Sidney Sheldon's Mistress of the Game by Sidney Sheldon, Tilly Bagshawe Page B

the best way, sir. Trust me. We have a lot of experience with hostage situations.”
    Peter thought: I hope to God he knows what he’s doing.
    Agent Edwards thought: I hope to God I know what I’m doing.
    They both thought: What if they kill her between now and nightfall?
    “Try and get some rest, sir. As soon as we hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

     
    The leader and the other man were angry with the pig. Lexi heard them fighting. She could only make out fragments.
    We agreed…Can’t control yourself…What if she identifies?
    She won’t…the mask, man.
    Goddamn pedophile…
    …How much longer?…I want my money.
    Soon…
    Two weeks already…If they were gonna pay…
    Shut the hell up, man! You’ll get your money.
    Lexi pressed her face to the door of her cramped cell, straining to hear every word. Not because she was frightened. But because she was determined to glean as much information about her captors as possible. Especially the pig, the man who had hurt her, who had forced his body inside her.
    My family will come for me. One day soon, they’ll come. Then I’ll make that pig suffer for what he did to me.
    Her greatest nightmare was not that she might be killed, but that her kidnappers might somehow escape. She mustn’t let that happen. They had to be punished.
     
    “Jesus Christ. How much longer?”
    Agent Edwards squatted behind an unmarked car in the gathering darkness. Next to him squatted his junior partner, Agent Jones. Behind them crouched Chuck Barclay, the commander of the special Marine Corps unit that was about to lead the rescue operation.
    “Twelve minutes.” Captain Barclay smiled, a flash of white teeth illuminating his tar-blackened face. He was a small, rather unprepossessing man in his midforties, with a thin wiry body and pinched face; more of a fox terrier than the mastiff that Agent Edwards had been expecting. More worryingly, Barclay’s “crack squad” appeared to consist of only five young marines with night-vision goggles and standard-issue handguns. There wasn’t an automatic weapon or a hand grenade in sight.
    “Barclay’s the best,” Agent Edwards’s boss had assured him.
    He’d better be.
    The twelve minutes felt like twelve hours. It was a warm, late-summer night, but Agent Edwards could feel the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end. Cold clammy sweat seeped from his pores. His shirtwas wet. He noticed Agent Jones was also shivering. The crumbling textile mill on the hill above them was barely discernible in the darkness. Even with the roar of traffic on Route 206 in the distance, it felt like the most desolate place on earth.
    Then, suddenly, a movement. Captain Barclay gave a tight nod to his men. Seconds later, as if by magic, they had dispersed across the flat landscape, dropping into the undergrowth like so many silent leaves. It was impressive.
    The two FBI agents were alone.
    “This is it, sir.”
    Agent Jones was scared of his boss. Andrews was a moody bastard at the best of times, but the Templeton kidnapping had them all on a knife’s edge.
    “Yes, Jones. This is it.”
    “It’ll be okay, sir. Everybody says these guys are the best.”
    “Hmm.”
    “According to reconnaissance—”
    “Shhh.” Agent Edwards put his finger to his lips. “Did you hear that?”
    “What, sir?”
    “Gunfire.”
    “I didn’t hear a s—”
    There was a blinding flash of light. A noise like a lion’s roar but hundreds, thousands of times louder, erupted around them. Instinctively both men covered their ears and dived for the ground.
    “What the…?” Agent Jones’s ears were ringing. He could taste earth and grass and dust in his mouth.
    “Bomb! Stay down!”
    Another roar. Deafening, like being sucked up into a thunder cloud. Flames were visible at the top of the rise. The mill was lit up in an impromptu son et lumière. It was eerily beautiful.
    Agent Edwards fumbled beneath his sodden shirt for his gun.
    “Call for backup. I’m going up