Sleeping With Danger

It was almost dawn and she couldn’t get caught outside the periphery. Melita picked up her pace and crested the rocky knoll. She heard the sea rushing the rugged shoreline, and up ahead she could see Minare. The monastery’s tall tower in the moonlight.

The first guard she slipped past was dozing against a rock. The second, too busy taking a leak off the rampart to notice her. Number three had left his post altogether.

She moved through the flower garden, almost home free. Ten feet from the back door she saw a shadowy figure step onto the stone path. At first she thought it was Hector, but her bodyguard—and more importantly, her friend—was supposed to be inside keeping watch over the long corridor that she had to slip past to reach the stairs that would take her back to her bedroom in the tower.

She was about to softly speak his name into the darkness when the shadow revealed himself. “Restless again tonight, Melita?”

The heavily accented voice stopped her dead in her tracks. It was her father’s houseguest, Holic Reznik.

He sauntered toward her with the grace of a stalking panther. He was smoking a cigarette, and he held it awkwardly in his disfigured hand a few inches from his lips. Both hands had been damaged in a shoot-out he’d been engaged in months ago. Holic was an assassin, and the maiming had been the result of a scrimmage with two government agents. It had cost him two fingers on his right hand, and the thumb on the left, as well as extensive nerve damage.

For a number of weeks she had watched him from afar, wondering why the assassin had arrived and decided to stay. At the moment that question didn’t seem as important as the one affecting her breathing right now. Did he know where she’d been tonight? If so, did he know that her trips to the village were forbidden?

“I asked you a question, Melita. Restless?”

“I like taking walks before dawn,” she said. “It’s the quietest time of day.”

His lips curled around the cigarette, sucked hard, then sent a cloud of smoke into the warm island air. “I rise early myself, but for a different reason. My hands pain me. They keep me up at all hours.”

His Russian accent was colored with a sharp German influence. Sharp like his unnatural eyes, set deep into his sockets. Even though his dark complexion and masculine features would easily attract women, when Melita looked at him all she saw were his eyes—black soulless eyes…the eyes of a killer.

On the other hand, when he looked at her, she got the feeling he was stripping her naked one piece of clothing at a time.

Holic was in his early forties, not overly tall, with short, thick black hair in its early stages of growing out.

Hector had warned her that Holic was a randy womanizer, and that she should avoid him. That was just what she intended to do.

Melita forced herself to take two more steps. “I need to get inside.”

“Before a guard spots you and reports it to your father?”

That wasn’t going to happen if she could get inside in the next five minutes. She’d learned the guards’ routine. Names, schedules and who took their job seriously. She knew which guard drank too much, who snuck off to the kitchen for a late-night snack and who couldn’t keep his eyes open past midnight.

She’d planned her trips accordingly, and for several weeks she’d been able to slip away and return without anyone the wiser.

Until tonight.

“I’m not forbidden to take walks,” she challenged.

“An extremely long walk tonight,” he offered.

“Have you been following me?”

“Of course. A man seeking an advantage does what he must. You are persistent. A commendable quality. But the villagers will not help you escape your life here.”

“I have no life here.”

“Perhaps I can make it more meaningful.”

Spoken like a man who thought he had the miracle cure for what ailed every woman.

“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked, wondering just how close a friend he was to her father, or if it was strictly business.

“You’re being punished for bad judgment. I’m in agreement. Taking a common guard as your lover was in poor taste.”

He relaxed his stance, his confidence overflowing. His open white shirt revealed that he shaved his chest, and the painfully tight fit of his jeans confirmed that his miracle cure for what ailed a woman, ailed him more. She was surprised that he could walk in such a state.

“The villagers are too frightened of what will happen to them if they show you any mercy. As they should be. There would be no leniency for the fool who helped the Chameleon’s daughter escape him. But perhaps I know of a way you could regain your freedom.”

He smiled, then reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of one of his disfigured hands.

Even though his hands were an obvious handicap to him, she’d seen him out on the target range every day. He was still a superb marksman. Speed was perhaps the only flaw in his execution.

