dangled a second bottle like a dog biscuit.
Cassie pushed herself up into kneeling position. Her left arm was now pins and needles, shooting darts of pain, but her legs were still useless, quivering masses of over-strained muscles. She bit her lip against the painful cramping in her thighs and tried to find enough saliva to swallow.
“Where’s Muriel?” She managed to not clamp down on the words as a spasm shot through her right leg.
“I assure you she’s perfectly safe. If you’re not thirsty, I’ll just pour the water out.”
If she’d been able to make any tears, Cassie would have cried as he twisted the cap off one of the bottles and tilted it. The life-giving essence dripped out slowly at first then in a stream, forming an oil-slicked puddle on the cement floor. The bottle empty, Kasanov let it drop to the floor, breaking it into thousands of shards of blue glass glistening in the harsh fluorescent lights.
“I ask you once again, Dr. Hart.” He uncapped the second precious bottle. “Would you like some water?”
Don’t be a fool. Rosa’s voice broke through her resolve. You need to keep your strength up. Get the water, fight later.
“Yes,” Cassie cried as the first precious drops spilled from the bottle.
Kasanov smiled and righted the bottle. “Very well. Come and have a drink.”
Should have seen that one coming, Cassie chided herself. It was impossible, but to salvage some of her pride, she attempted to climb to her feet. She used the bumper of the car for leverage, pressing her bound hands against it. She made it almost to a standing position before her legs gave out, dumping her back onto the floor. Kasanov’s men chuckled from their positions behind her.
Keeping her eyes focused on the sapphire bottle of hope, Cassie dragged her body across the grease-stained floor.
Chapter 16
JIMMY DIDN’T COMPLAIN as Drake drove over the curb and down the sidewalk before bouncing around a patrol car and back onto the street. He dug the red light out of the glove box and set it, revolving, on the dashboard. They made the drive to the FBI’s offices across the river in record time.
Drake never said a word the entire trip, which gave Jimmy the time to pave their way with a few phone calls. He’d figured on browbeating some junior agent stuck with duty on the Friday before Christmas, but mention Kasanov’s name and next thing he knew, it was the head of the Organized Crime task force, a supervisory special agent named Prescott, on the line.
By the time they arrived, security badges and a fresh-scrubbed junior G-man named Taylor were waiting in the lobby, ready to escort Drake and Jimmy upstairs to the inner sanctum.
“What I don’t understand,” a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair was saying as they were led into a high-tech situation room, “is why Kasanov didn’t just kill them all?” He looked up when Drake and Jimmy appeared but didn’t soften his tone. You want in, you’d better be wearing body armor, his expression said.
This must be Prescott. Guy dressed like a movie mafia don and looked like he was leading a hostile takeover of a rival corporation rather than a hastily convened emergency briefing.
“Why leave any witnesses?” Prescott continued. The other two agents in the room with him, neither of who looked old enough to vote, both nodded eagerly.
“He wants something,” Jimmy said, ignoring the federal agents and helping himself to a cup of their coffee. Drake moved to a corner where he could see all the players and have a good view of the computer screen projected onto the far wall. This placed him behind Prescott, but the fed didn’t seem bothered by having a non-feebie at his back.
“Obvious,” came the clipped tones of a peaches-and-cream female agent, her accent hailing from Texas or Oklahoma. She looked like she should be leading a pep rally instead of discussing a violent crime lord. “But what?”
Prescott answered. “Depends on
Cassie pushed herself up into kneeling position. Her left arm was now pins and needles, shooting darts of pain, but her legs were still useless, quivering masses of over-strained muscles. She bit her lip against the painful cramping in her thighs and tried to find enough saliva to swallow.
“Where’s Muriel?” She managed to not clamp down on the words as a spasm shot through her right leg.
“I assure you she’s perfectly safe. If you’re not thirsty, I’ll just pour the water out.”
If she’d been able to make any tears, Cassie would have cried as he twisted the cap off one of the bottles and tilted it. The life-giving essence dripped out slowly at first then in a stream, forming an oil-slicked puddle on the cement floor. The bottle empty, Kasanov let it drop to the floor, breaking it into thousands of shards of blue glass glistening in the harsh fluorescent lights.
“I ask you once again, Dr. Hart.” He uncapped the second precious bottle. “Would you like some water?”
Don’t be a fool. Rosa’s voice broke through her resolve. You need to keep your strength up. Get the water, fight later.
“Yes,” Cassie cried as the first precious drops spilled from the bottle.
Kasanov smiled and righted the bottle. “Very well. Come and have a drink.”
Should have seen that one coming, Cassie chided herself. It was impossible, but to salvage some of her pride, she attempted to climb to her feet. She used the bumper of the car for leverage, pressing her bound hands against it. She made it almost to a standing position before her legs gave out, dumping her back onto the floor. Kasanov’s men chuckled from their positions behind her.
Keeping her eyes focused on the sapphire bottle of hope, Cassie dragged her body across the grease-stained floor.
Chapter 16
JIMMY DIDN’T COMPLAIN as Drake drove over the curb and down the sidewalk before bouncing around a patrol car and back onto the street. He dug the red light out of the glove box and set it, revolving, on the dashboard. They made the drive to the FBI’s offices across the river in record time.
Drake never said a word the entire trip, which gave Jimmy the time to pave their way with a few phone calls. He’d figured on browbeating some junior agent stuck with duty on the Friday before Christmas, but mention Kasanov’s name and next thing he knew, it was the head of the Organized Crime task force, a supervisory special agent named Prescott, on the line.
By the time they arrived, security badges and a fresh-scrubbed junior G-man named Taylor were waiting in the lobby, ready to escort Drake and Jimmy upstairs to the inner sanctum.
“What I don’t understand,” a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair was saying as they were led into a high-tech situation room, “is why Kasanov didn’t just kill them all?” He looked up when Drake and Jimmy appeared but didn’t soften his tone. You want in, you’d better be wearing body armor, his expression said.
This must be Prescott. Guy dressed like a movie mafia don and looked like he was leading a hostile takeover of a rival corporation rather than a hastily convened emergency briefing.
“Why leave any witnesses?” Prescott continued. The other two agents in the room with him, neither of who looked old enough to vote, both nodded eagerly.
“He wants something,” Jimmy said, ignoring the federal agents and helping himself to a cup of their coffee. Drake moved to a corner where he could see all the players and have a good view of the computer screen projected onto the far wall. This placed him behind Prescott, but the fed didn’t seem bothered by having a non-feebie at his back.
“Obvious,” came the clipped tones of a peaches-and-cream female agent, her accent hailing from Texas or Oklahoma. She looked like she should be leading a pep rally instead of discussing a violent crime lord. “But what?”
Prescott answered. “Depends on
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