Smoke and Mirrors

57

The Cutout awoke and couldn’t feel his hands or feet. Opening his eyes with difficulty, he saw that he was in a kitchen chair-not trussed, but still totally powerless. The light from the open door of a closet illuminated his surroundings-an empty house that was, based on the new Sheetrock and plastic-covered floor, being renovated. Daylight was gathering outside, and he could make out the shapes of trees through the filmy windows. Across the room, a man dressed entirely in black and wearing a watch cap leaned against bare wood studs, studying him. The man didn’t look like the descriptions they had of Paulus Styer, but a convincing disguise was part and parcel to Styer’s method.

“Welcome,” the abductor said. “Does your head hurt? Chloroform in the face delivered from a bulb is so much neater and faster than pouring it on a cloth.”

The cutout didn’t answer.

“I guess not. Anyway, I gave you a shot that has your body paralyzed. It’s a variation of Special K, the animal tranquilizer developed for brain surgery when they want to make sure the patient remains perfectly still but can communicate. The effects will last for a few hours. You can still feel, think, and talk, but you can’t move away from pain. The drug affects only the motor responses, but not the nerve endings in your skin. Don’t you love medical research?”

The cutout watched his enemy, more furious than frightened.

“Do you know who I am?” the shadowy figure asked.

“Cold Wind.”

“I haven’t been called that for several years,” Styer said, grimacing. “We can dispense with the small talk. Who is the woman with Massey?”

“Her name is Alexa Keen. She’s an FBI agent.”

“Why is she here?” Styer asked, letting the cutout see his hand and the knife it held. “Is she investigating an abduction?”

“What abduction?”

“A young girl.”

“We’d have picked that up. She’s here to assist Massey because you’re here. That’s all I know.”

“How many of your kind are here, besides you two?”

“Just the two of us.”

“We both know you are lying. There are at least two more of you here, many more than that within fifty miles of us. No way your handlers would hold back after all the failed, under-gunned attempts to take me.”

The cutout knew that they had been close to catching Styer on three occasions. There was the team member Styer had taken out in New Orleans, another member Styer had left crucified in Seattle, and one he’d tortured to death and left in a car trunk at the airport in Mexico City.

“You can join us,” the cutout told him. “Control told us to tell you that if we caught up with you.”

Styer walked over casually, tapping the blade of a survival knife against his thigh. “If you failed to kill me, you mean?”

“Our orders are to give you an opportunity if possible. He thinks you could be a valuable addition to our cell.”

“I could be useful,” Styer said. “But even if it’s true, sooner or later a new control could decide my skills are less valuable than repaying me for leaving egg on the group’s collective face. I don’t trust anybody in a control position. Should I? Would I be able to trust him? Or your friends now that I’ve killed your partner?”

The cutout nodded. “You wouldn’t be the first transplant we have. My partner was collateral damage.”

“But I am an old man in our specialized business. My years of usefulness would be few.”

“They don’t confide in me beyond need to know. I’m just a watcher.”

“And not a very good one, based on how easy it was to take you. How did you people know I was here?”

“I don’t know,” the man said truthfully. “I suppose NSA picked the intel out of a conversation over the wires.”

“A key in on the toothpick thing, no doubt. I have certainly developed an affection for the taste of clove. So Keen and Massey talked about me over the wires?”

The cutout lowered his gaze. All he could do was move his head. “Just get it over with,” he said.

“What’s your hurry? Valhalla is open twenty-four/seven.” Styer reached up and drew his blade down the cutout’s forearm. Blood rushed from the wound, which, due to the sharpness of the instrument, merely felt like a dull pressure. Pain was something the cutout was conditioned to ignore-to a point, at least. But, as if Styer were reading his mind, he reached behind the chair and lifted a bottle of bleach.

“I can’t just take your word for it. I know you understand that. We can’t just take each other’s word, can we?” Styer said, looking out at the coming dawn. “We have time to talk. I want to see how much I can learn from you first. You’d do the same for me, I am sure.”

Styer tugged the cutout’s left nipple out and used the blade to excise it. The sensation was similar to having a concentrated jet of cold air aimed at the spot. He would not tell Styer anything useful, because he didn’t know anything that could be useful. Styer probably knew that already. The cutout could take a great deal of pain, and Styer was sadistic, which meant this was going to last a very long time.