Chapter 29
Frank gradually drifted into consciousness. Noticed his head drooping to the side and tried to move it. Winced at the pain and decided not to move. His head could just droop.
He was in a chair and wore only his boxers. His hands were pulled tight behind the back of the chair and handcuffed. The metal frame of the chair bit into his biceps. He wiggled his toes. No pain. Good, but his ankles were shackled to the metal legs of the chair.
Well, that meant he wasn't going anywhere for a while. At least the chair was comfortable. It had a cushioned back and seat. Now why couldn't police departments get chairs like this?
Yeah, keep that sense of humor. You're going to need it.
Frank cracked an eye. The right eye. The left was swollen shut. Matted together with partially dried blood. He viewed the room through a slit. Everything was a distorted mess of watery colors and shapes.
A blurry figure moved into his field of view and hovered in front of him. Someone's face. They were talking to him.
Hearing hadn't kicked in yet. Oh, but the pain had. The left side of his face throbbed to a chaotic rhythm. He felt like he'd taken a nose dive off a six story building. He might have a fractured cheek bone. Wouldn't that be fun?
The last thing he remembered was the scary looking guy, the one with the Hyena Face, checking his gun. Then Bam, lights out.
Yup, that dude was bad news.
Heinz kicked Frank in the leg. "Time to wake up, Sleepy Head."
Where was the other guy?
Heinz kicked Frank in the leg again, harder. "Time to wake the fuck up. We haven't got all day. Boss wants to see you. He's on the way."
Boss? Marcus?
Frank forced his head up, pushed through the pain, and took a look around. Yeah, Hyena Face was the one doing all the talking, calling all the shots. Doing all the kicking, too. Hyena Face was a sadistic bastard. Got his thrills by hurting others.
Frank had to remedy that situation and soon.
Frank's one good eye found the other guy, the pretty-boy, the California surfer dude look-alike. Medium height, good build, blond hair, cool green eyes, and a spray tan. No one's that tan in April. Pretty-Boy leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and looked bored. A handgun was visible in his waistband.
Frank didn't consider Pretty-Boy much of a threat. Frank knew the type. Follows orders, but doesn't go above and beyond the call of duty. Does just enough to get the job done. Likes to keep his risk minimal. He's not the type to put his neck on the line. Especially not for someone like Hyena Face.
Hyena Face was the real threat and Frank wanted a piece of him. Wanted to pound him into the floor.
Hyena Face started pacing .. like a caged lion .. like he was building momentum .. getting ready.
Not good. Frank's heart rate ratcheted up a notch.
Pretty-Boy pushed off the wall. "Time to go to work," his voice was like ice – sharp, cold, and dead as a grave.
In this setting the word work held a whole different meaning and a chill cascaded down Frank's spine.
Heinz cracked his knuckles, stepped in front of Frank, and grinned. It was not a fun grin. "Hey Asshole, name's Heinz. I know 57 ways to kill ya." Heinz laughed at his own joke.
Frank returned the grin, mixed it with a sneer. "Cute. How long'd it take you to think that up?"
Bam! A hard right hook that almost knocked Frank and the chair over. He felt warm blood stream down his cheek. Black dots danced before his eyes.
Heinz twisted his head and neck like a snake. Frank heard the snap, crackle, and pop of joints.
This guy's just getting warmed up.
Frank saw the second blow coming and rolled with it. Still, it landed solidly enough. Left his ears ringing and his face numb.
Heinz went to work. Delivered blow after blow in a well choreographed pattern of hooks, jabs, and kicks. Nothing escaped Heinz – arms, legs, chest, head. He got them all. He knew how to inflict pain without causing life threatening injuries. A real professional.
Nice to know Marcus hired the best.
Frank, for his part, avoided, deflected, and endured. Growled through the pain and spit out one-liners. A little to the right next time. I think you missed a spot. That the best you got?
The one-liners didn't really help the situation – they fueled Heinz's ire. But Frank needed the mental edge they gave him, that small – very small – feeling of control. As long as he could crank out the sarcastic remarks then, in his mind, he was still okay, still in the game. He hadn't given up yet.
