Jones pushed the pause button and glanced at Payne, whose face was completely ashen. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Yeah,” Payne muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. He didn’t really want to, but if he was going to help Ariane, he knew he had no choice. “Play the disc.”
“Are you sure?”
Payne shook his head from side to side. “But play it anyways.”
With the touch of a button, Ariane screamed like a banshee, sending chills through Payne and Jones. As her wail echoed through the room, it was quickly replaced by heavy footsteps, muffled squeals, and then the most frightening sound of all.
Silence.
CHAPTER 12
WHILE Holmes, Jackson, and Webster had breakfast in the mansion, Hakeem Ndjai, an unmerciful man who’d been hired as the Plantation overseer, took control of the captives.
Even though he was a valuable part of the Plantation team, his foreign heritage excluded him from the decision-making hierarchy. He had been handpicked by Holmes, who had heard several stories of Ndjai’s unwavering toughness in Nkambe, Cameroon, where Ndjai had been an overseer on a cacao plantation. Like most workers from his country, he had labored in unbearable conditions for virtually nothing-his average income was only $150 per year-so when Holmes offered him a job in America, Ndjai wept for joy for the first time in his life.
But that was several months ago, and Ndjai was back to his old ways.
In a cold growl, Ndjai reinforced the instructions that Jackson and Holmes had given during their cross-burning party, but he did it with his own special touch. “I am the overseer of this Plantation, and out of respect for my job, you shall refer to me as sir. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the naked group shouted.
“Each of you has been brought here for a reason, and that reason will eventually be revealed. Until that time, you will become a part of the Plantation’s working staff, performing the duties that will be assigned to you.” Ndjai signaled one of the guards, who ran forward, carrying a silver belt that shone in the sun. “While you are working, you will be positioned on various parts of our land, and at some point, you might be tempted to run for freedom.”
He smiled under his dark cloak. “It is something I do not recommend.”
Ndjai grabbed the metal belt and wrapped it around a cement slab that rested near the bloodstained chopping block. After clicking the belt in place, he handed the cement to a nearby guard, who immediately carried it fifty yards from the crowd.
“When you are given your uniforms, you will have one of these belts locked to your ankle. It cannot be removed by anyone but me, and I will not remove it for any reason during your stay on this island.” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny remote control. He held the gadget in the air so everyone could see it. “This is what you Americans call a deterrent.”
With a push of a button, the cement block erupted into a shower of rubble, sending shards of rock in every direction and smoke high into the air.
“Did I get your attention?” he asked. “Now imagine what would have happened if your personal anklet were to be detonated. I doubt much of you would be found.”
A couple of the guards snickered, but Ndjai silenced them with a sharp stare. He would not tolerate disrespect from anybody.
“I know some of you will try to figure out how your anklets work, and some of you will try to disarm them. Well, I will tell you now: Your efforts will fail! We have buried a small number of transmitters throughout the Plantation. If at any time your anklet crosses the perimeter, your personal bomb will explode, killing you instantly. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing. If your device is detonated, it will send a signal to the anklets that are being worn by several other prisoners, and they will be killed as well. Do you understand?”
They certainly did, and the mere thought of it made them shudder.
CHAPTER 13
JONES returned to his scenic office and locked himself in his massive technology lab. The room cost a staggering amount of money and was filled with high-tech equipment that many police departments would love to have. The most important piece of hardware was the computer, but it was the instrument that cost Jones the least. Built by Payne Industries, the computer was a scaled-down version of the system used at FBI headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and had been given to Jones as an office-warming gift.
Placing the surveillance disc into the unit, Jones quickly broke the footage into manageable data files. He was then able to select a precise frame from the video and put it on his screen in microscopic clarity.
“What should I look at first?” he mumbled to himself.
Then it dawned on him. He wanted to examine the assailant’s right wrist to see if the black mark was, in fact, a tattoo.
Jones scrolled through a number of frames until he found the scene that fit his specific needs. The suspect’s arm was centered perfectly on the monitor, and the gap between the glove and the sleeve was at its widest. Then he zoomed in and sharpened the image.
A few seconds later, Jones smiled in triumph when an elaborate tattoo came into view. The three-inch design was in the shape of the letter P, and it started directly below the palm of the suspect’s hand. The straight edge of the symbol was in the form of an intricately detailed sword, the blade’s handle rising high above the letter’s curve. At the base of the drawing, small drops of blood fell from the weapon’s tip, leaving the impression that it had just been pulled from the flesh of a fallen victim. Finally, dangling from each side of the sword was a series of broken chains, which appeared to be severed near the left and right edge.
As Jones printed several copies of the image, his speakerphone buzzed, followed by the voice of his secretary. “Mr. Payne is on line one.”
With a touch of a button, Jones answered his call. “Jon, any news?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I went to the police like you suggested and filled out the appropriate paperwork. It turns out that I knew a few of the officers on duty. They assured me that Ariane would get top priority.”
“Even though she’s only been gone a few hours?”
“Her scream on the surveillance tape and Mr. McNally’s testimony have a lot to do with it. Normally, they’d wait a lot longer before they pursued a missing person, but as I said, the evidence suggests foul play.”
“Did they give you any advice?”
“I wouldn’t call it advice. I think a warning would be more accurate. These cops know me, so they automatically assumed that I would do something stupid to get in their way. Why would they think that?”
Jones smiled. The cops had pegged him perfectly. Payne was definitely the intrusive type. “Instead of giving you the obvious answer, let me tell you what I discovered.” He described the image in detail, then filled him in on a theory. “I think we’re looking for a Holotat.”
“A Holo-what?”
“Holotat.”
Payne scrunched his face. “What the hell is that?”
“Back in World War Two, German guards used to tattoo their prisoners with numbers on their
