Cut and Run Read online

  “Where are we going?” Annie asked hesitantly.

  Myra’s shoulders sagged. She hated the defeated look on Annie’s face but knew she wore the same look. If Enrico spirited them away, Charles would never find them. She’d come so far, and now, when the rescue team arrived, there would be no one at home to rescue. She wanted to scream, but the tears she saw in Annie’s eyes made her stifle the sound building up in her throat. “You’re not going to get away with this. We’re Americans. Our people will come looking for us. Sooner or later, you will be tracked down and held accountable.” How brave that all sounded, Myra thought, and how impossible.

  “Yes, señora, I am. This is my country. My rules. My laws. You would do well to remember that. You also need to remember that my brothers are not as kind as I am. Now, no more talking. You each have ten minutes to use the bathroom; then our ride will be here. You will bring nothing with you. Is that understood?”

  Annie nodded, so Myra did as well.

  Ten minutes to get ready. Two to pee and eight to unwrap the phone and try to make a call. But would there be reception in a bathroom? Myra had no way of knowing.

  Myra looked over at Annie, and she could see she was thinking the same thing she was thinking. “You go first, Myra, I can wait. Don’t worry, the bathroom is the one place these . . . these gentlemen don’t spy on you. There’s nothing in there but soap and a dirty towel. There’s not even a damn window,” Annie said, her eyes burning feverishly.

  Myra moved faster than she had ever moved in her life. She had the encrypted phone ripped off her stomach in a nanosecond. She powered it up, holding her breath to see if she could see the bars that ran across the top of the special phone. There was a battery, but it was weak and flickering. She flexed her fingers, which were shaking badly. She punched in the numbers and waited. Pick up, Charles. Pick up, Charles. Please, God, let him pick up. When she heard her husband’s voice she almost fainted. She skipped the amenities and blurted, “There are five of them, we’re being held hostage here at the monastery. They are Armand’s children; they want Annie’s money. Hurry, Charles, they’re moving us off the mountain. Are you there, did you hear me? Oh, God, Charles can you hear me?” She listened, holding the phone so hard against her ear her head started to pound. She knew Charles was talking, but she didn’t know what he was saying. And then the phone died.

  Myra wasted no time trying to power up again, knowing it would be fruitless, and she was under the gun time-wise. She quickly strapped the phone around her waist again, peed, then flushed. She ran her hands under the cold water but didn’t dry them on the dirty towel. She exited the small room to allow Annie to enter. She started to pace, to Enrico’s amusement. She ignored him, her eyes blazing with hatred.

  Annie joined her just as the whump whump sound of a helicopter coming in to land on the pad shattered the air.

  “Move, ladies.”

  Enrico was so close behind her that Myra could have reached back with her foot and kicked him. She resisted the urge when she heard Annie hiss, “Break your pearls.”

  Myra blinked, not sure she had heard her friend correctly. Then she understood immediately. Since they didn’t have any bread crumbs, her beloved heirloom pearls would have to do. She closed her eyes and yanked at the pearls.

  Enrico reached out and grabbed each of them by the arm, his grip fierce and tight as the helicopter powered down, the rotors screaming in the early-evening darkness as the air around them kicked up and almost lifted them off the ground, hence the tight hold on their arms.

  “Damn you, look what you made me do?” Myra screeched at the top of her lungs. It sounded like a whisper over the roar of the helicopter’s engine. “Those were my great-grandmother’s pearls! Wait! Wait! I have to gather them up. Annie, help me. Please!” Tears rolled down Myra’s cheeks as she jerked free of Enrico’s tight hold to try to gather up the scattered pearls.

  Myra suddenly found herself jerked upright when Enrico pulled her up by the collar of her shirt. His other arm reached out to Annie. “On your feet. Forget the beads.” Myra cried hysterically, hoping she was pulling it off.

