3
Rough ridges of metal scraped along my ear and my already sore chin, jarring me out of what I assumed was unconsciousness. Without even opening my eyes, I conducted a mental scan, inventorying my injuries, better equipped to deal with multiple crises at a time if I knew my situation. My mouth was taped or jammed shut with something, what exactly I couldn't tell. I couldn't move my hands up to investigate, they were pulled taut behind me, the familiar cold metal of my handcuffs chafing my wrists. The blood in my head pounded, a hefty and tender goose egg on the back of my head I didn't remember acquiring bouncing against the rough metal, my angry pulse making the pain worse.
"Calm down Emily," my internal monologue coached, "breathe and evaluate." This had to be some elaborate advanced training exercise, right? Why else would someone be brash enough to handcuff and beat up an FBI agent? And what was this metal that was scrapping me? Another five seconds of paying attention, and I realized that both the metal and myself were moving, the distinct sound of tires digging at rough asphalt. I was in some kind of truck or van bed, the tell tale ridges even and worn.
I ventured to open my eyes to confirm my suspicions. The rusted interior of a cargo van came into rough focus, my vision a bit bleary. An attempted strong inhale was met with stabbing pain, maybe broken ribs; definitely a severely bruised torso. Involuntarily I slammed my head into the metal, landing what was apparently a bruised temple square onto a ridge. A scream would have escaped if my mouth hadn't been both gagged and taped; I could taste the oily residue on the rag tickling my gag reflex, and feel the pull of the tape along the fine hairs around my lips.
Well fuck!
Tears from the pain clouded my vision, so I focused on what I could hear instead. Over the deafening sound of the tires, I could distinguish two voices. A woman's voice, alto and strong, not saying much, but replying when asked questions by the other voice, what I could figure was a man, possibly distracted by driving.
Fuck!
I shifted as best I could, realizing that they had my legs duct taped together as well. I would congratulate them on their thoroughness later. Freeing my legs was one move I knew I could do, so I got to work wiggling my ankles to work the rivets of my boots around the sticky adhesive. I disguised my movements by shifting my body sideways, parallel to the seats to get a better view of my captors.
The woman's eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. "Looks like she's awake," I heard her delivery, monotone and emotionless.
"Well make sure she isn't." A voice I recognized, tight and hoarse to match the pinched and cold face. Harlow.
A few silent moments allowed me to focus, and I can both hear and feel the tension loosening around my ankles. Despite being too warm for early October in Boston, I thanked past me for choosing these particular boots, the ones with the metal rivets and hooks for the thick black laces that reminded me of my short-lived goth era. 'Rebel with a sense of style'; that's what I felt like when I wore these boots. Before Flynn came along, these boots alone could turn Nick's brain to mush and allow me to do things to him that would make well-adjusted people blush. I guess I kept them around for the memories of that more than their comfort. And apparently for moments like this.
Just as I got my legs free, I felt the van pull to the side and slow to a stop. Harlow's distinctive growling hum filled the space as we made eye contact in the rear view mirror. The woman got out on the passenger side, giving me precious seconds to plan my exit route. I pressed myself into a kneel, facing the side door of the van just as Harlow tsked disapprovingly.
"You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
I took it as a dare, and narrowed my eyes, at the ready. The van door shot open and I pounced, a coiled spring releasing its pent up tension.
Gravel peeled layers off the side of my face as I skidded along the curb. I had missed my target. My legs scrambled to get traction as the woman looked down on my struggling form with almost a look of amusement. I had seen those dark eyes somewhere, but I couldn't place where.
I definitely couldn't place it if I couldn't think straight. A strong kick to my already bruised torso doubled me over in pain; I was unable to suck in air hard enough or fast enough through my nose to keep up with the breathless spasms. She wasn't done, and I became aware of the steel toes of her boots as they punched my rib cage, exposed as it was in my involuntary fetal position.
Panting hard through my nose, tears and snot salting my wounds, I recognized Harlow's command through the relentless kicks, "Enough!"
I was able to roll open enough to make eye contact with my assailant, watching her foot draw back, a direct beeline bullseye focused to the side of my head.
Red vessels burst in my vision as it blackened and clipped out.
"Well, now what?" Harlow's soft baritone had a touch of trepidation. He was stationed in front of the small TV, leaning casually against the back of one of the metal and plastic chairs they had stolen out of some random dumpster. Semerov, the guy running the entire underground operation, stood to his right, tilting his head in morbid curiosity to examine the chained and clearly battered woman pictured on the grainy security camera footage, green and detached as it was from the tiny screen. Laurie, quietly sinister in her silence, sat on the other hard plastic chair in the corner of the room. There was just something off about her calm. She had been the one to set the trap. She had known exactly what would draw Emily to the naval yard, had orchestrated that she would be alone, had planned the pull into the depths of the warehouse. Harlow feared just how well she studied and hunted her prey. He had also stopped her from beating Emily too much in transit. Semerov wanted her alive.
"We play with her for a bit. See what she knows. Then kill her." Semerov was also too put together and emotionless about this entire situation. They had literally beaten an FBI agent close to death and chained her to the wall. Someone was bound to notice she was missing.
Harlow didn't respond, just staring into the screen, hoping this scheme that Laurie had cooked up wasn't going to blow up in his face. Laurie was a recent addition to the team, having tracked Semerov down by just being in the right alleys at the right time, coordinating deals, and keeping people in line. Semerov had gifted her to Harlow as a reward for the last two kills he had pulled off. Semerov gave his orders, she tracked the people down, he killed them. Everyone knew better than to ask questions. Laurie was probably not even her real name. Although he admired her work, he didn't like how quiet she was. He never knew what she was thinking behind that darkly inquisitive stare of hers.
He wanted to ask what the goal was, but this wasn't his project. He was only really here for the last part. He was more of a viper, clean and quick. Laurie seemed more like a cat, manipulating people into situations they knew were worse for them. He made it a point not to play with his food, she seemed to revel in it.
"Keep her until she talks," Semerov tapped the top of the TV like one would do to incite creatures in a fish tank. "What they know about shipments, locations, anything." He turned to Laurie on his way out of the room and they simply nodded to each other, a plan apparently already in place. A twinge of jealousy pinged in Harlow's chest. Who was this woman who had such a silent thing going with his boss? It was the kind of connection he had pinned for and killed for for years.
Laurie shifted in the chair, leaning towards the TV as if it was her favorite program. Harlow hadn't felt this sort of trepidation or jealousy since the first few kills he had done for Semerov. "Now what?"
"We do as he said," Laurie didn't bother making eye contact with him as she answered, instead shifting her gaze to study Emily's groggy movements on the screen.
"I don't do torture."
Laurie's voice was laced with harsh sarcasm, "But you do cut their eyelids off while they die."
"That's symbolic. And personal." He sent a glare at the side of her head.
"It's your signature," satisfied by something Emily did on the screen, Laurie leaned back in her chair and finally made eye contact. "Let this be mine."
"You take the lead in this?"
"Full control." She studied the dirt under her fingernails and he knew it was a ploy. She was planning, "All you have to do is take the information to Semerov. You have a better connection." She stood, grabbing a cheap plastic mask that she had stolen from one of the mannequins in the abandoned store across the street from the warehouse they had made a temporary work space.
"Where are you going?"
"To get started."
