In the Teeth of the Wind (29 page)

"We have the woman," Luis told Victor. He swung his insane gaze to Conor. "I told them not to hurt

her." A vicious smile stretched his thin lips. "I wanted to reserve that privilege for myself after I'v fucked

her."

Danny Keane stared intently at Conor. Conor Nolan didn't make a sound. Though gagged as the rest

of them were, Mick Sullivan did, grunting his anger at their captors and thrashing about in his restraints.

Quinterras strolled to Conor and looked up into the Irishman's granite-hard face. "Is she a good lay,

Coni?" Jamie lifted his head. He stared through blurred vision at Conor.

Conor's attention was riveted on Quinterras. There was such deadly intent in the look, such unbridled

rage, there might well have been flashes of fire sparking from his dark eyes.

"Oh, that's right, you don't know, do you? You've never had her, have you?" Quinterras chuckled. "I'll

let you know what it's like, eh?" At Conor's low growl, his nemesis grinned. "You'd like to kill me,

wouldn't you, Coni?" Quinterras glanced around at his men, expecting them to join in the mirth. When

they did, the Colombian grew bold and reached up to strip the tape from Conor's lips and removed the

greasy rag that had been stuffed into his mouth. "You want to say something,
amigo?
"

Conor compressed his lips and his gaze grew more heated as the Colombian stepped even closer. His

breathing was shallow and quick, audible over the return of the rain coming down on the roof.

"Aren't you going to curse at me, Coni?" Quinterras taunted. "Threaten me?"

"I think the cat's got his tongue!" one of Quinterras's men joked.

"I would have at least expected a vulgarity flung at my head," Quinterras admonished his prisoner.

"Not this tight-jawed silence."

Mick Sullivan smiled beneath his gag; Danny Keane rolled his eyes; Jamie Cullen snorted. "Do it,"

Tim-Pat silently encouraged Conor, knowing instinctively what his friend intended.

Quinterras looked around at his men. "I think he's afraid to say anything to me!" He turned back to

Conor. "Is that it, Coni? Are you…?"

Conor spat in the Colombian's face, the spittle hitting the man squarely between the eyes. His own

eyes flared with satisfaction as Quinterras stumbled away from the insult and wiped at the gob running

down his nose.

"Go to hell, you worthless bastard," Jamie heard Conor croak. "None of us are afraid of a spineless

prick like you!"

"_Hurt him!_" Quinterras thundered as he scrubbed at his fouled flesh. "_Beat the hell out of him!_"

There was nothing any of them could do, Danny thought miserably as Conor's boyhood friends were

forced to watch him beaten into unconsciousness. The black man's heavy fists buried themselves time and

time again into Conor's defenseless belly, into his kidneys and groin. Through clenched teeth, the

smothered grunts of pain that Conor tried to stifle were evidence of Nolan's attempt to shield the others

from knowing the extent of his pain.

The Colombian turned his glare on the other prisoners, smug in his position of power, reveling in the

helplessness of Nolan's friends to come to his aid. Keane was crying. Sullivan stared stonily at the scene

unfolding in front of him. Collins squeezed his eyes closed and Cullen looked down at the floor.

"Don't kill him" Quinterras ordered as Conor hung limp from the pulley.

Victor caught himself in mid-hit and lowered his arm. He shook his right hand, glanced down at his

bruised knuckles, then turned away, grinning. "I felt something give inside him on that last hit."

A keening sound of despair came from Danny at the remark.

"What are you worried about, Danny?" Luis Quinterras asked. "He's going to die, anyway! You all

are!"

Jamie pulled his gaze from the floor and let it settle on Conor's unconscious form. Already the deep,

punishing bruises were forming on Nolan's stomach and sides. He looked away, unable to bear the sight.

_Hurry, Rhianna. _He forced himself to look at the floor lest the others see the hope on his face. _Hurry

before it's too late. _

****

"They're on I-eighty heading east," Donne said as he kept close watch on the DEA's tracking monitor.

Beside him in the three-quarter ton paneled truck used for undercover surveillance, Samuel followed

along on a map, plotting the progress with a red felt-tipped marker.

