until the Doll Man arrested his attention.
Their exchange was in Albanian, and elation threatened to creep out from under Lumani’s skin as he basked in the sparse words of commendation offered by the old man. And then the Doll Man’s tone changed. “Show her,” he said, and Lumani responded by pulling a phone from his pocket. He thumbed the controls and with video playing and volume turned up, put it in front of Munroe.
Her body screamed in rebellion. Her lungs seized, the percussion beat harder, faster, while Logan, battered and bloody, refused to speak when ordered, refused to cry out when struck. The world turned a hazy black and white that blocked out everything but the man behind the desk.
The anvil hammered out the order to kill.
Blinded, unable to focus, Munroe pushed the tumult into silence, forced herself to watch the clip, to truly grasp beyond Logan to his surroundings—searching out clues to his location and finding them in split seconds of shaky footage that encompassed a table and window in the background.
A Ziploc bag and two-inch horizontal wooden blinds. Mainstays of American culture, available elsewhere but not with the convenience and price of the United States—certainly not in Europe.
In a house or an office somewhere in the U.S., Logan took another hit. More blood, more broken cartilage. A gun to the back of his head. Munroe gave no outward reaction. Inside, the pressure struggled to break free, to pull her out of the chair and over the desk, to wrap her hands around the Doll Man’s neck until his face changed color and his tongue lolled lifeless, and she stole from him his final breath the way he was stealing hers.
Lumani turned off the clip and tucked the phone away.
Munroe let air seep into her lungs in measured portions, afraid to breathe, afraid to betray the pain and fear that burned through her veins; guarded against showing the rage and hatred she felt toward this man and his protégé.
Debt.
Package.
Transport.
To kill the Doll Man now would pull the trigger of the gun at Logan’s head. She was too far away to save him from the repercussions before they exploded outward. Her mind reeled, searching for answers, searching for a way out. Munroe pointed toward the pocket in which Lumani had stashed the phone, turned to the man behind the desk, and said, “So I deliver your package, and you pay me by returning the life of that guy?”
A half-beat of disappointment registered on the Doll Man’s face before the sly smile returned and he said, “Yes, you will have repaid the debt, and I will exchange it by returning that life.”
Which was bullshit, of course.
There was no way a man with the power to find her, kidnap her, and transport her across the ocean, a man who had a dungeon hollowed out below his building, would allow her to see his face, this hideaway, one of his businesses, if he intended to let her—much less Logan—walk free. But the illusion of his control, and the appearancethat she accepted the lie, was all that mattered. She tipped her head in silent acknowledgment.
“We might have an understanding,” she said, and the Doll Man’s smile widened into a look of contentment and his body visibly relaxed.
“I’m so glad,” he said. “I much prefer to do business with a rational person. It keeps the mess to a minimum.”
A slow smile of agreement forced itself across her face. Given the state of Logan’s abused body, it would seem he didn’t dislike the mess too terribly much. “I should probably see the package,” she said.
He motioned toward the door. “Valon will show you,” he said, and then to the young man, disdainfully in their own language, with none of the passing tenderness he’d previously shown, “Bring the doll transport to me when you’re finished.”
Lumani nodded, his earlier elation replaced by something hard and expressionless. He turned to the door and, barely glancing in Munroe’s direction, nodded her forward and waited for
Their exchange was in Albanian, and elation threatened to creep out from under Lumani’s skin as he basked in the sparse words of commendation offered by the old man. And then the Doll Man’s tone changed. “Show her,” he said, and Lumani responded by pulling a phone from his pocket. He thumbed the controls and with video playing and volume turned up, put it in front of Munroe.
Her body screamed in rebellion. Her lungs seized, the percussion beat harder, faster, while Logan, battered and bloody, refused to speak when ordered, refused to cry out when struck. The world turned a hazy black and white that blocked out everything but the man behind the desk.
The anvil hammered out the order to kill.
Blinded, unable to focus, Munroe pushed the tumult into silence, forced herself to watch the clip, to truly grasp beyond Logan to his surroundings—searching out clues to his location and finding them in split seconds of shaky footage that encompassed a table and window in the background.
A Ziploc bag and two-inch horizontal wooden blinds. Mainstays of American culture, available elsewhere but not with the convenience and price of the United States—certainly not in Europe.
In a house or an office somewhere in the U.S., Logan took another hit. More blood, more broken cartilage. A gun to the back of his head. Munroe gave no outward reaction. Inside, the pressure struggled to break free, to pull her out of the chair and over the desk, to wrap her hands around the Doll Man’s neck until his face changed color and his tongue lolled lifeless, and she stole from him his final breath the way he was stealing hers.
Lumani turned off the clip and tucked the phone away.
Munroe let air seep into her lungs in measured portions, afraid to breathe, afraid to betray the pain and fear that burned through her veins; guarded against showing the rage and hatred she felt toward this man and his protégé.
Debt.
Package.
Transport.
To kill the Doll Man now would pull the trigger of the gun at Logan’s head. She was too far away to save him from the repercussions before they exploded outward. Her mind reeled, searching for answers, searching for a way out. Munroe pointed toward the pocket in which Lumani had stashed the phone, turned to the man behind the desk, and said, “So I deliver your package, and you pay me by returning the life of that guy?”
A half-beat of disappointment registered on the Doll Man’s face before the sly smile returned and he said, “Yes, you will have repaid the debt, and I will exchange it by returning that life.”
Which was bullshit, of course.
There was no way a man with the power to find her, kidnap her, and transport her across the ocean, a man who had a dungeon hollowed out below his building, would allow her to see his face, this hideaway, one of his businesses, if he intended to let her—much less Logan—walk free. But the illusion of his control, and the appearancethat she accepted the lie, was all that mattered. She tipped her head in silent acknowledgment.
“We might have an understanding,” she said, and the Doll Man’s smile widened into a look of contentment and his body visibly relaxed.
“I’m so glad,” he said. “I much prefer to do business with a rational person. It keeps the mess to a minimum.”
A slow smile of agreement forced itself across her face. Given the state of Logan’s abused body, it would seem he didn’t dislike the mess too terribly much. “I should probably see the package,” she said.
He motioned toward the door. “Valon will show you,” he said, and then to the young man, disdainfully in their own language, with none of the passing tenderness he’d previously shown, “Bring the doll transport to me when you’re finished.”
Lumani nodded, his earlier elation replaced by something hard and expressionless. He turned to the door and, barely glancing in Munroe’s direction, nodded her forward and waited for
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