throttle through his chest the instant the paddles touched his naked skin. Nope, there was never a good time to die. But then he had accomplished his mission. This was likely as good a time as any. He lifted his gaze to the nimrod currently holding the power. “We both know I’m not going to talk.”
The jerk laughed, his pale blue eyes glittering with anticipation. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The one manning the controls gave the appropriate knob a violent twist then checked the readout. “Ready,” he announced.
Jonathan’s jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to close his eyes. He stared straight at the SOB with the paddles. Refused to allow even a glimmer of fear or defeat. This waste of DNA might kill him but he couldn’t make him cooperate. Better men had tried.
“Stand down.”
The sharply issued order echoed in the stale air of the long-abandoned warehouse, wiped the smile right off the paddle punk’s face.
Foley should have relaxed. After all, he was just a few volts from dead. This unexpected interruption provided a momentary reprieve. He shifted his attention in the direction of the footsteps coming nearer. Not that he needed visual confirmation. He knew the voice.
Victor Lennox.
Tall, distinguished, with just enough gray at the temples to lend an air of wisdom. Even at a time like this—in a place like this—the man sported a three thousand dollar black silk suit. No doubt the leather shoes he wore were handcrafted. Nothing was too good for a Lennox. A similarly dressed underling, briefcase in hand, rushed after him.
Well, well, Foley mused. Would wonders never cease? He’d thought Lennox was long gone by now. Yet, here he was, in the flesh, assistant in tow.
“Sir,” the underling urged, “the Learjet is waiting. There’s no time.”
Lennox held up a hand, cutting off his much younger colleague. “Before you die,” Lennox said to Foley, his gaze narrowed with disdain and fury, “I have one question.”
Foley licked his cracked lips, noted the taste of blood and sweat. “For the past two hours I’ve been beaten—” his ribs ached with each indrawn breath “—shocked with ever increasing amperage and—” he jerked his head toward the punk with the paddles “—I still didn’t talk. What makes you think I have anything to say to you?”
“Let me give it another go,” paddle punk pleaded. “He’ll talk.” He smirked at Foley. “They always do.”
Lennox shook his head firmly from side to side. “Not this one.”
“Sir.” The assistant dared to intrude into the exchange yet again. “You must hurry.”
Lennox ignored him. “I did my research, Foley. I know all about you.” He made a disparaging sound deep in his throat. “And you’re right, you won’t talk.” He crossed his arms over his chest then reached up and tapped his chin with a finger as if mulling over the situation. “I have friends in places you can’t even fathom. I’m aware of your military career, Major Foley.”
One corner of Foley’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Then you know it was over a long time ago.” Bits and pieces of images flickered through his brain. He banished the memories.
“You endured days of torture,” Lennox went on as if recalling documents he’d only just recently read. “Never uttered a single word while every member of your reconnaissance team was executed right in front of you.” A hint of respect flashed in the man’s eyes. “Still you remained strong. Loyal to the bitter end. Didn’t let your country down.” He gave another shake of that distinguished head. “No, no. You didn’t talk then. You won’t talk now.”
“Then what’s your point?” Foley looked him dead in the eye. He would have a point. A man who’d just been nailed for treason wasn’t going to hang around for anything without a compelling reason.
“After a few years of doing nothing significant, you joined a firm called the Equalizers,” Lennox explained, as if he had all night and wasn’t the slightest bit worried about the feds who no doubt had already turned Chicago upside down to find him. “Your most recent assignment was to do what no one else had been able to do.”
“That’s right.” Foley had gotten Lennox. Gotten him good. No one else had been able to penetrate the perfect shield he’d built around himself. No one had had a clue that it was the esteemed Victor Lennox who was selling out his own company, his own country. Now his crimes were bared to all. He could run, but he would never again possess the power he had flaunted. Checkmate.
Lennox leaned down, stuck his face in Foley’s. “Who sent you?”
“The head of the Equalizers.”
Rage tightened the features of the man’s face better than the Botox he likely used on a regular basis. “Three people were involved in that aspect of my business,” Lennox hissed. “Only three. Not one of them sold me out.”
Foley shrugged. “I guess you’ll never know for sure.”
“Oh, I already know. You see, every man has his breaking point. Each of the three broke eventually. Like you, they remained loyal until the end. Though I suspect they were motivated by fear rather than anything else. You,” he accused, “already knew coming in what you were after. All you had to do was find concrete evidence.”
Foley stared at him. He wasn’t denying or confirming that assertion.
“It’s not necessary for you to corroborate the statement,” Lennox assured him. “I know.”
“Mr. Lennox,” the well-dressed assistant interrupted again, “we must go. Now.”
Continuing to discount the warning, Lennox demanded, “Tell me who sent you.”
That ghost of a smile materialized fully on Foley’s lips. “I told you. My employer—the head of the Equalizers.”
“A name, Foley,” Lennox pressed. “I want a name.”
Foley could tell him that he didn’t know, because he didn’t. No one did. The man behind the Equalizers was a complete unknown. So Foley did what he did best. He said nothing.
“You’ve won,” Lennox fairly shouted. “I’ve been exposed. I’m on the run. Even I know that it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with me. What difference does it make now? I simply want to know the identity of the man who discovered what no one else could.”
Foley wondered if Lennox had any idea just how much satisfaction his sheer desperation prompted.
“Cut him loose,” Lennox ordered.
“What?” the paddle punk demanded.
“Sir!” the assistant declared, his panic clearly mounting.
“He’s going with us,” Lennox announced. “I will know who sent him.” He stared directly at Foley once more. “Every man has his breaking point. All I need is time to find yours.”
While the assistant argued with Lennox, the punk tossed aside the paddles and reached for
