Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(134)

By the time the private Learjet 35A reached thirty-five thousand feet over West Virginia, Janet had to admit, Jack could still surprise her. She shifted in the co-pilot’s seat to get a better view of his profile. Settled into the pilot’s seat with his headset and microphone, he looked like a Greek god. No. Not Greek—Spartan. But if Jack had been among the three hundred Spartans in that Thermopylae Pass in 480 BC, the Persians would have had their asses handed to them.

Looking through the windscreen toward their destination, Janet knew one thing for certain. Whoever got in Jack’s way was about to get that same treatment.





140


Garfield Kromly knelt at the graveside, his left hand resting on the grave marker as he gently placed a dozen long-stemmed red roses before it.

An inscription had been etched into the gray marble. Seven simple lines.



Pamela Merideth Kromly

Born January 13th 1947 – Died April 5th 2003

My Loving Wife and Best Friend.

Long ago, I gave you my soul.

Take care of it for me,

until I find you again.

Garfield



Kromly blinked twice and then rose slowly to his feet. He’d chosen the Fairfax Memorial Park as Pam’s resting place because of the cherry trees. On that April day when he’d laid her to rest, their lovely pink-and-white blossoms had been in full bloom. Now, shorn of their leaves by a November frost, they just looked dead.

As he watched, the sun sank beneath the western horizon, pulling whatever warmth and color remained of the day down with it. Garfield inhaled deeply, then turned toward the car, his steps taking him past a young man who leaned against a tree, face buried in his hands. Without pausing, Kromly passed him by, clicking the unlock button on his key-fob, his own grief so intense he had nothing left to feel for the man.

Pulling open the car door, Kromly had only begun to slide into the driver’s seat when a movement at the corner of his eye turned his head. The young man exploded into him, his hand striking Garfield in the nerve cluster at the base of his neck, sending a kaleidoscope of color blossoming across his vision. Then, along with his consciousness, the colors quickly faded to black.





141


Pain wormed its way into Garfield Kromly’s head, a squirming snake of fire that started in his shoulders and crawled up his neck, dragging him reluctantly back to consciousness.

He tried to move, but his wrists were bound tight behind his back. Higher up, near his armpits, his arms had been strapped together even tighter.

A memory clicked into place. The North Vietnamese Army had used this particular method on captured US soldiers, airmen, and sailors. Bind the wrists behind them. Then tighten a second strap, forcing the upper arms together until both shoulders dislocated.

So it was to be death by torture. That was okay. It was something he’d prepared for his entire life. Pain. Whoever it was that had taken him had no idea what that word meant.

The image of William Wallace leaped into his head. Drawn and quartered, disemboweled, his intestines roasted while still alive, but defiant to the end. Time for Kromly to give his own Mel Gibson imitation. Screaming held no shame.

“Ah, Mr. Kromly. So nice to see you awake.”

The voice, so silky smooth, with a slight Spanish accent, seemed vaguely familiar. Kromly blinked again, a face swimming into focus before him. Recognition flooded his mind.

Shit! Eduardo Montenegro, a.k.a. the Colombian, a.k.a. El Chupacabra.

A thin smile spread across the Colombian’s handsome face. “I see you recognize me. Good. That will save on introductions.”

The killer turned away, walking out of Kromly’s vision. Garfield tried to turn his head to see where the man had gone, but the pain in his shoulders stopped him.

He was in a single-room log cabin. The rough plank floors were covered with a layer of dirt, the deer heads mounted on the walls draped with cobwebs. A single filthy window let in a stream of daylight from the outside. Except for the chair to which he had been tied, the only other furniture in his field of view was a wooden cot pushed up against the far wall.

Kromly surprised himself with the steadiness of his voice. “You might as well go ahead and kill me.”

Eduardo reappeared, setting a matching wooden chair in front of Kromly before sitting down.

“Now what would be the fun in that? Besides, I have some questions I want you to answer first.”

“If you think pain will break me, then you’re wasting your time.”

Once again the Colombian smiled. “If you think my specialty is pain, then you’ve been misinformed.”

Something in the assassin’s voice sent a chill down Kromly’s spine. He recalled everything he knew about El Chupacabra. One of the world’s most feared assassins, Eduardo settled all his contracts with ultimate efficiency. But, it was his personal killings that revealed the man’s psychopathic underpinnings. Wildly violent, often sexual, orgies of blood. And, with those victims, Eduardo took his time.

If his legs hadn’t been tied to the chair, Kromly would have kicked himself. How had he failed to notice the resemblance of the young man in the graveyard to one of the world’s most-wanted killers? Admittedly, he’d been deep in grief for his lost wife, but there was nothing new about that. He’d been there for five years.

Maybe his worry about the African nanite problems had provided the extra distraction.