Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [80]
“I was hiding in his closet. I saw that show you put on when you called the police. Pretty good performance as a grieving girlfriend.”
She pressed the Hi-Power against his temple—hard, like it was a drill bit. He’d pricked her pride. Now she was off balance.
“Did you kill him?”
Jack frowned. “Hell, no. I wanted to talk to the guy.”
“Why?”
“Because of what happened in San Francisco. I know al-Fida was behind it and I’m trying to find out who he works for.”
She considered this. “You’re a Yank.”
“Through and through.”
“Who are you?”
“A reporter,” Jack told her, just as squealing tires announced the arrival of a dark SUV in the alley. Its headlights washed across them. The woman flinched and Jack took his shot. He stepped sideways, simultaneously grabbing her wrist and twisting it away from her. Only she didn’t release her hold on the gun as he’d expected. She yelped and swung a fist toward him, landing a blow to the side of his head.
He stumbled sideways, caught off guard by her power.
Another SUV roared in from the opposite side, and the alley was soon flooded with men, automatic weapons in hand, heading straight for Jack and the woman. More surprised than hurt by her punch, Jack kicked her legs out from under her, grabbed the Browning with his right hand, then spun toward one of the approaching gunmen. He slammed the heel of his left hand into the gunman’s nose and the guy howled and went down as Jack raised the Browning. But before he could make use of it, three more men were grabbing hold of him. The butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head and his cranium exploded in pain. The world went red and he stumbled as the men started pulling him exactly where he didn’t want to go—to the ground, where his chances of survival were nearly nil. You can’t grapple with men who are beating you.
He tried to fight, but there were too many of them. Then the rifle butt slammed him again, and the next thing Jack knew he was spiraling down a long black hole.
23
Jack awoke to the sound of screaming.
A woman’s screams of pain, the kind of pain that comes from teeth being extracted without Novocain, or fingers being cut off with wire clippers. Her high-pitched wails echoed mournfully down a long hallway.
Then they stopped, abruptly, followed by the sound of her sobs as she gasped for air.
Jack had a bag over his head—burlap, from the smell of it—and he had no idea where he was. He was sitting in a chair with a sagging wicker seat, his wrists tied to the slats that comprised the seatback. The chair was not bolted to the floor but even if he could hop it around, where would he go? His mouth tasted of blood, and his tongue was sore, which meant he’d managed to bite it during the struggle in the alleyway.
Worse yet, his head was throbbing and the room seemed to be spinning slowly. Around and around, like a Ferris wheel. He thought he might throw up.
But at least he was alive.
For now.
Listening to the woman sob. And he knew she wasn’t acting this time, a turn of events that surprised him.
Back in the alley he had thought she was with the gunmen—had attacked her because of it—but he’d obviously been wrong. And now that he knew better, this knowledge begged yet another question:
Had those gunmen been after him or her?
Someone said something to her—it sounded like English, but with the accent and echo he couldn’t be sure—and she responded. Her words were slurred and unintelligible from this distance. She sounded defiant, however, as if she were refusing to give in. Jack had no idea what they were doing to her, but he had a pretty good imagination and a very strong feeling he’d find out soon enough.
But before he could start feeling sorry for himself, the woman’s screams rang out again as she endured another round. Her wails increased in pitch and intensity and Jack strained against his bonds, wanting desperately to break free. He thought about those dark eyes filled with anguish, with pain. He didn’t know anything about her yet he wanted to help.
Her screams went on almost too long to bear—then suddenly she