When he began to trail his fingers down her neck she pulled away. “I believe your…way of helping me would only serve you. I suspect that’s why you haven’t told my father about my late-night walks?”

“I see no reason to alarm him about something that isn’t going to happen. Well, at least not without my help.”

“So if I share your bed, you’re prepared to forget you saw me this morning, is that it?”

“I’m prepared to forget it, and give you a future elsewhere.”

“My father would kill you if he knew what you’re suggesting.”

“No doubt, he would. Your lover suffered an agonizing death. Did he scream much? I was told your father made you watch.”

Melita refused to let his cruel words rattle her. She was used to her father using Nemo’s violent death as a tool to control her.

“You’re wasting your time if you think you can blackmail me into your room after midnight.”

“One night would never be enough.” He glanced at her bare feet. “I’m curious if this rebellious spirit follows you into the bedroom, or if last year you were the victim of a silver-tongued playboy when you surrendered and lifted your skirt for Nemo.”

He was a bold bastard, and Melita met his boldness with a bit of her own. “Which are you hoping for? Do you like victims or rebellious bitches?”

He laughed. “You are delightful, sweet Melita. What I hope for is a chance to find out. Do me a favor, and I will do you one.”

“I think I’ll stay in my prison.” She tried to walk past him but he blocked her exit.

“Don’t dismiss my offer too quickly. Your lover is dead. Your father owns every breath you take. Have you forgotten what freedom feels like?”

“The question is would I be free?”

“If I decide to talk to Cyrus, it won’t go well for you. You’ve been slipping out at night for weeks, trying to persuade a fisherman at the village to sail you off the island.”

“Go to my father and tell him your tale. But before you do know that my story will be quite different. I didn’t go to the village tonight, nor have I ever.”

She tried to go around him again, but this time he grabbed her arm, his grip so tight it would surely leave a bruise. He tossed his cigarette to the ground, pushed her against the stone face of the monastery and trapped her there.

“Taming you will be my pleasure, and it will happen soon. I will have you. A little preview of what it will be like, hmm…”

He smelled of tobacco and whiskey, and she thought perhaps it was the whiskey that had prompted such crazy talk. But it wasn’t just talk. Suddenly he tangled his fingers in her long black hair and jerked her head back. His free hand flattened out on her belly and he moved it slowly upward over her left breast. Squeezed.

“Very nice. More than I expected.” A second later his hand was around her neck, squeezing until she couldn’t swallow. “Hear me, Melita, you and I will party soon, and I promise you that you will enjoy yourself. I know I will.”

Melita closed her eyes as his lips crushed hers in a cruel kiss, and then he was grinding his body against her.

He forced his tongue down her throat and he raped her mouth with a promise of what was to come later. He was disgusting and vile, and the taste of him made her want to gag, then it made her want to scream.

Where was Hector? She was off schedule now. He should be checking his watch and starting to worry about her.

Desperate, Melita slipped her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the little bell she carried with her to call the goats that roamed the island, and to signal Hector in case she ran into trouble. Pulling it from the folds of her skirt, she rang it.

It was a gentle bell that could be missed in a windstorm, but tonight the breeze was but a whisper, the night as quiet as a graveyard. If Hector was nearby he would hear.

Holic’s mouth slackened and he pulled back as the bell registered somewhere inside his lust-crazed head.

When he let go of her neck, Melita sucked air into her lungs, the rush making her almost dizzy. She whispered this time when she spoke, her throat raw and bruised from his abuse. “Hector will be here within seconds. How do you want to die?”

He stepped back from her. “You have him trained well. I wonder if your father knows that your bodyguard’s loyalty is in question. I think it’s time your watchdog learned who pays his salary.”

He left her then, slipping into the darkness just as Hector appeared. Angry and scared, Melita rubbed her neck as she took her frustrations out on him. “Where have you been?”

“Following your instructions.”

“But I’m late.”

“Does that mean you had some luck tonight?”

