CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Twenty minutes before ...

The roiling avalanche had him in its maul. He tumbled, over and over, in a world that was cold and dark. Snow packed his eyes, nose, ears, mouth, choking him. He moved his arms in a swimming motion, trying to claw his way up to the surface. He was losing the battle, but it was not in his nature to give up. He reached up, flailing wildly, trying to grab hold of something, anything to keep himself from being buried alive ...

Stabbing pain ... biting, sharp. He tried to jerk his arm back, but something had turned the tables on him, grabbing him instead. He cried out as teeth tore into his skin. Words pierced through the gray fog of his thoughts. But, they were sounds only, disjointed, meaningless.

"Merde! Stop ... or ... break ... needle! ... still! Make ... stop ... else!"

All he knew was that IT had him ... a wild beast ... IT held him, hurt him as he fought against IT with all his strength.

"Ben! List ... to ... Ben!"

The words began to connect, coalesce. He was straining to understand, when the beast bit into him again. He cried out, jerking his arm.

"Ben! Ben! Be still, Ben! Listen to me."

He knew the voice, tried to understand the words.

"That's right, Ben," the voice soothed. "Open your eyes, now. Look at me." A pause. "Good. Very good, Ben."

Fraser blinked and blinked again. A face filled his field of vision. A bearded dirty face with a kind smile.

"Do you know me, Ben?"

The face wavered.

"Stay with me, Ben. Look at me. What's my name?"

He gathered his strength to formulate words. He tried and failed and tried again. "V-vic," he managed.

"Right! I'm Victor." He stared intently into his eyes. "Ben, you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Ben?"

"Y-yesh." His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and in the way of his teeth.

Victor swallowed. "Louis is going to give you a shot. He won't hurt –"

He stopped talking because Fraser had finally registered that Louis Renault was holding his arm down against a metal table with one hand, while the other held a syringe poised above it. The flesh in the crook of his arm bled where the needle had ripped the skin.

Panic gave him volume. "NO!" He was too weak to break Renault's grip, but his frantic movement prevented him from administering the shot. "NO DRUDGSH!"

"Victor!" Renault snarled. "Make him stop! Or I will end this now!"

Victor spoke, quickly, "Ben, listen to me! Ben!"

Fraser lifted his head a painful few inches, but continued to struggle.

"The drug will help you," Victor said. "Counter the effects of the taser stuns. Trust me, Ben. Please."

Fraser heard the words but couldn't make much sense of them. He thrashed in the chair. "No drugsh! No!"

"Yes, Ben! You must take the drug so you can walk. Because if you cannot walk, Louis will shoot you." Victor leaned as far forward in the chair as his bonds allowed. "He will kill you, Ben. Unless you can walk. The drug will help you walk. Trust me, Ben."

Renault said, "I ... I do not want to ... to kill you, Benton. But ... I will, if you do not let me do this."

Fraser was at an utter loss. He trusted Victor. He didn't trust Renault. Yet, both men were saying the same thing. In his taser-induced confusion, he couldn't process the conflict.

"Son!"

Fraser looked beyond Victor's concerned face. His father stood behind the seated man. Robert Fraser wore the red serge, but the tunic was on backwards. One foot was clad in a sneaker, the other in a snowshoe. He was holding a hockey stick. A pith helmet perched on his head.

"Look at me, son!" he said, gesturing disgustedly at his state of dishabille.

"Yer ... a mesh," he lisped.

"I know, Ben," Victor agreed, his face soft with compassion.

"No, you're the mess." His father's expression matched the diplomat's. "Let him stick you, son," he said, gently. "You have no choice."

At that, Fraser gave up the fight. He muttered his consent, then held very still as the Frenchman, with surprising competence, flicked his finger at the crook of his arm, raising a vein. He slid the needle into it with barely a prick, and depressed the plunger. When he was done, he bent Fraser's elbow up. "It will take a few minutes," he said, patting his cheek before moving away.

Fraser slid his eyes around. He was still in the storage room in the basement. Both his legs and right arm were still lashed to his chair with duct tape. The front of his shirt was red with blood. It startled him, but after a moment, he was fairly confident it wasn't his own. He remembered being tasered repeatedly ... Renault and Karim would rouse him with an ammonia capsule under his nose, would wait until his eyes gained some focus, his thoughts start to clear, and then the electrical charge would hit him again. He had no idea of the count of stuns or the passage of time since he lost consciousness. There had been a reason for Renault's actions, besides his evident delight at inflicting pain ... something to do with the man beside him ...

Then, it all came rushing back. They wanted Victor to talk to Harrington, urge his rich friend to pay the ransom. He remembered Victor shouting, "I'll do it! Stop torturing him, Louis! I'll do it!" After that, nothing.

The drug was working. It must be some kind of stimulant. His heart raced, his face flushed. It felt like all his blood was rushing to his head.

