Fiona’s arms shook as she pulled them apart. The fibers grew taut and tore slowly as one strand after another snapped. When the chewed rope reached its breaking point, it broke in two. Her arms flew out to her sides and then fell limp.
She was exhausted from her efforts, but her hands were free. Fighting against the tiredness gripping her body, she reached down to her feet and began untying the rope binding her ankles. What normally would have been a quick job took ten minutes as the severe tingle of full blood flow returning to her fingers made every movement agonizing.
With her feet free, Fiona stood slowly, using the wall for support. As she did, a wave of nausea struck and threatened to return her to the floor. She placed her face against the cold stone wall. She took a moment to breathe and let her body figure itself out. Once she felt a measure of balance return, she slowly bent down and touched her fingers to her toes. The stretch felt good. She stood tall again and breathed deeply. She felt better, but still quite dizzy and the headache and thirst had yet to diminish.
Moving as quietly as she could, she walked to the cell’s only light source, the long slit in the stone wall. She peered through the slit, expecting to see a guard. But there was no one there.
Why would they guard a cell with no doors? Fiona thought.
The space directly outside the cell was just another stone wall. She moved to the left, angling her view so she could see down the hallway. It opened up ten feet beyond. The light was brightest there.
And there were shadows.
Moving.
And a voice. She listened, but couldn’t understand the quiet words being spoken like a chant. A moment later she heard something she did understand.
“Damnit!” The shout was masculine, deep, and held a supernatural menace—as though the word hadn’t just been spoken by a single man, but by two, out of sync by a fraction of a second.
The chanting started up again. The language was again unknown to her, but bits and pieces struck a chord. Portions of words sounded familiar. Tones. Inflections. Not enough to figure out what was being said, but some part of what the man said was familiar to her. She realized she was hearing fragments of Siletz, a dead language to all but her.
The chant ended in frustration once again with the pound of a fist. She jumped at the sharp noise, but remained quiet. She was intent on hearing anything and everything going on outside her cell.
What she heard next, shook her to the core. “Please, sir,” a man said in a weak, heavily accented voice. “No more. I know nothing. I do not know what you are asking.”
“I’m not asking anything,” the deep voice said. This was followed by an angry shout and the smack of flesh on flesh.
Without seeing what was happening, Fiona could imagine what was going on. There was a man, bound, maybe sitting in a chair. He thought he was being interrogated, but the other man, the one with the deep voice, wasn’t asking questions. Then what was he doing?
She heard one of them spit. She wasn’t sure which one until the captive said, “If I knew what you wanted I would tell you nothing! American pig!” And then he spat again.
There were two shouts. One of anger. One of fear. The smack of wood striking stone came next. The chair had hit the floor. Hard breathing. Wet clicks. A shifting scuff of feet on the floor.
Her eyes widened as her imagination created the most likely image. The captive had been knocked over and was being strangled. The killer stood, cleared his throat, and then spoke the strange language again, this time with practiced ease. “Versatu elid vas re’eish clom, emet.”
She repeated the words in her head, not knowing the meaning, but determined to remember them if they turned out to be important. King had always stressed the importance of collecting intelligence before taking action. And she had nothing better to do in her featureless cell.
A new shadow shifted in the room, this one mobile. Each step the figure took was marked by a loud grinding of stone.
“Get me some water,” the deep voice said.
The rough footsteps faded into the distance, then returned a moment later. She heard the man sip some water. Her mouth salivated. She wondered if she should ask for some, but decided against it. If the man knew she was awake and free of her bonds she would never learn anything.
“Tisioh fesh met,” the man said.
The second shadow stopped shifting.
As she realized she had just heard the creation and undoing of one of the stone monsters she had seen at Fort Bragg and her previous prison, fear consumed her, chasing the words from her memory. The fear was then replaced by chills. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she felt more ill.
Oh no, she thought as the reality of her situation finally sank in.
She lifted up her shirt, looking for her insulin pump. It was gone. Nausea surged with her emotions, threatening to send her to the floor. She breathed deeply, willing it to pass, and cleared her mind.
It must have fallen off when they took me, she thought.
And now she understood why she felt so awful. The dizziness. The headache. The dehydration.
Hyperglycemia.
That normally meant she’d have a week or two before things got bad, before she slipped into a coma, or worse, died. But those numbers were for people with a regular diet and food. Drinking a lot of water would help keep her system clean, but she had none. Some people lived five to six days without water, but most died in three. Already dehydrated and feeling the first effects of hyperglycemia, she doubted she’d last another day.
She tried once again to focus on the man’s words. To her frustration, she no longer remembered precisely what he’d said. Nausea coursed through her again. She fought against the urge to vomit. The effort caused her body to shake.
She moved back to her post at the slit in the wall, praying the man would say something important, hoping her father would arrive in time to put her intelligence gathering to good use. As a new voice rolled down the tunnel, rescue seemed less likely.
“We have only one more test subject,” the new, gargled voice said. “Should we send for more?”
“Not yet,” the deep voice replied. “We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention. Not until we’re ready.” There was a shifting of feet and then, “If the next one doesn’t survive we’ll use the girl.”
Fiona prayed they weren’t talking about her, but knew in her core she would soon be sitting in the dead man’s chair. What the men said next, solidified her fear.
“How will we know if she’s truly changed?”
The man fell silent for a moment and then let out a quick laugh. “This … this is perfection. What better way to punctuate King’s failure than to have his little girl put a knife through his heart. That’s our final test. She’s going to kill King.”
SIXTY-TWO
Siberia, Russia
THE FUR-COVERED CORNER seat held Rook’s weight without any trouble. And the fire burning in the nearby fireplace warmed the outside of his body as much as the vodka warmed him from within. But the creature comforts and alcohol did little to stifle the pain in his gut.
Galya was a ruthless surgeon. She had dug and cut into him without mercy, plucking the shotgun pellets from his flesh one at a time. After a grueling hour without anesthetic, she had finished and sewed him up. In the day since, he had tried to move as little as possible, lying in bed or sitting still while sipping vodka and watching Galya hustle around the cabin.