Author's Note: Thank yous to Cherylann, Paulina, and Rokia. I'm please you're enjoying this story, even if it is making life in Hardy land a bit rocky. For anyone that isn't familiar with my writing, I don't tend to kill off major canon characters, although I might skirt the issue here and there...
CHAPTER 14
"I'm not convinced she knows anything." The man shook his head, trying to hurry the phone conversation along. It wouldn't pay to get caught.
"So you're more convinced the Hardy family being here in the middle of this coup is some sort of coincidence? You're dumber than you look."
"I never said it was coincidence! But we've been talking to her for days and I haven't heard anything new. She's recounted the details of the hotel takeover, but that's it." An audible sigh made its way over the phone line.
"I don't need details of the hotel takeover, I was there! Fenton Hardy came to Ranei for a reason and I want to know what it is. The man insisted on saying it was a vacation." The soldier tapped a finger against the receiver, a sure sign he was irritated.
"Maybe it was! His wife's telling the same story. You promised me I'd have the younger son here. If I did, I could force more information out of the broad."
"Yeah, well." A frustrated grunt came from the other man. "Kid apparently wasn't done 'vacationing.' He took off before they could get him on the bus."
"Any sign of him?"
"No. And now that there's been counter insurgence activity, I can't even tell you where Fenton Hardy is. Rumor mill says the older boy is dead."
"Regroup with the others and I bet you'll find Fenton. The Colonel's been keeping him close. You want me back on the island?"
"Not yet. Half the place is burning; I'm not sure we'll be able to regain the upper hand."
"Fair enough. What about wifey here? We'll have to let her go soon if you want me to keep my cover."
"Don't! She's a good source of cash if we have to run for it. Give me a day to catch up with the others, then I'll decide."
"I can stall the embassy folks another day, but no more."
"Understood, but you need to remember that what happens to her is up to the Colonel, not you. Just like what happens to you. "
The telephone call ended with a soft click, neither man hearing a soft footstep retreating on the plush embassy rug.
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"Your eldest son."
"Fenton! I can't leave him! I won't! Fenton!"
"Your eldest son."
"Fenton!"
The voices pounded in his head, keeping time with rhythmic pumping of his arms. Manacles held his wrists behind him, the chain linking them speared through a hoop set low into the stone wall. Fenton knew he had no chance of slipping his hands from the iron cuffs, but the ring in the wall had shifted slightly when Clipboard shoved him down. Once he was certain the soldier had gone, Fenton had risen to knees, furiously working his hands up and down. The mortar crumbs landing on his feet encouraged him. This might actually work.
Not that getting his hands free solved everything. He'd been listening to the ongoing sounds of fighting drifting through the broken windows and he had no idea where in the capitol he might be. There was also the not so minor matter of his impaled calf. Fenton didn't think the piece of wood was more than an inch around, but the stupid thing was throbbing. One problem at a time. The creak of a door brought all his efforts to a halt.
"Good evening, Mr. Hardy. Still enjoying our fine hospitality, I see." Clipboard squatted beside the detective, using a hand to tip up his chin. "Are you thirsty? I would rather imagine that you are."
A second man handed the senior soldier a glass of water, standing silently behind him as Clipboard downed it. At a gesture, the glass was refilled, the younger man making a show of dipping his finger in something in his pocket and then flicking it into the water. Clipboard tipped the tumbler against Fenton's chin, the first of the water dribbling out.
"Too proud to drink after me? Hardly a time for defiance, I would think. Now drink it." Clipboard transferred the glass to his off hand, firmly pinching the American's nose closed with the other.
Fenton leaned back as far as he could, head pressed against the stone behind him. After a number of seconds he had no choice, his mouth opening in a gasp and the bitter water trailing down his throat. Clipboard smiled and stood, turning to leave.
Fenton felt his muscles going lax, no doubt the result of whatever had been mixed into the glass. The younger soldier remained in the room, pushing Fenton down to lie on his side before bending his legs forward at the waist, giving a clear view of the injured calf.
"Personally, I think we could have sat on you to do this instead of wasting perfectly good drugs, but I wasn't consulted." He unrolled a small blanket, sifting through the supplies inside.
Fenton started to unleash some suitable retort, only to find he couldn't. The muscles in his jaw seemed incapable of coordinating with his tongue. He felt something cold and wet flow over his leg, then the drape of a piece of cloth. His mind seemed mired in molasses, not registering the pain of the other man's carving until several seconds after the first cut began.
"This isn't all that bad, you know. The wood's stuck in the muscle, but you missed the artery. Wound looks like it was hot enough to seal itself on the way in." He traded the blade in his hand for a hemostat and suture. "Not sure why we're bothering to sew it. Someone really should have done the one over your eye, though. Too late now." A shudder ran through the limb. "Yeah, smarts a bit, does it? I'm almost done. I could do the other leg too if you like. Make a matched set?"
Fenton managed a croak of protest, unable to scoot away.
"Ah, well then, if you are quite sure. That does it, have a charming evening."
