But there was no response.
Stratton bent down, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.
And she tumbled over. Blood coated the front of her white shirt. The slash across her throat had nearly bled out.
Stratton recoiled in shock, seeing the girl he had pined over for the last eight hours so brutally murdered. With the horror of death witnessed for the second time, his mind was distracted. He never saw the small charge of C4 in her lap. It never occurred to him that she would be booby-trapped. The charge tore him and Holly apart before he had any chance of escape
Charlie was sitting in the office chair, still struggling to get his bearings. The ringing in his ears had died down a bit, but he still had the sense of being underwater. The sounds of the world were muddled and distant. He felt as if he had just been hit by a train. His skin burned from the heat of the blast, but he was thankful that nothing appeared broken and that somehow he was still alive.
Aaron slipped into the room, his gun at the ready. “Someone else is in there. They took out Donal. Now Keeler’s slipped away.”
Cristos grabbed Charlie by the hair and pulled him out of the chair, slamming him against the wall. “You know why we’re here.” It was a statement, not a question.
Charlie smiled at Cristos. It was a knowing smile, a fuck-you smile.
Cristos slammed him against the wall again. “Where is the case brought in here by Jack Keeler?”
“I moved it,” Charlie said with a grin. “Jack doesn’t even know. Once I heard he was killed, I had a feeling something like this would happen. And you, my friend, will never find it.”
“Then I guess I have no need for Jack anymore,” Cristos said as he threw Charlie back into the chair. He shot a knowing look at Aaron.
The statement was like smelling salts, pulling Charlie to full alertness.
“If you value not only your life but theirs, you’ll tell me.”
Charlie stared up at the man, ignoring the pain of the burns, the stinging of the glass in his face. When Charlie woke up this morning, showered, dressed, and kissed his wife, Lisa, good-bye, he’d had no idea it would be the last time he would see her. He valued his life, something he knew the man before him did not, and he knew that it would quickly end once he got what he came for. Charlie resigned himself to death and in doing so would take the location of the box with him.
“Keeler’s loose in there,” Aaron said as he tightened the strap of the black bag on his shoulder.
“Relax. He’s got nowhere to go.” Cristos looked at his watch. “But we don’t have much time.”
Aaron looked at the computer on the side desk, its monitor cracked. “Not a chance we’re going to find it in there.”
Cristos stared off, his mind spinning, then, without a warning, he turned and shot Charlie in the foot, the sound of the report deafening in the small space.
Charlie grimaced as he instinctively tried to lift his now-mangled foot. But Cristos restrained his hands as he glared at him, letting the shock of the wound fade and all of the pain pour in.
“You’re going to tell me where the case is-” Cristos leaned in close, eye-to-eye with Charlie, staring at the tiny pieces of glass under his skin, at the pain in his eyes. Charlie’s eye lids began to flutter; he was near passing out. “Because every man has his breaking point.”
Cristos pulled an EpiPen from inside his jacket, removed the needle cover, and jabbed it into Charlie’s neck.
Charlie’s body went rigid, his eyes flashing open as his heart began to race.
“No passing out on me now,” Cristos said. “The epinephrine and adrenaline will keep your ass wide awake and your senses on fire, so you’ll feel everything I’m about to do to you.”
“I may be wide awake,” Charlie said as he gritted his teeth, “but I’ll bleed out before you find out what you need. The only person I would ever tell is the one the box belongs to, and we both know that is not you.”
Cristos centered Charlie’s large frame in the wheeled office chair and bound his torso to the seatback with an extension cord so Charlie wouldn’t fall as he lost his strength. He pushed him out into the evidence room, guiding him from behind like a nurse, except that the gun he kept pressed against Charlie’s head quickly vanquished that image.
“Aaron!” Cristos shouted as he continued pushing Charlie down the center aisle toward the middle of the room. “Keep an eye on that door.”
Aaron stood at the exit door, his pistol gripped tightly in his hand, his other wrapped around the black bag strap on his shoulder, as his eyes scanned the area for movement.
“So, Mr. Keeler!” Cristos called out. “Your friend Charlie seems to have moved your little box. And he’s only willing to tell you were he moved it to.”
Jack stayed low, in the shadows of aisle L. He could see Charlie and Cristos as plain as day, his friend precariously perched on the chair. Blood flowed from his shattered foot, leaving a red-dotted trail behind him. Cristos stopped at the midpoint of the main center aisle beneath a harsh bright light that seemed to wash what little life remained from Charlie’s shattered face.
Cristos stood over Charlie, his gun pressed down against his knee. “Mr. Keeler?”
Jack remained silent.
Kpow. The gun exploded, the large-caliber bullet shattering Charlie’s knee cap, cartilage, and tendons, nearly separating the leg at the joint. Charlie grimaced in agony, but no cry escaped his lips, his pain channeled into an angry gasp.
“Mr. Keeler,” Cristos said without remorse, without emotion, “I’ve got far more bullets than you have time. I suggest you answer me.”
Jack remained silent, his soul broken as he watched his friend suffer. As despicable as it seemed to watch a friend die, he knew that it was inevitable. They had no intention of allowing Charlie or, for that matter, himself to live.
Kpow. The bullet tore into Charlie’s groin. Charlie’s eyes were glazing over from the pain, his staccato gasps echoing in the room.
“Your wife’s survival depends on you. I suggest you speak to your friend and get me that case before it’s too late.” Cristos spun around and walked back down the aisle, leaving Charlie sitting there in the open.
Jack moved closer. He could see the damage to his friend, shocked at his condition: his face dotted with wounds, his lower body soaked in blood.
“I’ll give you thirty seconds to talk to him,” Cristos called out. “Then you’ve got one minute to get me the case. Or your wife will die a far more slow and horrific death than your friend.”
Charlie looked around the room, his head turning to and fro, when he finally caught sight of Jack. Their eyes locked, a moment of painful understanding passing between them.
Charlie managed a pained smile and nodded as Jack emerged from the rows of shelves. He slowly walked forward, paying no attention to Cristos and Aaron, who stood in the doorway at the other end of the room. Jack put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and stared down at his shattered body. He was filled with pain, heart-rending agony at the torture of his friend. He had spent so much of his life seeing the aftermath of crimes, the horrific photographs, the witness statements, the testimony of those who had seen the evil in men’s eyes, that he had forgotten the reality of the brutal origins of those pictures and stories.
“Don’t look so troubled,” Charlie whispered.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Jack,” Charlie whispered, “you have to do me a favor.”
Jack leaned into his friend, taking his bloody hand in his own. “Is there something you want me to tell your wife?”
“No, she knows how I feel. No worries.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Row S,” Charlie struggled to speak. “Case nine-two-nine-six.”
Jack looked into his dying friend’s eyes. “What’s in it, Charlie?”
“Just find it. You’ll understand.”
Jack nodded.
“And Jack,” Charlie whispered, reaching out with a closed fist to place something in Jack’s hand, “it’s always
