Plot/Counterplot Read online

  “Dylan, I—I feel...very close to you right now.”

  He flipped his tousled black hair out of his gray eyes. “That’s the oxytocin talking.”

  “No. I’m having very...serious thoughts. About us. You meant it, didn’t you? When you said you wanted to be with me always?”

  He returned to the bed and gazed into her lovely Hawaiian eyes. “Just because I’m a fiction writer doesn’t mean I make everything up.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “I’ve been with you two years, and I’ve still never met your family.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to.”

  “I’d like to have your father’s blessing.”

  “I don’t know why. I never did.” Dylan’s mother died when he was six. He and his brother had been raised by his father, in a manner of speaking. “I have a better idea. Let’s start our own family.”

  She threw her arms around him. “Do you mean it?”

  “I mean it.”

  The instant his lips touched hers, the bedroom door slammed open with such speed and force that Dylan involuntarily dug his fingers into Leilani’s flesh. Before he could see anything, he heard the rush of movement. Heavy footsteps. A shadowy figure at the end of the bed. No, there were three figures moving rapidly across his bedroom. How did they get in?

  Dylan sat up, positioning himself between the intruders and Leilani. “What the hell is—”

  Dylan never finished. Something hard hit him in the jaw, slamming his upper body against the headboard.

  “Dylan!” Leilani touched his face. “Dylan!”

  A barely visible hand turned on the lamp by Dylan’s side of the bed.

  Blinking rapidly, struggling to remain conscious, Dylan saw a fair-haired giant with a buzzcut at the edge of the bed. From Dylan’s perspective, he seemed huge, massively built, with arms like barbells and a neck as thick as a pipeline. Dylan exercised regularly, but this man looked superhuman. Sinewy veins snaked through his muscled arms like corded rope. The two other men were smaller but obviously strong. One looked as if he had come from India, or perhaps Pakistan. The other was Caucasian with a face horribly scarred by acne.

  The buzzcut grinned in a manner reminiscent of a dog baring its teeth. “Nice home.” He spoke with an accent—Russian, Dylan thought. “Nice woman.”

  Dylan motioned for Leilani to stay behind him. He felt a sudden rush of fear—but that was good. Fear was a stimulant that sharpened his mind. He would need to think fast to protect Leilani and himself. This was like something out of one of his books. Except he would never have used the thug with the acne-scarred face. Too cliché—the scars on the outside reflect the evil within, so banal and almost—

  “You listen?” Buzzcut said, shaking Dylan by the shoulders. He had a growling voice, like aural sandpaper. “You come with me.”

  “What are you doing in my home?” Dylan kept his voice firm. He’d read that psychopaths could smell fear, like wild beasts. He needed to remain calm, to try to buy time until he could think his way out, or find a weapon, or until help arrived.

  “No questions. Come—”

  Somewhere nearby, probably the corridor outside the front door, Dylan heard a creaking sound.

  Leilani sat up, the bedsheet pulled around her chest, and screamed. “Help!”

  Buzzcut snapped his fingers, then pointed at his acne-scarred accomplice. He grabbed Leilani by the neck, lifted her naked body into the air and hurled her across the room. She hit the mirror over Dylan’s dresser, shattering it into pieces. She fell down onto the dresser amidst a hail of glass shards, then bounced and rolled onto the floor. The top drawer shot out, spilling its contents onto Leilani’s limp body.

  “Leilani! Can you hear me?” Dylan started forward, but two thugs raised large guns and pointed them at his face.

  Leilani’s legs and arms were cut and bleeding, twisted at unnatural angles. She did not move. Her eyes were closed.

  Dylan froze, suppressing his rage. Getting himself killed would not help Leilani. Surely someone outside heard the crash.

  “Stay where you are,” Buzzcut said. “You cannot help. You only make it worse. If you do not do what I tell you—my friend slices up her pretty naked body. She dies. You watch.”

  Chapter 2

  Dylan stared at the three men, his brain scrambling for a plan of action. He was accustomed to orchestrating dramatic situations, rearranging facts and characters to suit his purposes. He was a planner, not an improviser. But here he didn’t have time to plan, and worse, he couldn’t control the characters. He didn’t even know who they were.

  And Leilani lay on the floor, unconscious and bleeding.

  “All right then,” Buzzcut said. “If you keep voice low, you can talk. We have maybe one minute before we leave.” He paused. “You may call me Xavier.”

  Dylan took advantage of the opening. “Okay...Xavier. Why did you attack Leilani?”

  “She compromised mission.”

  “You hurt her.”

  “Collateral damage.”

  “You hurt her.”

  “And?”

  Dylan watched the man carefully, gathering information from the way he talked, the way he carried himself, the way he dressed, even down to his thick-dialed wristwatch. This man was a soldier, one who had seen combat. He was not afraid to hurt people. He would do whatever was required to obtain his objective. “What do you want?”

  “My associate has proposition for you.”

  My associate? Dylan forced himself to think clearly. He needed to remember every detail about everything that happened, every word, every facial expression, every gesture. You can’t write a character until you understand how he thinks. If Dylan paid close attention, he might glean information this man would never tell him.