  Enrico made sure the two women were securely buckled into the wobbly seats that had been patched and repatched a hundred times with yards and yards of duct tape. Then he said something to the pilot, who nodded in response. Myra looked past Enrico and saw the two brothers and the two goons watching and waiting for the helicopter to lift off. Another whirlybird must be on the way to pick them up, she thought. She looked around to see where Enrico was to sit, but there were no other seats, so he would hold on to the overhead bar by the open door. She hoped the pilot would encounter turbulence and Enrico would fall out.

  The high-pitched whine of the turbo blades hurt Myra’s ears. She clamped her hands over her ears when she saw Annie cover her ears. Enrico did nothing as the bird lifted, then made a right turn and headed out for parts unknown. Myra’s stomach was one big knot of pain.

  Annie inched closer to Myra. For all intents and purposes, they were little girls again at their first dance recital, when they were frightened out of their minds because they would have to take to the dance floor and perform for an audience.

  Myra had cried that day. She remembered how she’d squeezed up to Myra so tight that they had to be pried apart. Annie reached for Myra’s hand and clasped it between her own hands. She hoped the gesture comforted Myra as much as it comforted her.

  Ninety minutes later, when the helicopter started to descend, Myra had to accept the fact that with no turbulence, Enrico Araceli was still alive and well, and not splattered on the rough terrain below. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever be able to hear normally again.

  After leaving the helicopter, Myra looked around as she juked under the blades, which were beginning to slow down. Enrico had hold of one of her arms, while he had hold of Annie with his other hand. Clearly, he was taking no chances that they would bolt. Everything looked the same, just the time of day was different. It was now dusk, with dark purple shadows everywhere beyond the hangar and the bright lights on the runway and inside the hangar. She didn’t see anyone she could call to for help. She struggled to remember what she could about the layout. Where could she run? Would he chase her? Not if he wanted to remain in control of Annie. He’d have to let her go. Where was his gun? Probably in the back of his cargo pants, with the polo shirt covering it. Could she do it? Could she make a run for it? Did she have the stamina? Where would she go? She had no money. All she had was the encrypted phone around her waist. And she didn’t even know if it could be powered up again or not.

  Myra craned her neck to see past the bright lights, and heard a car engine even before she saw the vehicle. Their ride. Like hell!

  Without any warning, Myra jerked free and started to scream at the top of her lungs, “Let me go, you damn pervert! Take your filthy hands off me!” She ran then, like all the bats in hell were after her, across the tarmac to the access road, then to the concrete path that led to the main terminal, all the while screaming, “He’s a pervert, a molester, and he has a GUN!”

  Myra continued with her wild run, which had started at sixty miles an hour. She was barely hobbling now, with stomach spasms and leg cramps so intense she could barely catch her breath. She prayed, childhood prayers she said every day of her life, as she clutched at the door that would lead her into the terminal. She was aware of the curious looks she was getting, but no one stopped her, no one seemed to think she was in peril. God in heaven, why was that? She looked around wildly for a restroom. She spotted the sign directly ahead. She didn’t look back, she was too afraid. She had to get to safety, where there were people. Women in particular, who would help her. She had to see if the phone worked.

  Myra slammed against the restroom door and gasped when she fell into the lightest, brightest room she’d ever seen in her life. She was shaking from head to toe and could barely breathe she was so light-headed. She collapsed onto a leather bench next to what she thought was an infant
’s changing table. She continued to struggle to breathe, stomach spasms making her double over. Her leg cramps made her want to scream, and she would have, at the top of her lungs, but she had to concentrate on her breathing. All she could do was endure and pray.

  Myra had no idea how long she sat on the couch, an hour, more, possibly less, until the spasms abated, the leg cramps eased up, and her breathing had leveled off. She marveled that no one had come to her aid; no one had asked her if she was all right. And there was no sign of Enrico. In the end, she decided that was a good thing. She told herself travelers were only concentrating on themselves and getting to where they needed to go. Stopping to help someone interfered with their personal agendas.

  The crowd in the restroom was thinning out now. From past experience, Myra knew that airport restrooms the world over, especially the women’s restrooms, were always the busiest when a flight arrived, then again right before a flight took off. If she could just hold out for another ten or fifteen minutes, she was almost certain the restroom would be down to one or two travelers.

