In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(34)

The other guy moved closer to look under her skirt. To think she had fancied herself to be unafraid, of pain, of death. Hah. She had no excuse for being so arrogant. She’d gotten soft. Forgotten how it felt.

“Nice,” the other man said in English.

“Yes,” the pale-eyed man agreed. “Very.”

She spat at them. The smaller, masked man stepped forward and jerked his hand up to hit her.

“No,” the other one said sharply. “Not yet.”

The man stepped back, with bad grace. The pale man leaned forward, his weight making the chair creak. He let the knife dangle between his thick fingers, like a flashing pendulum, back and forth.

She lifted her chin, waiting.

He laughed. “So haughty. Just like your whore mother.”

That sent a jolt of electricity through her spine. “What about my mother?” she demanded. “What do you know about her?”

The man tut-tutted. “One thing at a time. I am going to ask you a series of questions. Answer them honestly, and we will let you go.”

That was bullshit, but there was nothing to be gained by calling the man out on it. “What questions?”

“It’s amazing, the resemblance.” The man’s low, insidious tone filled her with dread. “And Sonia wore a red slut dress, just like yours, the night she died. Poor Svetlana. All alone in the world.”

“I am not alone,” Sveti said, teeth chattering.

“No? I don’t see anyone. Except for myself and my colleague.”

Sveti closed her eyes, thinking of them. Nick and Becca and Sofia, Tam and Val, Rachel and Irina. The McClouds and their wives and kids, and all the rest. A wonderful family. She was lucky. No matter what.

But she would not debate such matters with a torturer.

Her captor scooted his chair closer and slid his fingers into Sveti’s hair. He jerked her hair until her chair rocked on two legs. His bloodshot eyes were inches from hers. “Tell me about the photographs.”

She shook violently in his cruel grip. “What photographs?”

“One, in particular. It appears in your TED talk. Great presentation, by the way. I was so moved, I almost donated money to help give a new start to those poor pet slaves of yours. How sweet.”

“Which . . . which photo are you—”

“A photo of your mother,” he said. “You displayed a slide, in your TED talk. Where did you get that photograph?”

She was utterly confused. “Ah . . . she sent it to me, years ago.”

“Something is written on it, Svetlana. And there are numbers. Do you remember what is written?”

She shook her head. “Ah . . . The Sword of Cain,” she faltered.

“Tell me about this Sword of Cain. Tell me everything.”

She tried to shake her head, but could not move, with his fingers gripping her hair. “Tell you what? I have no idea what it meant.”

“Did she send other photos from that same series? Or others taken at the same place?”

She shook her head.

“What did the letter that came with the photograph say about it?”

“There was no letter.” She struggled to keep her voice steady, without success. “She sent it through the mail, like a postcard.”

He let go and backhanded her across the face, so hard everything went black for a moment. “You expect me to believe that you never asked her what it meant?” he bellowed.

“It was delivered after she died!” she yelled.

He dipped the plastic pitcher into the ice water and slung it into her face. Splash. “You are lying,” he spat out.

She gasped, sputtered. “N-n-not lying,” she choked out.

“Would you like to see what the day has in store for you? I am a professional interrogator. There is nothing you can hide from me.”

“I have nothing to hide! I swear it!”

“Look here.” The man set down his knife and picked up a dark briefcase from a rickety card table that had been set up nearby. A small portable video camera lay upon it, too. He spread the briefcase open, tilting it up so that she could see its contents, nested in crimson velvet.

Sveti recoiled. Blades gleamed. Scissors and shears, scalpels and pincers. Things whose uses she did not dare imagine.

“The tools of my trade. One more detail . . . let me just get the angle right.” He bent down over the video camera, pointing it toward her, then peering at the digital window. “Perfect,” he said. “That should catch everything. And now.” He pulled a ski mask over his own face, with a flourish, and his teeth flashed through the slit as he pushed the “record” button. A light flashed red. “For posterity,” he said. “Once again, Svetlana. The Sword of Cain. What do you know about it?”

She bit her lip, shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered.

The man let out a theatrical sigh. “Poor Svetlana. It is going to be a long and painful day for you.”

“I don’t know anything!” she cried out. “It was just a picture of my mother that I kept by my bed!”

The man crouched and sliced through the duct tape that fastened her ankles. He hoisted her up by the armpits and dumped her to her knees with a jarring thud against the wet floor next to the big tub. He grabbed her sodden hair again, jerking her head so that she was bent over the icy tub, her nose mere inches from the ice water.