Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8), стр. 19
The back sliding door was locked from the inside. Peering through the glass, I did a quick scan of the backyard and pool area. “Downstairs clear.” No sooner had the sentence passed my lips than Teacup cursed in my ear.
“You two are gonna want to come up here.”
Boomer shot me a look, and I led the way upstairs, shutting and locking the front door as we passed it.
“Last bedroom on the left,” Teacup said.
Boomer reached the top landing on my heels, and we passed up several rooms, reaching the end of the hall and entering the bedroom. Teacup and Granger were standing with their backs to us, their attention fixed on something in front of them.
“Whatcha got?” Boomer asked.
Teacup stepped to the side, and Boomer cursed a long string. Sitting in a desk chair was Adonis Galatas, his head cocked limply to one side and two bullet holes in his forehead.
“He’s still a little warm,” Granger said. “This was probably an hour ago, maybe two.”
“Someone’s tying up loose ends,” Teacup said. He was holding a bottle of whiskey. He set it to his lips and took a long swig.
“Where'd you get that?” Boomer asked.
“It was on the desk. Figured he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”
Boomer holstered his pistol. “Let’s tear this place apart and see what we can find. Computers, cell phones, you know the drill. This a-hole had a direct hand in kidnapping Kathleen. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let our progress dead end right here.”
Chapter Six
The mattress was exceptionally comfortable, maybe the most comfortable she had ever lain on. The same assessment could be said for the pillow. They were like two pieces of cloudy marshmallow that perfectly molded to every part of your body and neck.
Kathleen Rose sat up and rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She took in a slow, deep breath before swinging her feet off the top of the bed and placing them on the floor. Her head was pounding, and she still felt woozy, tipsy even, as though she had consumed far too much wine the night before.
She looked down at her hands. They were still swollen, and bright pink splotches had appeared all over her body. They itched like she was suffering from a bad case of poison ivy.
She had woken an hour ago. At least, that was her assessment of how much time had elapsed. They had taken her watch, her phone, and the white plaster walls were bare, save for a painting of a cypress tree and another of a rocky coastline.
The room was spacious, with a bed in the corner, a plush armchair, and a square wooden table that held a pitcher of water, a glass, and a platter filled with fresh fruits and cheeses. A white couch sat against a wall beside a narrow door that offered access to a half bath.
If she didn’t know better, Kathleen might have thought that she had been forcefully transferred to a Mediterranean bed and breakfast. But the camera mounted in a corner of the high ceiling was the discrepancy confirming that she hadn’t dreamed everything up. The bulbous optic stared coldly at her, the omniscient and unreadable eye of whoever had brought her here.
Bright sunlight spilled into the room via narrow windows set just below the ceiling. They lay horizontally—far too high to reach, too high to peer through to get a glimpse of where she was. The only exit was an arched wooden door on the other side of the room. Kathleen hadn’t bothered to try it. They—whoever they were—had brought her here for a reason, and allowing her to waltz right out of the room on her own accord wouldn't be in the cards. They would come for her when they were ready.
Another wave of nausea rolled through her. Kathleen pressed her palms into the mattress and steadied herself. She had already thrown up once after waking with a vicious stir in her stomach. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly through her nose.
She recalled being in the market, surveying the neatly displayed wares of the merchants as she looked for something to bring home to Zoe. A stall with carved cedar images of the Parthenon had grabbed her attention; another with small busts of Socrates and Plato, ostensibly carved from rocks taken from the foot of Filopappou Hill itself. She had crossed the busy aisle to another stall that was selling handmade blouses when two sturdy men appeared on either side of her. They had stepped in close and grabbed her upper arms. Before she could register a protest, she felt the press of a gun’s muzzle poking into her lower back.
“Don’t say a word,” one of the men had growled in her ear.
She complied, and within seconds she was escorted past the food merchants and led outside to a waiting car, where she was forced to get in the back seat. Her accosters sat on either side of her, and even now she could remember the acrid smell of their sweat and the stale scent of their breath. The car had blended into traffic, and the next thing Kathleen felt was the stinging prick of a needle in her shoulder.
She woke up here, nauseous and itching. What she wouldn’t do for a bottle of Benadryl.
A rattle came from the arched door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. A man stepped through. His skin was olive, his nose long and crooked, his black beard thick, combed, and well-oiled. He wore leather sandals, loose-fitting cotton pants, and a thin button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He shut the door behind him, pocketed the key, and approached the table. A small mound of grapes sat on the left side