  Myra waited some more, taking shallow breaths. She began to feel strength returning, and her breathing was almost back to normal now. Her lungs no longer felt like they were on fire, and she could draw a deep breath.

  Still, she waited. A full ten minutes before she got up and headed to the last stall in the long row. The handicapped stall with extra room, enough to accommodate a wheelchair. She entered on wobbly legs. She sat down and pulled up her shirt to rip at the duct tape. She squeezed her eyes shut, said a prayer that she would see the two bars she’d seen the last time. She debated a long moment as to the reception inside where she was. Did she dare turn it on? Maybe better to wait till she could get outside. In the end, she decided to wait. She strapped the phone back onto her waist and exited the stall.

  At the sink she cupped her hand under the water and drank her fill. She was surprised to see she had the entire bathroom to herself. She winced when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was standing straight in the air. Her face looked dry and parched. And full of wrinkles. God, who was this person? She washed her face and hands, and did her best to finger-comb her hair. She spotted a small bottle of lotion someone had left behind. She drained the bottle, and lathered up her face and hands. The mirror told her that nothing had changed, but the skin on her face felt less taut and dry.

  Myra walked over to the leather bench and sat down. She needed a plan. She had to focus. Think, Myra, think! Mission mode. She had to get out of here. To someplace safe, so she could contact Charles or somehow make it to the American embassy. Charles always said in a foreign country when they were on a mission that the embassy was off-limits because it would call attention to them. If only she had her backpack and the special gold shield. If only . . .

  The solution to her problem walked through the door a few minutes later in the form of a young woman wearing a straw hat with colorful streamers hanging down the sides and back. She was wheeling a small travel bag and had a backpack over her shoulders. She wobbled forward toward the sinks, singing a song in Spanish. Myra pegged her as a free spirit, with tats covering her arms and too many piercings to count. She was also drunk as a skunk.

  Myra knew what she had to do even though it went against the grain. This was survival of the fittest. Hers.

  Myra walked over to the young woman, took her arm, and led her over to the leather couch. “Oh, my dear, let me help you. You look exhausted.” The woman smiled at her and giggled as Myra led her to the leather bench. You just sit here for a minute, dear. Let me get you some water. You look . . . ah . . . peaked, as my mother used to say.”

  “My mum used to say that, too. I’d rather have some gin,” the young woman singsonged in a British accent.

  “Okay, let me see if I can find some. Just sit there and close your eyes. It might take me a little while to find some. Then we can party. Is that okay with you?” The young woman giggled again, her head bobbing up and down.

  Luck stayed with Myra as she walked over to the sink. She heard a sound, then turned around in time to see the young girl fall over onto the leather bench. Myra rushed back, stripped off the backpack, then straightened the girl, so she was stretched out on the bench. She was snoring lightly.

  God does work in mysterious ways, Myra thought as she raced to the closest stall, where she unzipped the backpack. A name tag sewn onto the lining said the owner of the backpack was Astrid Lansing. She lived in London, England. Myra rifled through the contents. The Mother Lode. Cell phone. Charger. Wallet. Keys. Credit cards. Nonprescription sunglasses. A book of traveler’s checks. Passport. A change of clothes. Makeup bag. Two power bars. A bottle of flavored water.

  Myra looked in the wallet. For sure, someone was smiling on her. She counted out $300 in American money and another two hundred in euros. Vacation money. Party money. She checked the phone and found that it was fully charged. She felt like she’d just won the lottery.

  Myra peeled off her shirt and pulled on a madras plaid shirt from the backpack. She marveled at the perfect fit. At last, something was going her way. The straw hat the girl was wearing would work as a decent disguise. At least she hoped it would.

  She walked out of the stall, the backpack over her shoulders. She ignored an elderly lady and a young teenage girl at the sink. Grandmother and granddaughter. They paid no attention to her, and she continued to ignore them as she trotted over to the sleeping young woman. She picked up the straw hat and plopped it on her head. She bent low, and whispered, “I’m really sorry about this, Astrid. I will make it up to you as soon as I can. Sleep well, my fairy godmother.”