"Is the signal clear?" Boucharde demanded from the front seat.

"As a bell," acknowledged Donne.

Trip sat off to one side, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth tight with a grimace. He hadn't said

one word since interrogating Corbettson with Cortesio.

"Where's the SWAT team van, now?" Darlington asked Jason Fullick, who was driving. The Captain

had insisted upon coming along although the cramped interior of the truck was making him

claustrophobic.

"Back about a mile. That's their headlights you see behind us."

Darlington was tense, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. "What if they find those tracking

devices on Marek?"

Boucharde glanced at him. "We aren't going to lose them, Captain." He settled in the seat and stared

out the windshield. The rain was coming down again in a light sheet that slid over the glass and obscured

the distant red glow of the kidnapper's taillights.

Forty minutes passed in near silence inside the truck.

The combined heat of eight men's damp bodies was beginning to make the ride uncomfortable. The air

conditioner had chosen that night to run out of refrigerant.

"They're getting off at the Kellogg-Sully exit," Donne reported.

Fullick picked up the radio and keyed the mike. "They are turning off at the next exit." He eased off

the accelerator.

"Copy," came the response from the SWAT team conversion van a quarter mile back.

"They're turning right toward Sully," Donne said.

Boucharde leaned toward the windshield. He made note of the highway sign marking the turnoff.

"What's out this way?"

"Farms," Fullick answered. "Lots and lots of farms." He keyed the mike again. "Turning right."

"Copy."

Silence reined once more within the surveillance truck. Only Cortesio's occasional sniffing and the low

beep of the tracking monitor broke the quiet.

"They're turning again," Donne called out.

"Gravel road," Samuel provided from the map.

"Oh, swell." Fullick sighed.

"According to the plot map, there are about six or seven low-priority maintained roads off that one."

Samuel looked closer at the squiggly lines on the map. "Looks like there are two or three farms out that

way, too."

"Turning again. Sharp right."

"Go on past," Boucharde ordered. "We don't want them to see us."

"They're making a hard left," Donne told everyone. "Where the hell are they going? The middle of

nowhere?"

"There is an abandoned farm on that side of the road, about two-tenths of a mile in," Samuel said,

looking up from the plot map of Jasper county. His voice was thick with tension.

"Porridge is getting warm, Papa Bear," Fullick advised the SWAT team. "Turn in and hold your

position about a quarter of a mile up the gravel."

"Coming in to eat," said the SWAT team commander, chuckling. "Where's the cottage?"

"First yellow brick road on your right," Fullick informed him. "See it?"

"Sure do."

"They're not moving," Donne called out excitedly. He looked past Samuel. "They've stopped."

****

Rhianna shied away from the moist hands that reached out to drag her up from the van's floor. She

kicked at her abductors, gritting her teeth as they laughed at her paltry attempt to elude them, and felt one

man's heavy hand grip her left breast in a cruel clutch that brought a moan from behind her gag.

"Nice tits, baby," the man cooed to her as his hand slid across her chest to grasp her right breast with

the same intensity.

They dragged her - bucking and twisting between them - out of the van. The rain was increasing and

overhead a flare of lightning lit up the countryside as they hurried her over the squelching mud beneath

their feet. From the air, came the drone of a helicopter's rotors, then a solid rumble of thunder.

Rhianna struggled to get away and managed to give one of her captors a vicious kick.

"Quit kicking me, bitch!" the man growled and his hand tightened painfully around her upper arm. His

other hand came up to connect with her cheek, snapping her head back.

"Don't damage the merchandise," came an amused voice from the barn door. "Not yet, anyway."

They were all there, she realized when she was brought into the lantern light: Conor, Jamie, Danny,

Mick, and one who must be Tim-Pat. They were all hanging by their wrists from a thick sturdy beam.

Conor's head was down, his upper torso dotted with dark bruises. She didn't have to be told he was

unconscious nor did she have to wonder about the identity of the dark, swarthy man who gripped her

chin in a firm hold.