It was light again before Fenton could control his limbs well enough to attempt sitting up. He braced his feet against the floor, rocking back and forth until he got himself upright. Unfortunately, his faith in his regained balance was premature. He teetered there for a heartbeat, then completed the arc to flop onto his opposite side, scraping his already bruised ribs on the floor. He was on the verge of cursing the predicament when he realized the tumble had achieved something after all. The bolt securing his arms to the wall now rattled loose along the floor.
He took long breaths, willing the last of the drug induced cobwebs from his brain. His legs felt like rubber and he thought he might lose a battle with nausea, but his thoughts were approaching normal. Fenton twisted about, contemplating pulling his feet through the loop of his arms, shifting his hands to the front. He'd taught his sons the trick a number of years ago, but he hadn't tried it since then, and while still in terrific shape, he couldn't honestly say he was a limber as his teenage boys. The manacles had an eight inch chain between them, though, and that might be enough slack to make the maneuver possible.
"This is ridiculous." Fenton let the stray thought slip out loud, feeling like nothing so much as a beached fish as he wriggled about. Finally it was done, his toes sliding free of the chain to leave his cuffed hands resting on his knees. Houdini should have been committed…
Fenton stood, working the kinks out of muscles too long confined, testing one extremity at a time. Squelching the remembered voices that wanted to once again flood his ears, he eased toward the door. It hung crooked in its frame, unable to latch properly, leaving a thin ribbon of light to peer through. The room beyond was heavily damaged, the brick interior walls sporting a large crack that also divided the concrete floor. What should have been the front door consisted of a gaping hole. A piece of scrap wood lay across a pair of chairs, pressed into service as a desk. Clipboard sat behind it, feet propped on the corner, sketching out plans and conferring in low tones with a very young soldier Fenton vaguely remembered from the jeep ride.
It was a cleaner line to the younger man, half-dozen strides with nothing in the detective's way. Fenton could have given you any number of explanations as to why he was considering the more difficult path over the desk - relative value of targets, the angle of the light making it harder to face left than right, perhaps a hope that the older man would be easier to subdue. None of that reflected the truth. There was only one reason Clipboard was his selected target. Rage.
He sucked in as much air as he dared, the expanded diaphragm settling a rebellious stomach and counted the strides in his head. Ready as I'm gonna get… GO!
His hip hit the edge of the makeshift desk with a thud as he rolled across the top of it, both feet lifting off the ground and planting in the center of Clipboard's chest. As he had hoped, the other man's chair flipped backwards. The momentum of the roll landed Fenton on top of Clipboard and knocked the wood slab in the opposite direction, hitting in the younger soldier in the knees. Quickly shifting to kneel behind Clipboard's head, Fenton looped the chain between his hands around the soldier's neck, yanking it tight.
The clattering beside Fenton drew his attention, the young man there regaining his feet as he shifted out from under the errant boards. He stood there, pistol in hand, staring at the detective choking his boss.
"An interesting situation, Mr. Hardy." The soldier walked around the strewn furniture. "Any particular reason why I should not shoot you?"
"None I can think of." If you're going to bluff, bluff big… "Although I doubt he'd like it. Easier to just give me the gun." Fenton pulled the chain a little tighter, smirking faintly at the indecipherable garbled noise that resulted. He tugged the slightly twitching form up in front of him.
"You won't strangle him. As soon as he dies, then there is absolutely no reason not to kill you. And I will."
The soldier's words were confident, but Fenton didn't miss the uncertainty on his face. If he had to guess, he'd say the boy was younger than Joe. He had to hope the young face was as inexperienced as that suggested.
"There's a problem with that theory, kid. Boss man here did who knows what to my wife. He murdered my son. As long as I get to kill him, who says I care about after?"
Fenton didn't know if he'd convinced the boy in front of him, but he'd apparently convinced Clipboard. The suffocating man frantically waggled his fingers at his underling as his heels flailed on the floor.
The younger soldier pulled the barrel of the gun upward, capitulating in a single drop of an arm. The odds had been overwhelmingly in his favor, but in the end that didn't factor into his decision nearly as much as what he'd seen Clipboard do to a disobedient underling. That, and the look on Fenton Hardy's face.
"Kick it over." Fenton waited until he had the gun in hand before he loosened the wrapping on the militant's throat. He shoved Clipboard forward, the muzzle of the gun now resting at the base of his skull. "Find the keys for these."
The younger man scanned the room, finally searching his leader's pockets before he found the key to the cuffs and unlocked the detective's hands. He wasn't surprised when he found himself wearing them instead, looped as instructed through the battered doorframe.
Fenton edged back from Clipboard, silencing the man with a glare. A quick search of the room revealed nothing with which to restrain him, and while Fenton took a second firearm from his belt, he couldn't simply turn his back on the man. One bullet. One bullet and this problem is solved… He killed Frank…
Fenton stared at his hand, the temptation to fire the gun almost over powering. Wasn't like he'd never killed someone before. Frank was dead. Maybe Laura as well, but somewhere, Joe was out there. He slowly lowered the quivering arm. Fenton couldn't be the same father to his son if he shot someone in cold blood. Even this someone. The decision made, he grabbed the wood plank from the concrete, slamming it into the side of Clipboard's skull. Fenton couldn't help the feral smile as he crumpled.
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to be continued...