  The way Xavier had just said “my associate” told Dylan that what he really meant was “my boss.” Xavier might be in charge of this assault, but he was not in command.

  “Whatever your associate is offering,” Dylan said, “I’m not interested.”

  “I use word ‘proposition’ to be nice. You have no choice.” Xavier glanced at his watch. “Time is up. We should go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You can walk on own feet, or I can have friend work you over like he did woman and drag you out. Your choice.”

  “I can’t leave Leilani. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt.”

  “What do you care? We waited till you finished, right?” Xavier grinned, but on him, the expression was chilling. “Even let you cuddle some, yes?” He laughed. “Bitch squeals like pig.”

  Dylan’s voice went cold. “You were watching us?”

  “We watch for long time.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “That’s easy. Just like breaking in here.”

  So they have high-tech surveillance equipment and the ability to override a top-of-the-line security system. Xavier was not employed by amateurs.

  Keep him talking, Dylan. The more he talks, the more you’ll learn. “Who is this associate of yours?”

  “I cannot give you name.”

  “Then what do I call him?”

  “How about...Mr. X? Like in The Diogenes Deception.”

  Dylan’s lips parted. This cretin who broke into his condo—reads his books?

  “Let us do this easy way. My associate thinks you work better if not crippled.” He paused. “But I will do whatever it takes to get job done. I—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence. Dylan heard the squeaking noise outside again, but this time, it was much closer. Someone was heading this way.

  “Dylan? Everything all right in there?”

  Dylan recognized the voice. It was Kane Fielding, the building’s night watchman. This was Dylan’s chance—possibly the only one he would get. They would be reluctant to shoot with a security guard nearby. But it was still dangerous.

  What would Fargo Cody do? he asked himself.

  He’d take any chance
he got.

  Dylan leapt from the bed, grabbed the lamp on the end table and swung it hard at Xavier’s hand, sending his gun flying. While the man was momentarily distracted, Dylan jumped past him, grabbed a bottle of cologne off the dresser and sprayed it into the other gunman’s face. He shrieked and tumbled backward into his associate.

  The path was clear. Dylan darted toward the door, plunged through the threshold—

  And two large hands clapped down onto his shoulders, pulling him back into the room. They wrenched his right arm backward, sending lightning bolts of pain rippling through him. Someone kicked his knees out from behind and he fell, hard. More pain shot up his spine.

  “Big mistake, Dylan,” Xavier whispered.

  Dylan couldn’t budge, much less escape.

  They heard a noise just outside the apartment. “Dylan, are you okay? I heard—”

  Kane Fielding stepped into the bedroom, saw the shattered glass, saw Leilani crumpled on the floor, saw Dylan pinned down and the three men standing behind him. “What in the—”

  Frank reached for his weapon, but Xavier grabbed his hand, twisted his arm behind his back, and pressed down on the pressure point of his palm. Fielding dropped his gun and fell to his knees.

  “You make mistake, Dylan,” Xavier grunted. “Now this man pays for it.” Xavier picked up his gun from the floor.

  “Why?” Dylan said. “He hasn’t done anything. Don’t—”

  Xavier fired. The gun had a suppresser, but Dylan was so close he could still hear it, could feel the bullet whiz past him. The shot ripped the top of Fielding’s skull off like the lid of a tin can. Dylan sprang forward, but Xavier slapped him back down again. Fielding made a short gurgling noise and fell, blood and viscous cranial matter spilling out of his head.

  “Oh my God,” Dylan whispered under his breath.

  “His death—your fault,” Xavier said, yanking Dylan to his feet. “I hope you not make me do anything worse. We leave now. Stay silent or I silence you.” He nodded to his associate. “Take care of girl.” He pushed Dylan out of the bedroom.

  “Take care of her? What does that mean?” Dylan asked. “What are you going to do to her?”

  Xavier clenched his teeth. “I tell you to keep goddamn mouth shut.”

  His fist rocketed toward Dylan with a barely visible blur. It appeared huge, like a ballistic missile heat-seeking its way toward him.

  Dylan felt the fist hit his neck, felt the air rush out of his lungs, felt the dry, sucking sensation in his throat. I can’t breathe, he thought, but before he could focus on that, he felt a boot to the solar plexus and after that, he felt nothing at all.

  Chapter 3

  Dylan awoke in darkness.

  His neck hurt. He wanted to massage it, but he was unable to move his arms—or anything else. The air seemed hot and thick. He had trouble breathing. Sweat trickled down his face, creating an itch he was unable to scratch.

  Several seconds passed before he realized his hands were tied behind his back. His feet were also bound. Something pulled on his arms, stretching them backward, and it hurt. He was wearing some sort of loose-fitting garment, like a hospital gown. Something covered his head.

  What was going on?

  His first attempt to speak failed. Worse, it hurt. His jaw felt as if it had been wired together and his tongue was drier than dirt.

  He tried again. “Where...am I?”

  “You really think we tell you?” Xavier’s voice. “Why you think we put hood over head?”

  “We?” Dylan said weakly.