Six feet, six inches, Hector dwarfed her, but he would never be as frightening as Holic Reznik. He was a gentle giant with none of the qualities it took to be a ruthless guard in her father’s camp, or an assassin for hire.

“No, I had no luck. No one in the village will help me. It’s a lost cause.”

“Why did you ring the bell?”

“Holic Reznik saw me. He knows I’ve been to the village. And he knows why. He…” She stopped before she spilled the rest of what had transpired between them. Hector wasn’t violent, but he was protective of her. She didn’t want him doing something stupid.

“I’m afraid he intends to tell my father,” she confessed.

“I’ll deny it. I’ll say your early-morning walk was to pick flowers and visit the goats. That I was with you the entire time.”

She slipped the bell back into her pocket. “The question is, who will my father believe?”

“You picked flowers and played with the goats. That is our story. Stick to it. Now go inside, and get that frightened look off your face or he’ll read the truth the minute he sees you.”

Melita looked up into Hector’s kind face. How he had come to be in her father’s employment she didn’t know, but he didn’t belong here any more than she did.

She glanced around, spied the lavender growing in the garden and plucked a handful, then hurried inside.

Sully scratched another mark into the leg of the wooden table with his fingernail. He’d been on the platform thirty-six days. Still shackled like an animal, he’d put on weight and started to regain his strength. It was due to three meals a day, and Argo’s determination to return him to the man he used to be. The question was why.

Physically he was winning the fight, but emotionally he was raw and heartsick. He was surrounded by pain and misery, his dying audience a constant reminder that he had become their enemy.

Argo was right, they hated him now. If he was tossed into the cage with them they would rip him apart and feast on his remains.

Like he did each evening after supper, he washed at the sink, then went to bed early. Lying on his back staring at the dark ceiling, he was constantly aware of the men ten feet away. Eyes closed, he could still see their skeleton faces and misshapen bodies—bodies that continued to grow weaker as his grew stronger.

He’d planned to share his food with them. How would anyone know? But they would know, Argo told him, pointing to a camera on the wall. If he tried to toss food to anyone, they would be taken out and killed.

The men haunted him day and night. His nightmares were his reality—and sometimes he would startle and realize his own cries had awakened him.

He jerked awake now, but this time it wasn’t due to the men moaning, or a nightmare. He angled his head and listened, picked up the sound of heavy footsteps moving down the corridor.

When the light came on, he swung his legs off the bed, the chain around his ankle rattling on the concrete.

Argo entered the dungeon. He pulled a key from his pocket and stepped up on the platform. “It’s time,” he said, then unlocked the manacles on Sully’s ankle.

“Time for what?”

“Your taxi just arrived.”

Sully didn’t get up.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to miss us here?”

That would depend on where Argo was taking him, Sully thought. For the past month he’d felt like a cow being fattened for slaughter. He was no longer hungry every hour of the day, or crawling with parasites. But there was no comfort in it.

Argo slid his gun off his shoulder and aimed it at his chest. “Get up.”

Sully eyed the weapon as he stood. He recognized the make. It was a Czech Skorpion M-84. The design had been deferred, then later buried altogether. At least that was the story.

Now who could be manufacturing bad-boy Skorpions?

It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. The Chameleon was involved in everything from contraband to global anarchy.

“Let’s go. Take it nice and careful, pretty boy. You wouldn’t want my finger to slip on this trigger.”

Sully stepped off the concrete platform, then stopped to glance one last time at the circle of men huddled naked and hungry in their iron death trap.

Three men had died last week.

He searched out Roth Erwin and found him lying on his side with his knees curled up into his chest. He hadn’t moved from that spot in two days. Sully looked for some sign of life. Suddenly, as if Roth could feel his eyes on him, he opened his, then Argo nudged Sully in the ribs with the M-84.

“Move out.”

Sully left the dungeon and walked down the corridor. Weeks ago he’d been worried about his legs collapsing beneath him, but tonight there was no fear of that.

He hadn’t been outside in a month, so when he stepped into the moonlight he embraced the warm night breeze on his face. He took a long, deep breath—the clean air better than the best sex he could remember.

