CHAPTER FIVE
TOM STARED AT THE IPAD, ALLE’S PANICKED GAZE FROM THE FEED piercing his soul.
He aimed the gun at Zachariah Simon.
“All that will do,” his visitor said, “is speed the rape of your daughter. They will ravage her, and you will be responsible.”
He watched on the screen as the black man slit Alle’s other pant leg up to the waist.
“You are a troubled man,” Simon said to him. “Once a respected journalist, a premier international reporter. Then, total disgrace. A story you fabricated. Nonexistent sources, imaginary documentation. Not a word could be substantiated, and you were revealed to be a fraud.”
The muscles in his throat knotted. “Anybody can surf the Internet.”
Simon chuckled. “Is that what you think? That I am so shallow? I assure you, Mr. Sagan, I have spent a great deal of energy looking into you. Now you are a purveyor of fiction. You ghostwrite novels for others. Several of which have become bestsellers. How does it feel for someone else to claim your success as their own?”
On the screen both men were taunting Alle. He could see their lips moving though no sound came from the muted speaker.
He trained the gun on Simon, who gestured with the iPad.
“You can shoot me. But what of her?”
“What do you want?”
“First, I need you to believe me when I say that I will harm your daughter. Do you?”
His left hand kept the gun leveled, but his gaze darted back to the screen. Both men were exploring areas that the slits in Alle’s pants had made readily accessible.
It had to stop.
“Second,” Simon said. “I require a task from you. After that, your daughter will be released and you may finish what I interrupted here this afternoon.”
“What task?” he demanded.
“I need your father’s body exhumed.”
———
THE FLOOD LAMP EXTINGUISHED, AS DID THE RED LIGHT ON THE camera. Alle lay back on the bed, freed from the cocoon of illumination.
Another light came on. Less bright, but enough to expose the room.
Rocha sat beside her.
Sweat soaked her brow.
The first communication with her father in two years had ended.
Rocha stared down at her, the knife now back in his hand. Midnight stood beside the camera. Both of her legs could be seen from the slits, but at least their hands were not on her.
“Shall we continue?” Rocha asked, a touch of Portuguese in his voice.
She bore her gaze into him and fought the urge not to shake from fear.
“I guess not,” he said, adding a smile.
He cut away the restraints on her arms, then the ones for her legs. She sat up and stripped the tape from her mouth, telling herself to handle these men carefully. “Was all that necessary?”
“You like?” Rocha asked, clearly proud of himself.
She’d told them to be convincing, even suggested using a knife. But she’d never mentioned anything about slitting her clothes and groping her body.
But what did she expect?
These men were undisciplined opportunists, and she’d presented them with a golden opportunity.
She stood and stripped the bindings from her wrists and ankles. She just wanted to leave. “You made the point. We’re done.”
Midnight said nothing, nor did he act particularly interested. He never did. He was a quiet sort that seemed to do only what he was told.
Rocha was the one in charge.
At least while Zachariah was gone.
She wondered about what was happening in Florida, at her grandfather’s house in Mount Dora. The call had come less than an hour ago from Zachariah, saying that her father had driven there from Orlando, a thirty-minute trek east on Interstate 4, one she’d made many times.
Then, another call.
Her father had a gun and seemed about to kill himself. For an instant that had bothered her. No matter what