  “Pardon my poor manners.” Dylan sensed movement behind him, and a moment later, felt the brush of burlap against his face. Light assaulted him. He squinted until his eyes adjusted to the sudden harsh illumination.

  He was in a dimly lit room. Four walls, one light overhead, no furniture. A stripped hotel room? A warehouse? A storage locker? Impossible to know.

  Xavier slipped a loop of rope around Dylan’s neck. The rope ran upward to a square block fastened to a hook on the ceiling. A simple block and tackle apparatus, with potentially lethal applications.

  Xavier pulled on his end of the rope. The noose tightened around Dylan’s neck. It cut into his flesh. It burned, and worse, cut off his breathing. Dylan felt adrenaline rushing through his veins. He rose to his feet, creating slack in the line, but Xavier pulled harder to compensate. Dylan pushed up on his toes. Xavier yanked even harder. When the noose was tight enough to constrict his breathing again, Xavier tied it to another hook in the wall to maintain the tension. Dylan was forced to remain on his toes, gasping for air. He could feel his face reddening, the rope rubbing his neck raw.

  “Mr. X also here with us.”

  “Yeah? Where?” Dylan asked, in short bursts of expelled air.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Taggart.”

  Dylan’s eyebrows rose an inch. Mr. X was a woman.

  Dylan reined in his surprise and put his brain back into first gear. Despite the fact that he was being tortured, he had to focus his attention, collect all possible data. He craned his neck, fighting against the rope, so he could see her. Remember everything, he told himself. Every detail.

  She was middle-aged, with vivid red hair that fell below her shoulders. The left side of her face was horribly scarred. The skin beneath her left eye drooped, revealing the underside of her eyeball. The scars were white and thick—keloids, he suspected.

  “I do hope your head doesn’t hurt too badly.” She spoke with an Irish brogue. “We gave you an injection before you awoke. It should alleviate some of the pain.”

  If she was so concerned about his pain, why were they torturing him? “You gave me...an injection?”

  “It’s rather difficult to have a serious conversation with someone whose head is in a pea-souper.”

  “Where’s Leilani? How is she?”

  “She’s fine,” Mr. X answered. “Xavier left someone to watch over her. All she needed were bandages and a few choice drugs from the chemist. She may limp for a bit, but it will pass.”

  “Where am I?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  It did to him. He knew that a blow to the neck would normally only produce unconsciousness for a few minutes, certainly no more than half an hour. And they had apparently used some sort of stimulant to rouse him. So they couldn’t have taken him far. He must still be on Oahu, probably still in Honolulu.

  “What is it you want?” Dylan asked.

  “I want us to be friends.”

  And the bizarre thing was, she acted as if she meant it. Her tone was, if not friendly, perfectly businesslike. He needed more information.

  “I guessing you didn’t have a lot of friends when you were growing up,” Dylan said, straining against the noose. “You don’t seem to have a grasp of the fundamentals.”

  “Ah, the mordant wit of the artist. I should’ve expected as much.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not renowned for your sense of humor.”

  “’Tis true. Not many playmates in Belfast back in the day. Not many laughs, either. I did eventually muster a few mates, when I was older.”

  “And your friends were, what? IRA?”

  She tried to smile, but the scar damage on the left side of her face made it lop-sided and disturbing. “Given your current situation, I would think you’d have more pressing interests than my autobiography.”

  “You’re wrong. I want to know all about you. I might want to use you in a novel.”

  “I wouldn’t be good for fiction. I can’t be reduced to a single traumatic childhood incident. My backstory is so dull.”

  “Life in the IRA was dull? That’s hard to imagine.”

  “I suppose there were moments. When things went right.”

  “They didn’t always?”

  “You don’t find the pot of gold every day.”

  “And you’re wearing the proof of that on your face?”

  Her neck stiffened slightly. She gazed at him levelly. “I know what you
’re trying to do. Don’t waste your breath. I’ve had a great deal more experience extracting information than you have.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Just relax and listen, Taggart. Do you have your listening ears on?”

  He twisted his neck around, struggling to breathe. He flexed his toes to reduce the strain. “Always.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Ten minutes with the bastard who hurt Leilani.”

  He felt the noose tighten. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

  “That request I cannot grant. Is there anything else you would like?”

  “My freedom.”

  “You’ll have your freedom. After we’re done talking.”

  That threw him. But he didn’t let it show. “All right. Talk.”

  “I’ve heard that all writing is autobiography, on some level,” she continued. “So I read one of your books. Xavier chose it for me. He’s more familiar with this particular genre. It was called The Singapore Sanction. Clever premise, and Fargo Cody’s plan to infiltrate the Japanese Yakuza was ingenious. One can only admire the way he defeats his enemies without a gun, without resorting to violence. But I thought you let your liberal politics get in the way of your storytelling.”

  “I’m supposed to take literary criticism from a...a...” He was fishing under the guise of floundering.

  “Freelance terrorist,” Mr. X supplied. “Someone who knows a good deal about real-world politics and consequently doesn’t care to read superficial, ill-informed polemics in escapist fiction.”

  “‘Freelance terrorist?’ Meaning, you operate independent of any government?”