Again Argo nudged him with the gun barrel. “Head for the dock.”

Barefoot, Sully followed the uneven path that went up a rocky knoll. When he reached the craggy summit, he spotted a cruiser riding the water a hundred yards offshore. The sleek cigar boat was a badass smoker that no doubt had enough horsepower to outrun anything on the water. Its lines were similar to the Halmatic VSV used by the British for seaborne covert insertions, and the American Rigid Raider interceptor. It also resembled his own cigar boat that he’d used when he was a gunrunner in Ireland.

A small fishing boat was waiting at the end of the dock, Pedro seated in the stern. He climbed in and sat down on the middle seat. Argo covered the bench across from him in the bow.

The M-84 still pointed at him, Argo said, “The boss man wants you alive, but accidents happen. Stupidity could get you killed tonight, pretty boy.”

Sully had no intentions of making a stupid move. Not with a gun aimed at his chest and nowhere to run. He was a good swimmer, but his endurance was questionable. He’d survived too long in hell to throw it away on a futile escape attempt.

Argo would pick him out of the water like a rubber duck floating in a carnival pond.

Pedro sent the boat out to sea and headed for the cigar boat. Once Sully was handed over to the crew, his wrists were cuffed and his ankles were shackled. In irons once again, he was shoved into a seat and locked down, and then the cruiser took off, skimming fast and furious over the water.

The four-man crew were armed with Czech Skorpions, and yet they were dressed like fishermen.

Sully kept his ears open, and his eyes out to sea. He had traveled the Greek Isles over the years, and although he couldn’t speak the language fluently, he could speak some and had no trouble understanding the men’s conversation on the boat.

Before long one of the rebels had unwittingly provided him with their destination. Despotiko was a small island that sat southwest of Paros and east of Sifnos. That meant they were headed north.

Sully glanced back at the fading image of the rocky island where he’d spent most of his incarceration. There were over two thousand islands in the Greek Isles, many of them nameless. The odds of finding this place again would be slim, but not impossible.

He could no longer see the monastery. With the new day dawning, he put to memory passing landmarks—anything that would help him find his way back to hell island.

There…he’d named the island, and he promised himself that if he escaped whatever fate he was headed for, he would be back. He only hoped that some of the men would still be alive.

It had been five hundred and twenty-two days since his capture at Castle Rock when the Chameleon’s men had ambushed his Onyxx team, and he’d been left for dead. By now Sully was sure Merrick had replaced him.

He pushed the memory of his old life out of his mind. Argo said he’d been given the gift of life. He didn’t know why that was, or what he would find on the island of Despotiko, but for some reason he was feeling optimistic. It must be something in the air he was breathing, he decided.

Sully suddenly smiled, knowing what it was. It was the scent of freedom, and it smelled as sweet as a field full of Irish lavender.

The vase of lavender sat in the middle of the table on the balcony outside Melita’s bedroom, high in the tower. She stared down at the wooden post beyond the garden, at the blood on the ground, and the guilt nearly brought her to her knees.

It always happened there, and she knew why. Her father loved to make her watch.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks as she heard him speaking to the guard posted outside her door. Moments later her father appeared on the balcony sipping a cup of coffee.

“Nothing like a little morning excitement to get the blood pumping.”

“Hector did nothing wrong. How could you beat him?”

“Every man at Minare has a purpose. A specific job. You were Hector’s job. I’ve told you before when you disobey me, your actions have consequences.”

“Then punish me,” she railed. “Beat me, not him!”

“The punishment fit the crime. I’ve learned the best way to teach you a lesson is through your misguided attachments to the hired help. Your loyalty to Hector is touching, but you should be more concerned with your loyalty to me.”

“Loyalty to a father who keeps his daughter locked away like a prisoner.”

