The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 46
The tables were turned now.
"Where is she?"
"Brianna?"
"Damn you, Michael, why did you do this to me?" He kicked out, landing a solid blow. The wind was torn from Michael's lips in a wheezing gasp.
Michael moaned and reached up to him, wincing in pain. His eyes were glassy saucers in a gaunt face. He was an empty husk of the man he had been when Chris had last seen him.
"Chris, please, I wanted out. He wouldn't let me." Michael was whimpering, trembling uncontrollably. Chris kicked him again, this time in the face. A trail of bloody snot ran out of his nose. "Please," he begged.
"You're going to need a body bag if you don't start talking." Chris swept a desk lamp off the end table and smashed it against the bed frame.
Wickedly sharp daggers of broken ceramic would make it a fine weapon.
He brandished it before himself, hungry to drive it right through Michael's neck. He had never been so crazed with bloodlust, so overcome with fury. Michael stared transfixed, his terror cresting like breakers on a tortured sea.
"I don't know. I'm so confused," he sobbed.
Chris might have felt sorry for him, but he was too far gone.
"Answer me. Where is she? Where is my daughter? Answer me." He swung the lamp. Michael raised his arms to protect himself, and the sharp ceramic sliced a red line across the tender skin. Blood pooled and flowed. Michael squealed in pain. The cut was deep. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to prove he meant business.
"I don't know, I don't know." Tears and bloody mucus streamed down Michael's face as he cradled his profusely bleeding arm. Chris had no pity for him, no remorse for the damage he'd done. The sight of blood made him want more---to hurt as badly as he had been hurt. Now unleashed, Chris could no longer contain the murderous animal straining for vengeance.
He was so caught up that he didn't hear the door open, didn't hear the snick of the safety being released on a firearm, but the hard steel barrel of the weapon against his scalp brought him up short.
"Make another move and I'll pull the trigger." The tone was snide, familiar, touched with the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent.
Johan Brunner.
Chris froze, afraid to draw a breath. He allowed the broken lamp to drop to his side. Fear drowned out the raging fury, and suddenly, with grim regret, he realized what kind of a predicament he'd placed himself in. This was what Jason had warned him about. He'd prematurely launched the endgame---without any kind of a plan or fallback---and now he was completely on his own.
Foolishly, he had rushed headlong into danger without any regard for stealth or means of escape. He was not going to walk away from this encounter unscathed.
"Put the lamp down and sit on the bed," Brunner commanded, thumping him hard on the back of the head with the barrel of the gun.
Chris moved to comply.
As Chris sat down, Brunner turned his attention to Michael. "For Christ's sake, shut up. You sicken me."
"I'm sorry, Jo, I'm sorry," he sobbed.
As Chris sat cowering on the bed, he stared at Brunner. In stark contrast to Michael's transformation, Johan Brunner looked every bit the man he remembered---and the memories weren't fond ones. He was handsome in his own way, chiseled features, dark, kohl-lined eyes. He was rakish, but the soul that inhabited his well-made body made him hideous to look upon. It was this ugliness of character that Chris recalled most vividly. As he stared at the leveled weapon and the sneer on Brunner's face, time slowed to a crawl. Every detail of the moment burned into his brain.
Chris shuddered as Brunner's black eyes raked over him. "I must admit, I didn't expect you had this kind of fire in you," Brunner said.
"It's becoming, if... inconvenient."
Chris kept his mouth shut.
"I'm afraid you've created quite a dilemma for me. This was not how it was supposed to be."
Chris forced down his fear. "How was it supposed to be? I was supposed to kill myself?" Though he tried to control it, he could hear a tremor in his voice.
Brunner raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Smart fellow."
"Why? What could that possibly accomplish?"
"Now, don't play the coy one with me, little man. You know very well what this is all about. I want the Heart of the Jungle, and you're going to give it to me."
"What the hell are you talking about? What jungle?"
Brunner chuckled, but there was no mirth in the laughter. "You're quite the little actor. Just full of surprises."
Brunner wasn't making any sense. "I swear," Chris implored, "I don't know what you're talking about. I only want my daughter. Whatever it is you want or think I have, I swear, you can have it."
"Enough." Brunner waved the firearm menacingly. "If you had just killed yourself like you were supposed to, I'd be a very wealthy man right now, but you've had to make this whole thing most vexing. I've been forced to live in hotel rooms for the past nine months with this." He gestured at Michael, his lips curling in disgust. "I should be in Rio or on the Riviera soaking up the sun and living the high life right now, not fetching amphetamines for this... this waste of skin."
Chris glanced at Michael, who continued to sob on the floor.
"Please," Chris begged, frustration and fear touching his voice with a note of panic, "please just tell me what this is about. I swear---"
"Shut the fuck up," Brunner snapped. His eyes narrowed. There was a fierce, predatory gleam in them. "I said I'm done with games. Now keep your mouth shut while I try to figure out what to do."
For several moments, as Michael sobbed distractingly on the floor, Brunner was silent. Chris could tell he was rapidly