Mitchell Parker was dragged to his feet by a person on each side of his bound arms. His blindfold prevented him from seeing them or where he was going. He tried to listen, to gain his bearings. In the distance he could hear a car engine, and the occasional voice speaking in Chinese, but otherwise the rooms were eerily quiet. Did Sam get away?
Mitch felt his heart pounding in his chest. As he was led into another room, he momentarily felt the sun on his face; it was gone just as quickly, and then he was taken downstairs. He wasn’t sure what time of the day it was, or whether he was facing east or west. He was pushed down into a chair, the hands releasing him.
Keep your head, Mitch coached himself, remembering his interrogation training. He braced himself, waiting. For several minutes no one in the room spoke. Someone began to circle the chair, the sound of heels on the floor echoing. He could feel them only inches from his body. Mitch involuntarily tensed, expecting to feel the impact of a hit. He tried to think of something else—of the team, of jogging, of Charlotte… no, not Charlie.
An Asian voice addressed him to his right, making him jump slightly. The male was speaking English.
“We can do this one of two ways,” the speaker said. “You can either tell me your name, where you are from and what you were doing near our headquarters, or we can begin the customary process of forcing it from you. We both know that will be tedious, and for you painful, and the end result will be the same, so can I suggest we cut to the chase?”
Before Mitch had a chance to reply he was hit full force in the chest with something that felt like a flat piece of timber. His body wasn’t prepared, and the pain was breathtaking. He doubled up in shock, gasping for air, but the two people on either side pulled him upright.
“Shall we begin?” the Asian voice continued.
Mitch could hardly speak for the effort it took him to breathe. His mind was racing.
What can I tell them?
“Name?” the voice rapped out.
Mitch tried to think of what they might believe and he grappled for one of his aliases that were on the system and traceable.
“Owen,” the words stumbled out, “James Owen.”
There was a silence.
Mitch braced, waiting for the impact, the shock waves coursing through his body.
“Company?”
His body slumped at not getting the beating he expected.
“Innovation Enterprises.”
Again the silence. He heard one of the men leave the room, his heels tapping on the tiled floor.
He’s going to check it out, he thought, comforted by the fact that the alias would exist. The last use of the credit card would place him at Washington University earlier in the year when he booked a lab.
Mitch could sense someone was still in the room, on the left side of him. He was conscious of his breathing, the rapid increase—he tried to control it but the silence unnerved him.
The next question was issued in a low voice. “Who was the girl?”
“A colleague,” Mitch answered.
“Your name?” The Asian man hissed the same question in his ear.
“James Owen.”
This time the blow came to the side of his face; splitting skin near his eyebrow and striking across the bridge of his nose. Mitch felt the blood pouring down his face.
“Who do you work for?”
“Innovative … Innovative,”… fuck. He had forgotten the company name in the pain that consumed him. His mind froze in fear.
“Who do you work for?” the voice snapped.
This is not good, he thought. He doesn’t believe me; we’re going to be here for a very long time.
“Company name?”
“Innovative Enterprises,” the words stumbled out of Mitch’s mouth as he spat out the blood that pooled in his mouth.
“Name?” the Asian voice yelled again. This time the blow was to Mitch’s right leg—a direct hit to the side and then to the top of his thigh, the instantaneous sharp and shooting pain shutting down his thoughts.
“Name?” his interrogator demanded.
He answered slowly, knowing he would get another beating after his response.
“James Owen.”
Mitch heard the instrument coming towards him, the feel of movement in the air and he braced. He gasped in pain as it made impact and he could hear the crack as it felt like his ribs fracturing.
“Company?” the Asian voice continued to demand, barking the word out military-style.
Mitch gasped, unable to speak.
“Company?”
“Innovative Enterprises.” Blood spat from his mouth as he hissed the words.
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re a technology company. We picked up signals,” he gasped, “on our system,” another sharp breath; “we were checking it out, making sure that it was legit … our cable gets stolen all the time.” It was a believable lie, a good one even, he thought, given he had seen the communications room.
No sooner had he finished speaking than the same blunt instrument thumped into the back of the neck. Mitch saw white as pain ran up his neck and down his spine. And again, across the knees. He heard himself yell out from the pain but his mind was scrambling to stay conscious. He knew more was coming.
“What were you looking for?” the Asian voice continued.
Mitch tried to speak, but his chest was racked with pain and breathing was impossible. The delay cost him more pain. This time, he felt the chair falling towards the floor. He couldn’t see through the blindfold the boots coming at him—aimed at his throat, his stomach, his ribs. Mitch could feel the blood trickling down the side of his face before blackness engulfed him.
Ellen parked her hire car next to Mitch’s car in Maple Lane and rang John.
“Anything from his tracer?” she asked.
“Nothing, no signal at all. It’s either not on or it has been broken,” John said.
“Sam has reported she’s not picking up anything from the bugs, so they can’t be in the house, but their car is still there … the white Camry, I can see it from here,” Ellen said.
“And Nick and Sam?” John asked.
“Nick has had no sightings at the lighthouse and beach. He’s going to pick up Sam and they’re on their way to join me. We’re going into the communications room to see if the cameras are picking up anything, but I don’t want to go in alone.”
“Good, wait for them,” John agreed.
“Can you get one of the translators to call in if they pick up anything since I’m pulling Sam from it?”
“Done,” John agreed. “Ellie, hurry, but be careful.”
Mitch slowly began to regain consciousness. He didn’t know how long he had been out for, but he was lying on his stomach on a concrete floor, blindfolded, hands tied behind his back. For a few minutes he didn’t move at all, listening to what was around him. He seemed to be alone. His head was aching and the pain in his chest and knees was made worse by his position. Moving onto his side sent fresh pain waves through his body and he inhaled sharply, running his tongue over his lips. Water—he desperately needed water. He felt the sticky, dry blood on his face and a slight ringing in his ear.