Bam! Another blow to the head. It rang Frank's bell and good. He saw stars and flashing lights. When he brought his head up, a fire burned in his eyes. His body trembled, the sort of muscle shake brought on by white hot anger. The kind of anger a man got just before he took a swing. Frank strained against the chair – against the handcuffs and shackles. He wanted to take a swing. A whole lot of swings.
"Not hard to beat a man when he's chained to a chair," Frank growled through clenched teeth. "You want a fight, asshole? Unchain me. We'll fight. Fair and square."
Heinz laughed and wiped sweat from his forehead. He was breathing heavily. Beating the crap out of someone, even someone defenseless, was hard work.
The door opened and a tall, elegant man strolled in. He had the ease and confidence of someone in charge.
Marcus. No question about it, dressed in one of those designer suits – Tommy Hilfiger, Michael Kors, or Hugo Boss – and a silk shirt. He was fit and trim from what Frank could see with his one good eye. Age range: mid-forties to early fifties.
Something pinged at the back of Frank's head, a little mental jolt that said, something important here. Right in front of you. Frank took a closer look at Marcus, felt something familiar about him. But what?
"Mr. Hardy. We finally meet." Marcus' tone was conversational, pleasant. "I trust my associates have kept you entertained."
Frank fixed Marcus with a nasty glare. "If by entertained you mean beaten, then yes, I've been thoroughly entertained." Or thoroughly beaten. Take your pick. Frank spit out a wad of phlegm and blood. Saw a bit of white in the glob and hoped it wasn't a tooth. Hard to tell with only one eye working.
Marcus broke into a disarming smile. White teeth gleamed in a deceivingly warm and caring face. He'd make a great used car salesman, Frank thought. Well, actually that fit, the salesman part. Marcus sold guns and drugs.
Marcus nodded at Heinz. "I believe Mr. Hardy has issued you a challenge. A fair fight. I'd like to see this … this fair fight." Marcus shifted his attention to Pretty-Boy. "Shell, free our guest."
Hint of an accent. Russian? Frank wondered.
Shell undid the shackles, stood and undid the handcuffs then walked around, lifted a leg, and in one swift motion, kicked. His booted foot landed square on Frank's arm and knocked him off the chair. He crashed onto the floor. Managed to cushion some of the impact with his arms.
Christ, he hurt. On the flipside, the cheek pain didn't bother him anymore. Hell no, now his entire body ached. No pain-free zone here.
"C'mon," Heinz said. "On your feet. Let's get this party started. I'm gonna wipe the floor with you." Always smart to try and instill a little fear in your opponent.
Frank used the chair, pulled himself up and stood on wobbly, throbbing legs. He was hunched and vulnerable looking. Just the way he wanted it. He motioned with his hand, come on Heinz-old-buddy, come a little closer. They'd never be buddies, but the sentiment was the same. Mess with me, I'll mess with you.
Heinz smiled – a murderous smile – and shook his head.
Okay, not so dumb.
Frank was only going to get one shot at this. Had to time it perfectly. Had to deliver the blow with precision.
Frank stumbled, acted like he was going to fall. Really played it up.
Had to reel Heinz in.
Heinz licked his lips. He was ready for the kill, raring to go, ready to make his move. Frank could see it in his eyes, could taste it.
Frank made his plan. Get Heinz close. Knee him. Then finish him off with a palm strike to the chin. A knock-out blow.
One shot. One chance.
Frank motioned with his hand again, fingers wagging. C'mon. C'mon.
Heinz stepped to his right. Frank stepped to his right, saw Heinz make a fist with his right hand, getting ready to swing. Heinz brought his left hand up to guard his face and stepped toward Frank. Frank tensed, readied himself. Heinz pushed off his back foot. His hips and shoulders twisted in Frank's direction. Classic moves for a straight right. Heinz' fist rocketed toward Frank's battered face.
Frank dipped his head to the side. The fist glanced off his left cheek and fresh blood gushed down his face and neck. The left side of Frank's face was numb – thanks to Heinz – so he didn't feel much pain.
Frank's left hand shot out, grabbed Heinz by the shoulder of his shirt, and pulled him half-a-step closer. Frank kneed him in the groin then pushed off his back foot, and threw all his weight forward, toward Heinz. Frank's open right hand came up fast – along the outside of Heinz' chest – the heel of Frank's palm struck the area beneath Heinz' chin with maximum force and energy. Heinz' head snapped back and Frank heard the crack of bones. Heinz rocked on his feet and dropped to the floor.
