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Since she’d set the security alarm when she’d walked into the apartment, it was apparent that her visitors were also professionals. Her alarm system was state-of-the-art. They obviously knew what they were doing.
But so did she. Not only had she been trained by the best, she had been doing mixed martial arts for over half her life. She knew how to take care of herself, and she knew how to turn a surprise attack around.
Total darkness surrounded her, but she knew every inch of the apartment, had committed every squeak in the floor and every creak of a door to memory. Having been hunted for a good part of her adult life had given her the impetus of preparedness.
They were in the living room, skulking toward the bedroom. Four of them. Their footsteps might sound silent to them but not to her. They were moving swiftly, which told her they were wearing night-vision goggles. She judged each one weighed a good one eighty to two twenty.
Four men would be a challenge even for her. Her best bet was to attack first—getting them off their game was a must.
With her back nestled in the corner of the hallway, she waited. Her heart raced, her adrenaline pumped. The instant they entered the bedroom, she flipped the light switch. Curses flew, and so did she. Striking the closest one, she went for a double punch—face and gut—followed by another kick to the gut. A hand tugged at her shoulder, and she whirled, punched, and kicked. He barely grunted and returned her assault with a slug to her jaw. She heard her gun fall and skitter across the hardwood floor. Seeing stars from the blow, she barely registered the pain as she came back at him full force, kicking and punching. She knew she was losing, but she wasn’t going to go down without causing some major pain.
The approach of the third attacker barely registered. She turned to confront the new threat but stopped short when a searing pain electrified her entire body. A small part of her brain recognized she’d been tasered, but doing anything other than riding out the pain was impossible. Her entire body was not her own for several agonizing seconds.
Large, rough hands picked her up, and she fought with all her might to make her limbs move. They were taking her somewhere. The very idea that she was being abducted was stunning. This was something she had been prepared for, and part of her brain was infuriated at her inability to fight back. Another part of her brain analyzed her chances of survival. She had to hold her ground here. She could not leave this apartment with them.
Her muscles still stunned with immobility, she ground her teeth until her jaws ached as she managed to throw up a fist and make contact with one of the men carrying her. She heard a grunt, but there was no stopping their progress.
Surprising her, they didn’t carry her out the door but stopped in the kitchen. She heard a chair being pulled out from her kitchen table. One of the men pushed her down to sit, while another held her body still. Her hands and then her feet were tied to the chair, and a slab of duct tape covered her mouth.
Her eyes spitting fire, she looked up at her tormentors. Their faces were covered with ski masks, so their intention wasn’t to kill. She, however, wanted to see their faces. Because she did intend to kill.
One of them, the most slender of the four, squatted in front of her. Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes were gleaming with what looked like amusement. The tone of his voice confirmed this. “I was told you were a wild hellcat. I am pleased that the intel was accurate.”
His accent was Albanian, northern province. Elite education in the US or possibly England. Age between thirty-five and forty-five. She had a master’s degree in linguistics and over a decade of real-world experience in parsing the nuances in speech patterns.
“I’m sure you are wondering why we are here. However, as we are short on time and our needs override yours, I will be brief. You are Olivia Gates. Your aliases are Sonia Gomesky, Daniela Rostov…”
As she listened to the list of aliases she’d used in the past, she learned something intriguing. She hadn’t used any of those in years. They were over a decade old—some older. Sonia had been her first alias. When he stopped at six, she learned something else. He knew nothing about her current work. This was all related to her former job—her former life.
“You see, we know who you worked for and what you did. What we don’t know are the names of your assets. That’s what you’re going to tell us.”
Now she was even more confused. Those assets were either long dead or out of the spy business. Why would they be important after all this time?
“I can see your confusion, and while I would love to sit and chat about the why of things, I’m afraid there just isn’t time.”
Ripping the tape from her mouth, he said softly, “Speak, and then we’ll be gone.”
Old intel or not, there was no way she would give these bastards any information. Her eyes cold, she stared straight ahead.
The man released a sigh and then swung the back of his hand across her face. As punches went, it wasn’t particularly hard, but it hurt like hell. She’d definitely have bruising, but nothing was broken yet.
“That was a mild taste of what you can expect if you continue to be noncompliant. Again, I ask you, what were the names of your assets when you worked for the British government?”
Remaining silent was an effort, as she wanted to turn the tables and ask some questions of her own. What did these people know? Were they Nic’s killers? Adrenaline surged through her at the fantasy of loosening her bonds and finding out the truth.
Another slug came… This time much harder. Her eyes watered, and blood filled her mouth. Might’ve loosened some teeth with that one.
“Speak!” the man shouted.
Instead of speaking, she gathered bloody saliva and spat it at him. Blood covered the man’s ski mask. A roar of outrage followed, and then new agony began as fists came at her left and right. Disassociating oneself from pain was a learned skill—one that required constant honing. She hadn’t practiced lately, and it was showing.
“Stop!” a man barked.
The blows ceased, but the pain continued. Bruised ribs, maybe a dislocated jaw.
“She isn’t going to talk without incentive,” someone said.
Through bleary, watery eyes, she watched one of the men open a black bag and remove a needle filled with liquid.
