The cloying stench of blood hung in the air, incongruous in the opulent surroundings of the up-market apartment. The muffled screams had died to almost nothing, but the whimpers grated on Luke’s already raw nerves. Crossing the room, he dragged aside the brocade curtains to stare down at the view of Manhattan spread out below him.
Finally, he forced himself to turn around. He dropped onto the sofa opposite, rested his head against the back, and studied Fischer. The man was strapped into one of the delicate antique chairs, naked from the waist up, a makeshift bandage across his right shoulder. Blood had already soaked through, a perfect match with the crimson velvet upholstery.
They’d been watching Fischer for two days and had taken him that morning, when he’d shown signs of leaving town. Now, Luke needed to find out if he knew anything useful, or if this was yet another futile exercise in time-wasting.
So far, the man wasn’t talking.
Callum stood beside the chair, his face impassive. In his right hand, he held a syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid. Luke nodded, and Callum tapped the syringe, then pushed the needle into the prominent vein showing blue against the inside of Fischer’s arm. The result was instantaneous. Fischer’s spine arched out from the chair, and a low sound of agony vibrated in his throat.
Luke ignored the shiver of disgust that rippled across his skin. He’d taken this path ten years ago. He wouldn’t back down when things got messy; not when, for the first time, they had a real connection. But the interrogation was taking too long, and impatience and self-loathing gnawed at his guts.
He tried to live his life by a code of rules, but he’d redefined those rules so many times; always pushing the boundaries that little bit further, until now they’d lost any real value. But he believed there had to be some people willing to cross their own lines, otherwise, the bad guys, the people unhampered by rules, would win.
Still, at times like these, he couldn’t help but wonder what Leah would think of him now. Though that hardly mattered—Leah had been dead a long time.
The sound died away. Callum leaned forward and released the gag from Fischer’s mouth.
“Tell me why you are in New York.” Callum’s tone was icy cold.
Fischer’s head rolled up to look at him. A sheen of sweat glistened on gray-tinged skin. “I don’t know any more than I’ve told you already.” His voice was weak and shaky.
Callum’s eyes narrowed, and his finger tightened against the plunger.
“I don’t know anything, I swear.”
Callum glanced up at Luke and gave a slight shake of his head.
“Damn.” Luke rose to his feet and slammed his fist into the wall behind him.
Was this all for nothing? Another dead end?
He rubbed at the skin on the back of his neck—the site of an old burn—the scar always itched when he was stressed. He turned back to Fischer. His head rested against the back of the chair, face slack, but his eyelids fluttered open, and Luke caught a flicker of awareness, a brief flash of cunning.
He strode across the room and snatched the syringe from Callum. Callum raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Luke grabbed Fischer’s hair and forced him to look up. He held the man’s gaze as he plunged the needle into the hard muscle of Fischer’s thigh. Releasing his hold, he stood impassively as Fischer convulsed against his restraints. When his body went limp, Luke leaned over. “Talk to me.”
When there was no answer, he removed the syringe, refilled it, and returned. He held it poised.
“Wait.”
Luke placed the syringe down on the table. “Talk.”
“Descartes.”
The voice was thready, and Luke had to strain to hear the word. “What?”
“The Descartes Project. Some sort of terrorist attack—I think. That’s all I know.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know. Days…weeks.”
“Who do you report to? Who runs the Conclave?”
Luke searched for some reaction to the name, but nothing showed on Fischer’s face. Still, he held his breath as he waited for an answer.
“I don’t know anything about the Conclave.” Panic flared in his face as Luke picked up the syringe. “I’m telling you the truth. It doesn’t work like that. After they recruited me, I was given a contact. He’s the only one I know, the only one. I swear.”
“Give me a name.”
The man swallowed, hesitated, but Luke knew he was broken.
“Lee Carson.”
“Is he here in New York?”
“I don’t think so. He’s based in London.”
The name meant nothing, and Luke ground his teeth. A dull pain throbbed in his temple, and he rubbed his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep.
He’d thought this was a breakthrough. Instead, it was just one more layer in the complex web that made up the Conclave. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. They hid themselves too well, each level protected by a series of intrigue and illusion. He was beginning to think he would never get to the true leaders behind the monster.
“We’re not going to get any more out of him,” Callum said.
“I know.” He tossed the syringe onto the floor. “Shit.”
“Look, it’s something. I’ll get working on the name. See if I can locate this Lee Carson.”
Luke ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “I’ll get on a flight to London. Call me when you have the details.”
“You should sleep first. You’re running on nothing.”
“I can sleep on the plane. We’re close. I know we are. For the first time, I’ve got their scent. And you heard him—this thing is going down soon.”
Callum waved a hand toward Fischer. “What do you want to do with Fischer?”
“Get rid of him.”
Callum nodded. “I’ll see to it and follow you to London. So, Descartes? Does it mean anything to you?”
“It’s a place.”
“You plan on paying a visit?”
Luke’s lips curved up in the semblance of a smile. The sensation felt strange. “I hardly think so. Descartes is on the moon.”