He looked up to see Victor studying him. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry? Whatever for, Ben?"

"My fault," he said. "You made the call."

He shook his head. "No, Ben. Not your fault at all."

Fraser straightened in the chair. He felt incredibly ill, weak, battered and bruised, but some small measure of strength was returning to his body. His head was unscrambling too. He could think again, though his nerve endings were jangling, making him twitch and grimace involuntarily. And, beyond the physical effects, he felt emotionally raw. Violated.

He shot a dark look at Renault's back. For the first time, he registered that the Frenchman was talking to someone on a cell phone, had been for a few minutes now. He berated himself for not noticing. He pushed the feelings of anger and humiliation deep, deep down. It was difficult, harder than it should have been, but at last he succeeded. He tuned in to the conversation at last.

"– have to leave now. No choice." His tone grew angry. "Don't argue, Miguel! I had to do it!"

Fraser kept his voice low. "The ransom? It was paid?"

"Yes," Victor confirmed.

"Then ... why are we still alive?"

"I am wondering that myself," he whispered. "But, I do not think it is a good idea to remind him of that." He smiled. "Do you?"

"No." Fraser tried to return the smile, but it pulled open his split lip.

Renault said, brusquely, into the phone. "Plan Z, then. I will meet you." He flipped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. He knelt next to Fraser. "Are you feeling better, Benton?" Incredibly, his voice held a note of ... caring.

"Yes." His pronunciation was clear and crisp. The slurring was gone.

Renault pressed his thumb to the pulse point in Fraser's neck. Then, he grasped his chin and lifted his eyelids one at a time, peering into them. Fraser held still despite his deep repugnance at the intimate contact. Renault seemed satisfied with his vital signs.

"You can understand what I say, now?"

"Yes."

"Good." He moved to the empty chair across from Laszlo and Fraser and sat, somewhat heavily. He removed a gun from his pocket, not the taser, but a Glock 9 mm, and showed it to them. "We are going out that door in a moment, gentlemen. Then, we will walk down a corridor until we come to another door. You will do everything that I tell you to do. Without hesitation. Without question. This gun will be pointed at one of you at all times." He paused. "And, I am an excellent shot. Isn't that right, Victor?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Renault continued, "Do not think that I will not shoot both of you, if I need to." He nodded at Laszlo. "Walter was quite cooperative. You know he paid your ransom. We do not need you alive for that purpose anymore." Victor nodded in grim understanding.

"And you, Benton," he said, pointing the gun at Fraser. "While I would much prefer to keep my Nemesis alive ... " He licked his lips. "Nonetheless, I know my priorities. Escape is my watchword, now. If I can take you with me ... well, that would be delightful. But, if I cannot ..." He peered at Fraser. "Do you believe me when I tell you I will kill you? Not without regret, mind you. But, I will do it."

"Of course I believe you," he said, coldly. "You're a killer."

"Ah, my spirited Mountie is back, I see," he said, pleased. "Now, that we understand each other..." He took a utility knife from his pocket, and slashed the tape binding Victor's right hand to the chair. Then, he fetched two bottles of water from the crate against the wall. He opened them, and set them on the table.

"Drink," he ordered.

Fraser picked up the bottle in his shaking left hand. He spilled half on the table and down the front of him, but drank the rest, thirstily. When he came up for air, he saw that Victor had drained his bottle. Renault removed the empties before placing the utility knife in Victor's free hand.

"Use this on yourself, first," he instructed. "Then, Benton. Then, put the knife back on the table and raise your hands."

He stepped back, pointing the gun at Victor. "Proceed."

Victor made short work of freeing himself. He stood, steadying himself with a hand on the table, before working on Fraser's bonds. When finished, Victor obeyed instructions, setting the knife on the table and lifting his hands high. Louis returned the knife to his pocket. He turned the gun on Fraser.

"Get up, Benton."

Fraser gripped the arms of the chair and tried to rise. He failed. Do or die, he told his traitorous legs, and tried again. The taser and the loss of circulation from the tape had taken its toll; his legs jerked and spasmed, but refused to obey. Then, Victor was there. He held out his hands.

"No, sir," Fraser gasped, as he struggled to rise on his own. "I can do it," he said, glancing at Renault. He did not want the diplomat to put himself any further at risk on his behalf.

"Victor," Renault warned. "If he can't walk – "

"Shoot me, or shut up, Louis," he retorted. "But, I will help him."

Renault was silent. Fraser still hesitated.

"Take my hands, now!" Laszlo barked at him.

Fraser took his hands. He was dismayed at how weak his hold was. But Victor gripped him firmly, grunting as he pulled him to his feet. Fraser staggered, nearly collapsing. But, Victor got an arm under his shoulder and levered him up. Breathless and pale, he leaned heavily on the older man's bony shoulder. His weakness embarrassed him; he was as unsteady as a newborn foal. The room spun, then the vertigo passed. He regained his balance, took a deep breath, and murmured assurances to a skeptical Victor that he was alright.