Where are you guys, he thought to his team. He thought about dying there and not being found, but quickly pulled himself out of that spiral. He had to have a plan. He had to get the physical strength to carry out a plan. He tried to loosen his wrist ties, but the skin was raw from the rub of the rope bonds. Mitch debated the wisdom of trying to get the blindfold off. Doing so could be his demise should he see their faces, but there would be no escape if he didn’t. He raised his knees to his chest and rubbed the side of his head that wasn’t bleeding against his legs. The blindfold began to move up his head. Holding his breath, he continued, until he had pushed it far enough off to see.
He waited until his eyes adjusted to the surroundings and then looked around. He was in a large, empty room. The floor and walls were concrete and the windows had been bricked in. A large metal door looked to be bolted shut from the outside and a small and dirty double-glass square panel in the door allowed for the only source of light. It wasn’t much. Unnervingly, he noticed a trail of blood from the wall to the floor in two corners. He obviously wasn’t the first guest. A number of bullet holes were also embedded into the concrete.
Mitch pulled himself up to standing position. His black clothing was damp from his own blood and he spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into the corner. He stood, turning slowly around the room, taking in the walls, ceiling and door.
After ten minutes, he realized there was no way out.
I’m truly screwed.
Then he saw it. In a corner, next to a bucket which he hoped was full of water, were several items that had been stripped from him and discarded as worthless. His wallet which never carried any ID, his sunglasses and his watch! His gun and phone were missing. Falling to his knees beside the watch, he silently prayed it wasn’t broken. He turned around, leaning down to grab it from behind with his tied hands and feeling along the side of it; he hit the global positioning tracer button. He dropped it, turning around to check the tracer was on, praying the concrete cell would not stop the signal. The “T” on the top right of the screen confirmed it was working. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
Water! His next immediate thought was a need for water. The bucket had something in the bottom, but the stench told him it wasn’t water. He looked around but there was nothing else drinkable in the room. It began to distract him. He had to have water.
Enough, he coached himself again. Plan B. There’s no way out, so get back in position, conserve energy and face the opposite way to the door.
He pulled himself up again and going back to the pool of blood where he had been dumped originally, slumped down into it again. Pretending to be unconscious, he turned his back to the wall. Using his knees again and lowering his head, he did his best to get the blindfold back over his eyes, then lay in fetal position, not moving, just listening. He knew he had to play weak and defenseless until he could get one of them alone or see a way out. The more fight he put up, the more they would beat it out of him. Mitch closed his eyes, hoping that the signal would get through; that John Windsor would be receiving it right now, before the next question and answer session with his Asian captors.
He knew as soon as they confirmed he was only James Owen, a tech guy, he was as good as dead. If they believed he was something more, he was dead eventually; but not until they had gathered some more intel from him, and that was not going to be pleasant.
John paced the length of his office. Like the old days when he worked as an operative, he picked up the overflow of Mitch’s role, coordinating the research team and reports from Ellen who was in charge on the ground. It was nearing three p.m., almost eight hours since Mitch went missing. You can do a lot of damage in eight hours, he knew. John had lost operatives before on the job. His first loss was almost two decades ago now—he hadn’t been in the director job for too long himself, when Mark O’Meara, the forty-year-old veteran officer and his team of two, Susan Nicholas and Nelson Robinson, were taken out by a bomb. Nelson had hung on for a few days, but lost his fight. John could still see them as they were then; happy, talented and ambitious.
Nine years later, John lost another one of his leaders, but just the leader—Joe Campbell was shot in crossfire—gone in just seconds. All that energy and experience, wiped out in seconds. The team got a new leader but eventually disbanded; it was never the same.
John knew it was unprofessional, but he would throw the rule book out the window to find Mitchell Parker. He wasn’t just an agent under his command; Mitch meant a lot to him. He was the son he would have liked to have had: smart, compassionate, heroic and determined. He knew Mitch, he understood what made him tick, and he was not going to lose this one.
His phone rang and he glanced at the clock—on the hour, every hour as Ellen had agreed.
“We’re inside the VIP house,” she said quietly. “The lights are on, but it appears empty. The white Camry is still outside. John …” she took a deep breath, “Mitch, he’s on the screen, the monitor in the communications room.”
“What?” John exclaimed.
Ellen continued in a low voice. “There are a number of monitors in the communications room; one shows the beach, another is a view from the lighthouse and the external perimeters of the VIP house … their screens are feeding live. But one of the monitors features a cell and what looks like an interrogation room; they are adjoining but both in shot. The windows are bricked in but there’s artificial light coming through the door. Mitch is on the floor of the cell.”
“Is he … ” John hesitated.
“We think he’s alive.” She looked to Nick. “He hasn’t moved but I think his chest has risen. He’s bound up and blindfolded.”
“Where is it?” John asked.
“We don’t know, that’s the problem. Nick and Sam saw these rooms last time they were here but they’re not in this building.”
John heard Nick speak beside Ellen.
“What’s wrong?” John asked.
“Mitch has moved,” Ellen said. “He’s alive.”
John exhaled with relief. “Then where the hell is he?”
“The room’s not here; we’ve looked in every cupboard, under stairs, every loose floorboard. Nick is on the phone to a local real estate agent to see what has been rented locally in the last six months to a year in case there’s a house nearby where he could be,” Ellen said in desperation. “I’m going to case the yard, Sam’s checking the communication gear to see if it tells us anything. It’s all I can think of … ”
“Go to it,” John hung up. He needed to think through the next step. Is there any chance Mitch will survive with these guys … there are four missing police officers, why would they save him?
Where the hell are you, Mitch?
As though reading his thoughts, the tracer on his watch emitted a sharp beeping sound.