  Myra was in full mission mode now as she walked out of the restroom to roam the concourse in search of an exit. She followed the crowds of travelers and eventually made it through to the outdoors. No one followed her. No one tried to stop her.

  Safe.

  For now.

  Myra headed to the taxi line, waited her turn, and slid into the backseat. In her best rusty Spanish, she said, “Take me to the nearest hotel, please.”

  Chapter 6

  “Run, Myra, run!” Annie screamed at the top of her lungs as she was pushed violently into the waiting car.

  Enrico scrambled in behind her. “Vamos,” he bellowed as he slammed Annie back against the seat. “No more nice guy, Countess.”

  Emboldened with Myra’s getaway, Annie said, “Just for the record, Enrico, I never for a single moment thought you were a nice guy. You’re a thug, a hoodlum, a bastard child with no real heritage. Your father wasn’t a nice guy, either. He was weak, he lived off women, he had affairs and children all over the globe. All on my dime. He supported you and your mother on my money. Your mother was nothing more than a used woman who gave him three sons. None of you are worth a good spit. Of course, I didn’t find that out till after he died.” Sarcasm rang in her voice as she continued to screech as loud as she could, hoping for a reaction from her captor. When it came it was exactly what she had hoped for.

  “Shut your mouth! My mother was a saint! I won’t hear you blacken her name.”

  Aha, Annie thought, his mother is his Achilles heel. So she decided to go full bore. What did she have to lose at this stage of the game? She flipped the pages in Kathryn’s playbook till she found the one she wanted. “Saint my ass! Your mother allowed your father to turn her into a whore with unlimited perks. A mistress, if for some obscure reason you like that term better. She liked the fine house he provided, the good food, designer clothes, jewelry, and all she had to do was spread her legs. After all, he was a count!

  “All your mother had to do was keep popping out those babies to keep him coming back. And I had the honor of paying for it all. You and your brothers were born on the wrong side of the blanket, Enrico, face it. Nothing can change that! Nothing! You and your brothers are bastards, your mother was a whore, and your father was simply a sperm donor!” Annie continued to screech at the top of her lungs. She silently apologized to God for what she
was saying. Later, if later ever came for her, she would find a way to atone for the ugly things she was saying. But for now, she had to survive doing whatever she could so that she could walk away alive and well.

  Annie saw the raised hand, the murderous fury in Enrico’s eyes. She knew what was coming. She squared her shoulders to take the blow. It was true, she thought crazily, when the blow landed solidly on her right cheekbone, you really do see stars. And then she slumped over.

  When she woke, she had no idea how much time had passed. She was groggy but awake enough that she felt herself being dragged over what she thought was a flagstone walkway. It was totally dark, with only a faint yellow light coming from somewhere ahead. When she stumbled and went down to her knees, Enrico picked her up in a fireman’s carry and hustled her into what she thought of, at first glance, as a very small house, a cottage at best. He dumped her unceremoniously onto a flowered sofa. She made no move to sit up, but she did stare up at Enrico, her eyes burning with hatred.

  A woman appeared out of nowhere, a little woman with white hair and a deeply wrinkled face. She was wearing a shapeless dress, with a white apron over it. Her eyes burned with something Annie couldn’t define. The woman glared at Enrico, then at Annie. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was absolutely certain that there was no love lost between these two.

  She stored that thoughtful nugget deep in her mind. Enrico ordered the woman to make coffee and to lace it with brandy. “For our guest,” he said in an ugly tone.

  “Another relative living off my largesse?” Annie asked snidely. “Who is she, and what is this place?” she asked boldly. “Where are we?”

  “While it is none of your business, I will tell you anyway. The woman is my aunt Sophia. She is my mother’s younger sister by one year. She nursed my mother night and day until she passed away. She prayed at her side and along with her. As my brothers and I did, too. Yes, my father, the sperm donor as you call him, bought this house for my aunt many years ago when I was still a small boy. He paid her to watch over us while he was away. He wanted to make sure we were all well taken care of. He was a kind man; he loved us and cared about us, this man you call a sperm donor.”