"Hello, Rhee," he said and his gaze moved with obvious admiration over her face. His thumb caressed

her jaw. "The photographs did not do you justice."

Rhianna tried to jerk her chin from his grip, but he would not allow it. Her eyes flashing hatred, she

glared at him.

"I may not kill you after all," she heard Quinterras say. "It would be a waste of loveliness to do so.

There are men in the Middle East who would pay a king's ransom to have you entertain them."

Mick Sullivan growled and strained against the ropes. He cursed through the constriction of his rag

only to be slammed in the stomach with the butt of a rifle.

"See how gallantly you are defended from my advances?" Quinterras chuckled. "But ask yourself, are

they protecting you or Coni?"

Jamie clenched his jaw as Quinterras's hand moved from Rhianna's face to stroke her neck. He cast a

glance at Conor but the man was still out, his wet hair obscuring his battered face.

Wishing her mouth was free so she could spit in the Colombian's face, Rhianna struck out with her

foot, her intent to land a crippling blow to the Colombian's groin, but her captors jerked her back, having

anticipated her act.

Quinterras laughed. "Oh, I like that in a woman, Rhee," he chortled. "Fire and ice. Quite a

combination!"

From across the room, Conor groaned and struggled to lift his head, but the effort was too much and

his head fell to his chest again.

"Here, let me help you, Coni," Quinterras said. He went to his enemy and grabbed a handful of the

Irishman's dark hair. Yanking Conor's head back, the Colombian pointed toward Rhianna. "Look who's

here, Coni!"

Conor blinked, trying to focus, and when he saw Rhianna, his heart did a mighty lurch in his chest and

he couldn't stop the moan of hopelessness.

"Now, we can begin!" Quinterras told him. Still keeping a tight hold on Conor's hair, he looked about

him. "But who first?"

Danny's testicles tightened as the Colombian's gaze fell on him. He drew in a quick breath and held it,

only releasing it - along with a tiny spurt of urine - when that Latino gaze slid over him and moved on to

Tim-Pat.

"You were always the liar, weren't you, Collins?" Quinterras snorted. "The one who was always better

than everyone else, huh?"

Quinterras reached into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out a stiletto switchblade. The blade

flipped open with a lethal sounding snick and glinted sharply in the glow from the lanterns scattered

around the barn. "Will you die better than everyone else?"

Timothy Patrick Collins shuddered, but he maintained eye contact with the man walking toward him.

He felt the concern of his friends and lifted his head.

"Ah, a brave man," the black man chuckled. "How I love brave men."

"This is between you and me," Conor called out hoarsely. "Leave the others out of it, Luis."

The Colombian looked back at him. "No, this is something you were all involved in, Coni. Each and

every one of you did your best to make my life at the academy a living hell. Now, I'm going to send you

to a hell of my own creation!"

"You made your own life hell, Quinterras," Conor said. "You never tried to fit in." It was all he could

do to hold his head up, striving not to look at Rhianna, knowing his courage would desert him if he did.

"Fit in?" the Colombian scoffed. "Fit in how, Nolan?" He turned away from Collins and went to the

man he hated the most. Pressing the tip of the stiletto against the underside of the Irishman's chin, he dug

the blade into the tender flesh just enough to start a trickle of blood down Conor's throat. "I was

somebody! You bastards were nothing! What was I to fit into?"

Rhianna bucked against her captors, the sight of Conor's blood infuriating her. Her struggles brought

the Colombian's head around and she gasped as he hurried to her, his face filled with an unholy light.

"I could fit into this!" Quinterras shouted reaching out to grab her savagely between the legs. His head

snapped around and he locked glares with the Irishman. "And that is exactly what I am going to do!"

Conor's lips skinned back from his clenched teeth. His eyes flared wide with rage. He twisted against

the ropes holding him, his snarls of fury like those of a demented man_. _"_Leave her alone!_" he

thundered, his face turning red. "_Get your filthy hands off her!_"

Quinterras snagged his fingers in Rhianna's blouse and ripped the garment down the front. The sound

of tearing fabric was like a red-hot iron thrust against Conor's flesh and he bellowed in outrage, his body