Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(24)

Cobra-tattooed guy reached up and ripped off Justin’s duct tape.

My husband didn’t scream. He roared, hopping forward and trying to head butt his nearest opponent.

In response, the tattooed guy stepped back, unholstered his Taser and pulled the trigger. Justin dropped like a rock, blue jacket flapping, whole body convulsing. He no longer roared, but ground out gibberish through clenched teeth.

I glanced away, unable to see my husband in so much pain.

Across from me, Ashlyn was crying.

The tattooed guy pulled the trigger a few more times. When he seemed to feel Justin had had enough, he nodded once, and the second man jerked Justin back onto his feet, wires still dangling from his body.

“Here is the deal,” the tattooed guy boomed, and at the sound of his voice, Ashlyn started crying harder, her hands bound at her waist, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my daughter’s tears any more than my husband’s pain. I pictured colors, flowers, melting clocks.

I smelled oranges, and tasted yellow birthday cake.

“You can call me Z. I am your new boss. You will speak when I say you can speak. You will eat when I say you can eat. You will live as long as I say you can live. What is my name?”

Silence. Belatedly, I opened my eyes, found the man staring at me. “What is my name!” he boomed at me.

“Z.” My voice came out weak. I licked my lips, wondered if I should try again, but he was already moving away.

This time, I tried to catch my daughter’s attention, tried to will her to look at me, as if by holding each other’s gazes, this would be easier to take.

“This is Mick.” The tattooed guy pointed to the checkerboard-hair man. “And this is Radar.” He pointed at the smaller, younger guy standing next to my daughter. The one not in black commando garb, but instead jeans and vomit-covered black tennis shoes. He bobbed his head slightly, as if pleased to make our acquaintance. Then he flushed self-consciously.

“And this”—Z turned half around, gesturing grandly—“will be your new home.” The man beamed, appearing particularly pleased with himself. I forced my aching body to turn again, take in the building I was only half aware of. Except this time, it became clear to me it wasn’t just a building, but a sprawling complex. An institution. Four stories tall with narrow slits for windows, surrounded by fencing topped with rolls of razor wire.

What kind of building had such tiny windows? What kind of landscaping involved so much razor wire? Then it came to me. A prison.

These men had dragged us from our home and brought us to a prison. Except…the place seemed eerily quiet, still. Not a populated facility, but empty. Abandoned, maybe.

“I will pay you money,” Justin spoke up clearly. “Any amount you want. Double, triple whatever you’ve been offered.”

For his response, Z pulled the Taser trigger. Once more my husband’s body arched. Once more his lips peeled back from his teeth, forming a macabre grin that went on and on.

He didn’t make any noise this time. He just took the pain.

Z finally released the trigger. Justin’s body sagged, would’ve collapsed, except the other guy held him up.

“You will speak when I say you can speak,” Z repeated. He stared at Justin’s heaving form. “When will you speak?”

My husband raised his head. His eyes were bright with rage. I could see a muscle clenched in his jaw. Such a competitive man. One of the things I had admired about him in the beginning. Down but never out. Battered but not broken. Now I silently willed him to give up. Keep his mouth shut. Not say another word…

“Daddy,” Ashlyn pleaded softly.

Justin’s look changed. From fury to panic and in the next instant, I understood, as Z wheeled about, headed for our daughter.

“No.” I gasped the word out loud, trying to roll forward, do something. I could hear Justin growling, knew he had to be struggling, desperately trying to break free.

Too late, my daughter realized her mistake. She watched Z’s rapid approach, her sobs reaching hysterical pitch as she raised her bound arms in front of her face…

The kid stepped forward. Straight into Z’s path.

“Hey,” the kid said, “isn’t that a patrol car?”

He pointed his finger, and just like that, everyone was on the move.

“Inside, now,” Z snapped. “You get the women. You get Denbe.”

Checkerboard Hair was already slicing through Justin’s leg restraints, with a single stroke of a huge knife, then dragging my husband’s stumbling form toward the front doors.

Radar fumbled for a moment with my daughter’s restraints, then made it to my side long enough to free my ankles and help me stagger to my feet. I tried to shoot him a grateful look, to let him know I knew what he’d done for Ashlyn, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. Instead, with one hand on my daughter’s elbow and another on mine, he hustled us both toward the doors.

Behind us, I could hear the engine as the van started up. Hiding it, I supposed. The van would be tucked somewhere outside, we would be tucked somewhere inside, and then no one would be the wiser.

Doors, closing behind us. First one set, then another.

The kid and the second commando dragged us deeper inside a vast, empty space. If this was a prison, then this must be the receiving area. I could make out stark white cinder-block walls, a dingy yellow linoleum floor, some kind of command post straight ahead with thick windows all around it.