They took a tentative step, then another. The pins and needles sensation was agonizing, but brief, as the circulation was restored to his legs. Fraser took more of his own weight, though he still needed Victor's support. They turned as one toward the door. That's when he saw the body on the floor. Karim ... wearing his red serge. Victor tightened the grip around his waist, and urged him forward. Fraser obeyed without speaking. They continued their slow progress across the room.

"Open the door, slowly and step out into the corridor," Renault said. "Turn right and keep walking." He waved them forward and followed, snatching up the roll of duct tape.

They did as instructed. The smoky smell of the room – gunpowder and cigarettes – was replaced by the bromine and mildew odor of the long corridor. Fraser's boots splashed in the thin puddle in the center of the concrete floor as he and Laszlo made their tentative way forward, with Renault bringing up the rear.

Step by step, Fraser grew stronger and steadier, though still woefully short of normal. Whether this was due to moving limbs that had been too long restrained or the drug's increasing effect, or both, he didn't know. He tried to pull away from Victor's support, or at least take some of his weight off the older man, but he was having none of it.

"Conserve your strength, Benton," he murmured. "When that injection wears off ..." He stopped. "Well, you'll see," he said, ominously.

Fraser glanced over his shoulder. For a man with such a twisted mind, Renault was a surprisingly cautious, capable captor, keeping a safe distance away. He took the support that Victor offered, without argument. At the end of the long hallway was a set of double doors, with a lighted EXIT sign overhead. He had no idea where they were being taken, or even why they were still alive. But once they left the hotel ...

He stumbled. Victor caught him, murmuring words of encouragement. They tottered on.

Renault called a halt before they reached the doors. By this point, Fraser was visibly sagging in Victor's arms. He stood, panting, as Renault sidled cautiously around them. He kept the gun aimed at them while he pushed the door open a crack with his backside. He looked both ways, then pushed the door further. The overhead mechanism clicked and it stayed open. Fresh air washed over Fraser. It cleared the stink of mildew and cigarette smoke from his nostrils. Temporarily, anyway. He and Victor reeked of Gauloises.

Renault made another quick survey through the open door, then stepped back inside. Fraser was gasping short shallow breaths and struggling to stay upright.

"Louis," Laszlo pleaded. "Help me – "

"He walks or he dies," Renault said, regretfully. He took up position behind them, and ordered them through the open door.

They took a step, then two, then Fraser swayed, alarmingly.

"Ben!" Victor exclaimed. Fraser staggered, as his eyes rolled up in his head. Victor lost his grip on his waist. Fraser reaching out blindly, drove the older man backward. Victor lost his balance and fell on his rear. Fraser dropped to hands and knees, his arms shaking with the strain. Renault took a step toward him when Fraser lashed out backward with his left leg. He missed his intended target, catching Renault, hard, in his upper thigh instead. The Frenchman's leg buckled. With a cry of pain, he dropped to one knee. Fraser pivoted, wrenching the gun from Renault's grasp and aiming it in his face. The Frenchman stared down the barrel, then slowly raised his hands.

It took all of Fraser's self-control to keep the gun steady. He was still on one knee, but didn't think he should stand. Not just yet, he told himself, as he drew a deep breath.

Renault was looking at him with an odd expression. "My Nemesis," he said, proudly. "You will not shoot me," he said, with confidence.

Fraser narrowed his eyes. "You shot me ten times with a taser."

"Eleven," Renault admitted, sheepishly. "I couldn't resist one when you were unconscious."

Fraser tightened his grip on the gun, and rose to his feet, never letting his gaze or his arm waver. It wasn't easy. Every muscle in his body was protesting, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. He motioned for Renault to stand. "Start walking. Back down the corridor." He called over his shoulder. "Victor, are you OK?"

"Yes, Ben." Fraser heard him struggle to his feet. He regretted shoving the older man, but he had to get him out of the line of fire. Fortunately, Laszlo seemed unhurt.

"Stay behind me," he told him. Renault hadn't moved. He used the Frenchman's own words. "Walk or die, Renault."

"No," he replied, calmly. "You won't shoot me, Benton. I know you too well."

"You don't know me a 'tall," he said, dismissively. "I will shoot you if you don't start walking." For a moment, Fraser was unsure if he was bluffing or speaking the literal truth. Then, he realized he was indulging in a fantasy, probably due to the drug coursing through his bloodstream. He wouldn't ... couldn't shoot a prisoner ... at least, not to kill. Maybe, a flesh wound ... or a couple of zaps with the taser ...

He shook his head, briskly, dispelling the satisfying image of Renault writhing on the concrete floor. Glorying in another's pain was what the Frenchman wanted him to feel.