Lights out. Maybe permanently.
Marcus clapped. Two loud smacks. "Bravo, Mr. Hardy. Very impressive."
Frank spun, saw Marcus smile, and Shell with his handgun raised and ready. Shell didn't look bored now. More akin to mild shock and fear.
Marcus spoke to the air. "Deangelo, get in down here. Get this room cleaned."
Frank wiped blood off his face and looked up. He spotted a small viewing widow. A gravely, harried voice came over a PA system in the vicinity of the window. "Yessir."
Frank figured get the room cleaned meant take out the trash. By trash, Marcus meant Heinz.
"Have a seat, Mr. Hardy," Marcus said. "You've earned it."
Frank wiped the blood on his hand onto his boxers, but made no move to sit.
Marcus appraised Frank. "I could use a man like you in my organization."
"I'd never work for you and you know it." Frank felt blood from his cheek run down his neck.
Deangelo arrived, walked over to Heinz, and smirked. Heinz hadn't moved. Deangelo grabbed Heinz by the ankles and dragged him out of the room.
"Take a seat, Mr. Hardy. I insist," Marcus' voice sharpened in a way that brought Frank's eyes up.
Frank checked the small window above Marcus' head. It was open now and a man with a high-powered rifle peered down. Shell still had his handgun aimed at Frank. Frank figured he should sit. Plus, he was tired. The adrenaline surge he'd enjoyed moments ago was gone. Now, he was feeling the crash.
"Let's talk business," Marcus said.
"That's why I came here," Frank said as he sat in the chair.
Marcus was amused. "Came here? You were brought here on my direct orders."
Frank shook his head. "You're smarter than that, Marcus. Can I call you Marcus?" Frank waited for a response, didn't get one, and continued, "I allowed your men to capture me." Shell bristled at the remark, but his aim never wavered.
Frank said, "Figured it was the best way to find you. Fail proof. No detours. No false leads. Boom, just straight to you."
Marcus eyed Frank with interest.
"Trust me," Frank said, "if I hadn't wanted to be taken, your men wouldn't have gotten close. I just proved that."
Marcus' chin came up and his eyes darkened. "I do admire your skills, Mr. Hardy. That is one of the reasons you're still alive. That and the fact I find you interesting."
"I'm touched." Frank gently rolled his shoulders. The bravado bolstered his spirits, but fatigue and crushing pain threatened to undo him.
"Let's begin again," Marcus said. "No games. No double talk."
"Fine by me." Frank's cheek throbbed, steady shockwaves of pain. It had to be fractured. He should definitely get it checked when he got out of here. If he got out of here.
"Welcome to the Lion's Den," Marcus said.
"Lviv," Frank pronounced the word in flawless Russian.
"Very good, Mr. Hardy. Tell me, what do you know about Lviv, Ukraine?"
"Not much." Frank thought for a second. "It has nice architecture. Was under the Polish Empire for awhile then came under Soviet rule."
"You are correct. Lviv has changed hands many times in its history. It has been ruled by many different nationalities and ethnic groups – the Polish Empire, the Hapsburgs, the Russians, the Ukrainians, the Russians again, and even the Nazis. Lviv has had a most unfortunate history. Quite tragic."
Frank sat stoically. Wondered what the significance of the history lesson was.
"History is important, Mr. Hardy. Those who do not remember the past, are condemned to repeat it."
"So I've heard."
"Everyone knows the names Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka. People know what happened in those places. The slave labor … the gas chambers … the ovens." Frank heard the catch in Marcus' voice. Saw Marcus take a deep breath and exhale slowly, deliberately, like he was preparing himself for … for what?
Frank frowned. "Tragic? Yes. No question. But what does it have to do with Alexander Romanoff, Tasha and Dimitri Romanoff?"
"Revenge, Mr. Hardy. The oldest, simplest motive in the book," Marcus said.
A/N: So, this chapter was a little longer and you got a little insight into the mystery. My hubby is doing fine now. He's on new meds. Thanks everyone for your concern regarding my husband and for the nice reviews.