“You made the choice. A bad choice, but a conscious one. For months I’ve been waiting to hear you confess regret. Today I see that you’ve learned nothing from your hiatus away from those you love. Reckless mistakes are costly. Today Hector paid the price.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a good thing I’m a patient man, and I value my children. I rarely give second chances. But I’ve had to make countless concessions where you’re concerned.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yes, you are. As your father it’s my job to keep you safe from my enemies, and of course, yourself. You do seem to enjoy tempting fate.”

“And who will keep me safe from you?”

“No one. I am the center of your life, Melita. Get used to it.”

“I hate you!”

“Now if I could just channel that anger into something productive we would be making progress. Your latest escapade has proven what I already know. You’re cunning and smart. A survivor, like me. My blood is your blood. That is a fact you can’t deny and I intend to never let you forget.”

“If your blood runs through my veins it’s because I’ve had a transfusion. I’m nothing like you.”

“What you are is a fool if you think rebelling against me will enact your freedom. I control your life as I do Hector’s, and every man who works for me. Hector looked me in the eye and lied to me this morning. He made an error in judgment. His loyalty should be to me, not my daughter. You know how I detest flaws in my men as well as my children.” That said, he made himself comfortable in one of the heavy iron chairs at the balcony table.

He was dressed in his business clothes today, his crisp white shirt stark against his sun-baked face and neck. His black pants were creased, and his shoes as shiny as his short silver hair.

Was he leaving the island again? He’d stayed longer than usual, most likely because of Holic Reznik’s arrival. But he would be growing anxious to see Callia. He never stayed away from Melita’s stepmother for very long.

She pitied Callia as much as she loved her. She must have patience of steel to put up with her father. Or perhaps she was blinded by love. No, her father was unlovable. Callia was just as much a prisoner as she was. The only difference was her island home wasn’t a monastery with a view of a whipping post from her bedroom balcony.

He cleared his throat, and Melita refocused her thoughts. “Where is Hector?” she asked.

“He’s been confined to his quarters.”

“I want to see him.”

“No. At the moment he’s not feeling well enough to have a visitor. Your time would be better spent here in your room thinking about how you want to spend the rest of your life—locked in a room, or enjoying the freedom I can give you.”

“How could you believe a stranger over Hector? Holic Reznik is—”

“A trustworthy associate of mine. I’ve known him for years. If he says you’ve been sneaking off to the village in an attempt to escape the island, then I believe him. By the way, I’ll be leaving in two days for a few weeks. While I’m away Holic will be in charge. Make trouble in any way and he has my permission to string Hector up on the firing range for target practice.”

Melita’s knees went weak. “You can’t leave Holic in charge! He wants—”

“He wants what?”

“He lied to you because I rejected him this morning when I was coming back from…picking flowers. He was in the garden and he attacked me. He shoved me against the wall and…touched me. He told me if I would spend time in his bed he would get me off the island. When I rejected his offer, he told me he was going to make trouble for me.”

“And where was Hector while this was happening?”

“He… He was close by.”

“Hector didn’t mention Holic had attacked you. The truth is Hector would have snapped Holic’s neck if that was true, and I would have rewarded him for it. Any man fool enough to touch you without my permission is a dead man.”

“Holic did touch me, and he made it clear he will do it again. You can’t leave him in charge while you’re gone.”

She waited for her father to digest every word, waited for him to rethink giving Holic the keys to everything at Minare, including the one to her bedroom.

“Holic is not an idiot. He knows what my plans are for you, and he also knows I would kill him if he laid a hand on you. I’ve done it before, remember?”

Yes, she remembered. She would live with her part in Nemo’s death forever. She motioned to the flowers. “This lavender is fresh this morning, and—” she raised her chin and pointed to the bruises on her neck “—so are these. Holic choked me when I tried to get away.”

He studied the marks on her throat, then pulled a silver case from his pocket and opened it. Taking one of his favorite cigars from it, he pinched it between his lips. Setting the case on the table next to his coffee cup, he lit the cigar with a lighter he took from his pocket. “As I said, you’re a cunning little fox. You probably put those bruises there to aid your story. It’s something I would do.” He grinned. “Like father, like daughter.”