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F IGHT F IRE WITH F IRE
AMY J. FETZER
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
To Rhonda Pollero
For 16 years of friendship in a life that often
doesn't allow the luxury.
For your wit and humor, even with 59 staples holding you
together
For private laughs in overpriced hotel rooms,
warding off bad prom dates,
and ditching just about anything for a smoke.
For letting me pick that incredible mind,
and always seeing the calm, logical approach that
makes me think deeper on just about everything.
Love you, girl.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
One
10 years earlier, somewhere
in the Southern Hemisphere
He wanted to break her. To let her skim the edge of madness.
He’d almost succeeded.
On the stone floor, Safia folded her body tightly, her legs beneath her. A turtle backing into its shell. She kept her head down, her grimy hands shielding her skull. Her Mao pajamas lay like a damp layer of filth over her skin and did nothing to protect her from the cold, wet stones. Or him.
Between his boots crunching lightly on the stone floor, she listened to his indrawn breath, the almost imperceptible brush of his clothing as his arm rose. She tightened down her muscles. The cane snapped, the lash licking across her back and wrapping under her ribs. Her teeth sank into her lip as un-godly pain burned in stripes over her spine.
Warm blood pooled in her mouth. swallowswalloswallow
The moan slid back down her throat, denying him victory.
He enjoyed her screams, but she offered no sound except her struggle for air.
Water dripped somewhere.
“I will have to think of something else then,” he said.
His accent scraped with a guttural sound. She could never put her finger on the region. It didn’t matter. She wanted to kill him. He probably knew it. His visits were less frequent and theirs was a twisted relationship. He talked. She never spoke. Never. Well, except to scream her freaking head off the first time he’d struck her. She wondered if his nose still hurt.
Her stomach coiled noisily, acid stewing on nothing. Food was a memory and she closed that mental door and kept in position. Waiting for another strike. Waiting till he dropped the lash made from strips of sugar cane. Layered, the cane could hold a man’s weight, yet woven in a tubular braid, its flexing tongue didn’t cut right away, the welts swelling till they burst the skin. He enjoyed letting it slither in front of her vision. It wasn’t his only threat. He favored waterboarding in the beginning, bringing her so close to her death she’d felt the last of her air trade with water. How many times had he visited?
Her captivity was meaningless stretches between sessions. Without a shred of light, she no longer counted the days, her brain occupied with trying to understand why she’d been captured. She was in the field, but spent most of her days in a flat, monitoring movement of the local police and relaying information to experienced officers. Then she’d received an assignment, just a carrier pigeon. It wasn’t unusual nor the first time. She’d been delivering a piece of art, a Chinese urn to an antique shop in Hong Kong. An exchange for information. As far as she knew, that’s all it was, a jar. She remembered standing at the shop door, reaching for the latch and feeling someone move up behind her, then nothing. Not even collapsing.
She’d been tied up until recently; her wrists were still swollen with torn and blistered flesh. Her skin there was warm; infection was setting in. She peeked between her fingers and spied his boots, the toes polished, yet this time, the laces were wet. Dirt and a tiny bit of green clung to the rim of his heel. He’d been fastidious before, the boots unusually tidy when everything around here was filthy and medieval.
She didn’t know where here was exactly. She’d woken up in this cell. As far as she knew, she was the only prisoner. She never heard or saw anyone except him and one guard. Their faces were a mystery, always hooded, and when she’d tried to look, he struck her down. Yet she’d glimpsed mud-brown material with small slits in the hood for eyes and mouth. He smelled vaguely of garlic. People who hid behind masks drew strength from anonymity. Her body was feeling every bit of his freedom.
He dropped the braided canes. She turned her head a fraction more to watch his retreat, but again, saw only his boots. He wouldn’t leave the whip. She could use it to hang herself and he wanted her alive, this man with no name. If he’d said it, she didn’t give a damn. Chung, was how she thought of him. Bluish light from the single lantern on the floor outside the door reflected in, and she imagined him taking the measured steps. Like small warnings. He would do as he’d done before. Step. Look back, then turn on his heels and two steps back into the cell to bend for the whip. He wasn’t aware of the tell, but he was aware of the threat. Daring her to react. If she did, he’d strike.
At the cell door, he stopped. Before he turned to face her, she inched her arm to see him