"Don't test me, Renault," he warned. "I am not quite ... myself ... at the moment." Then, who are you? he thought, feeling somewhat at sea. An image of Francesca Vecchio, in a church of all places, popped into his head. "Move it, or lose your foot," he said, channeling her fire.

Renault looked startled, then recovered his aplomb. "No," he said, shaking his head. "You won't shoot me ... because my very good friend is now holding his gun to Victor's head." He locked his gaze with Fraser's. "And I know you won't let him pull that trigger."

"Victor?" he called, without turning.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he said, regretfully. "I did not hear him coming."

Fraser risked a quick glance. Miguel Ugarte, his tuxedo looking elegantly at odds with the gun he held pressed to Victor's temple, inclined his head in respect.

"Give the gun to Louis," he said.

"Don't, Ben!" Victor cried. "He'll kill you!"

"I will kill Victor if you don't," Ugarte said, matter of fact.

Fraser hesitated only a moment, then turned the gun, butt end first and did as instructed. Renault pointed it at him, backing up to put a cautious distance between them.

"Kill him, Louis," Ugarte commanded.

"No," Renault said, never taking his eyes off Fraser.

"Louis," Ugarte complained. "You were supposed to kill him in the storage room!"

"I know, Miguel," he acknowledged. "But, I want to keep him."

"He is a police officer, Louis. Not a puppy." His tone was patient, as if he were talking to a child. "It is too dangerous."

Renault shrugged. "I can keep him under control."

"I said, 'no.'" Ugarte turned his own gun on Fraser.

Fraser tensed, ready to dive for the weapon now that it was no longer aimed at Victor's head. He knew he had no chance of succeeding, but at least he'd go down fighting.

"Wait, Miguel!" Renault wasn't giving up just yet. "You can have Victor!"

"What?" Ugarte didn't lower the gun, but raised questioning eyebrows.

"You keep Victor," Renault said, quickly. "You can have all of the money when you sell him," he said. "Provided, I keep the Mountie."

Ugarte hesitated. "You'd give up another million for him?" He flicked his eyes over Fraser. "He's not worth it, Louis!"

"He is to me," Renault said, looking hungrily at Fraser.

Ugarte was silent for a moment, gun fixed on Fraser. "To be clear," he said, finally. "I keep the entire amount I get for Victor in the auction. No matter how much."

"Deal." Renault looked amused. "And just so we're clear, Miguel ... I meant the bounty only. I still get my share of Walter's payment."

"Deal," Ugarte echoed, and moved the weapon back to Laszlo' head. "Tie them up."

Fraser and Victor exchanged glances. He knew the older man understood the exchange. This was a "two-fer," as Ray would say. Extorting the ransom from Walter Harrington was only part of the plan. He could imagine the type of people Ugarte would "auction" Victor Laszlo to. In making peace around the world, the peacemaker had made enemies. What wouldn't they pay for revenge? The financial genius was simply maximizing the return on investment.

Renault picked up the roll of duct tape. He tucked the gun in his pocket and sidled around Fraser. He could only watch as Victor's wrists were bound tightly together with several layers of tape. At least, his hands were in front of him, which was more comfortable for him. When he was finished, Renault gave his gun to Ugarte to hold.

"Not taking any chances with my trickster," he said, playfully, as he approached. Fraser didn't answer. He was watching Ugarte's face. Would he really shoot his golden goose? He honestly didn't know, but he couldn't take that chance. He pressed his wrists together and held out his arms.

"No. Behind your back," Renault ordered. Fraser complied, stifling a moan at the sharp pain in his back and shoulders. Renault quickly bound his wrists together, and pushed him forward. He retrieved his gun from Ugarte and pressed it to Fraser's back.

"Let's go," Ugarte ordered. "I left Abdul in the limo."

Renault nudged Fraser forward. Ugarte and Victor followed them through the open door onto a loading dock at the rear of the hotel. A sleek dark limousine was parked at the dock. Fraser noted the little flags of red, yellow, red affixed to the hood with magnet mounts, denoting it belonged to the Spanish Consulate. The headlights were off, but he could hear the engine running. He couldn't see inside. The windows were darkened glass.

The dock opened out into a fenced parking area. The lot was filled with the hotel's service vehicles marked with the Waldorf-Astoria's logo – six vans and two catering trucks – but appeared to be deserted of people. The gate, he was disappointed to see, was unmanned, the type that opened when a keycard was inserted into the mechanism. Fraser looked around for a surveillance camera. To his dismay, he found the unit smashed to pieces on the concrete.

Ugarte said to Renault, "All right, load them up." He gestured to Fraser. "And remember, he's your responsibility."

"I'll take care of him, Miguel," Renault said, sounding exactly like an eager little boy with a new pet. "I promise."