually follow through with the threat. “Losing a few toes might mess up your balance, but I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly enough. Although now I’m wondering if your toes would reattach under the proper conditions. I guess we have ten tries to figure it out, right?”

Tommy blanched. Eyes as wide and round as saucers, he struggled against the restraints.

“You’re only going to wear yourself out. Dmitri put a lot of time and effort into making sure you were nice and secure. Now quit squirming around so I can get to work.” Inside, her heart was pounding a mile a minute, but she forced her face to remain placid. She grabbed the big toe on his right foot and pressed the edge of the blade along the joint.

“Mmm! Mmph!” Sweat beaded across Tommy’s forehead. His chest heaved and his nostrils flared, and for a moment she thought he was going to cry.

“Oh, what now?” She shot him an exasperated look. “If I take this off, you’re just going to scream.”

“Mmm!” Tommy shook his head violently from side to side.

“Promise?”

He nodded like a bobblehead.

Gwen looked him over as she stroked her chin with her thumb and forefinger. “Well, okay. But if you scream, I’ll start with your fingers instead.”

She yanked the bandana from his mouth and tossed it on top of his shoes.

Free of the gag, he sucked in a gulp of air. “You crazy fucking bitch!”

Now it was Gwen’s turn to give a bored look. “You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me something useful before we go back to playing ‘This Little Piggy.’ ”

If looks could kill she’d be six feet under.

She checked her watch. “Twenty-five seconds.”

When the seconds ticked down to ten, she bent to pick up the bandana.

“No!” he shouted, the fear thick in his voice. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk!”

Not letting go of the gag, Gwen leaned a hip against the desk. “I’m listening,” she said. “Better make it worth my while.”

Tommy gave one final tug at the restraints before turning his attention back to Gwen. “Patrick’s creating a new order of reapers,” he snarled. “Ones who refuse to follow Fate’s commands like a dog.”

She tilted her head a little to one side. “Like me?”

“Yeah, like you.” The fervor in his voice reminded her of a preacher at a roadside revival. “The Righteous will grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Together, we’ll act as the hand of God to strike down the sinners and purge the filth from this world.”