Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 2
Kate finally settles down, blankly staring at the ceiling. She idly plays with her chains. It keeps her hands busy. She misses sex, understandably. I haven’t told her she couldn’t relieve herself, but she knows we’re watching and refuses to give us a show. That’ll change. It’s been months, but she can’t hold out forever. One day she’ll need it so badly she won’t care who sees; once that line is crossed, she won’t care about crossing it again.
No matter how much I’ve taken from her, there’s always something more. As long as she still clings to some shred of dignity, I can rip it away. In this case, she’ll hold onto it until she can’t bear depriving herself a moment longer; I don’t even have to intervene.
Sadly, it’s not as satisfying as it would have been to see Ingram suffer — to force him to watch as Kate slowly loses her sanity. He died far too soon. He was supposed to endure many, many years of pain. But at least the Wilsons can rest peacefully. Mom, Dad… and Simon.
Everything I’ve done in my life has been for them — to bring the man who killed them to justice. Now, I can live for myself.
Though I’ll keep tormenting Kate, of course. That job’s not done. She may not have been responsible for what happened to my family, but she stood by Ingram. She knew what he did and she supported him anyway. I can’t let that go unpunished. I may not enjoy her suffering as much as Ingram’s, but she still has to pay for serving him.
Are you sure that’s the only reason?
Goddamnit.
No matter how many times I tell myself Ingram’s dead, a hint of doubt still lingers: we never found his body. The irony isn’t lost on me that the world believed Simon Wilson was dead despite never recovering a corpse. The authorities presumed him drowned in the Passaic River, even though he’d never even been in that car with the other bodies.
Ingram, however, most definitely went into the water. He never resurfaced, and he was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Patrol boats and the helicopter searched a grid around the coast for miles. The guards searched every square inch of the island several times over. His body never washed up on the shore like it should have, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s alive. If he didn’t drown or die of blood loss, the sharks definitely got him.
More importantly, if Ingram lived, how has he not made a move to rescue Kate from me? I’ve subjugated her to abject misery for months; if he’s alive, he’s either in a coma, he’s an amnesiac or he doesn’t care about her enough to intervene — but none of those are plausible. He loved her; if he was alive, he would have come for her by now. So there’s only one explanation: Ingram is dead.
I’ve told myself this a hundred times, so why do I still worry?
Because Kate hasn’t lost hope. She may not even be aware of it, but she holds onto the insane idea that he survived. She talks to him in her sleep. Even when she’s awake, lying in bed with her eyes closed, her lips move. On an intellectual level, she knows the truth, the same as me. Maybe if she stopped believing, I could too. It could be my next project, though Kate barely copes now — without any hope at all, she’ll be truly pathetic. She wouldn’t be as much fun.
“It’s time,” says Nick. “Let’s do this.”
He’s younger than Edward Lonergan was — stronger, smarter and a better marksman. He’s also more annoying. Too enthusiastic. Still, he gets the job done.
Barrett grunts. One of Garth Lipinski’s men, he’s no genius but he’s tough and well-trained. Perfect for keeping watch and moving cases full of weaponry.
I take one last look at Kate, then leave my phone on the seat. Stepping out into the blistering Riyadh heat, I look into the cloudless sky, trying to spot our surveillance drone. We’ve watched the dormant construction site west of the city for days; no one’s been here. We have perfect visibility for miles in every direction; our radar scans for any incoming aircraft. Hamza Bin Khaled has undoubtedly taken similar precautions.
If everything goes according to plan, we’ll be out of here in thirty minutes, back on my jet and headed for the Enclave — ready to destroy anyone who stands in my way at any time from anywhere.
Sweat beads on my forehead as we wait for Hamza’s vehicle convoy to reach us. Desert heat may be dry, but it’s still hot as fuck, especially after riding in an air-conditioned Hummer. With any luck, in the future my associates can come in my stead. For a first meeting, I had to show up.
Three massive, black SUVs kick up clouds of dust in their wake. They stop several car lengths away, and they wait for the sand to settle before getting out. A dozen men as broad and built as Nick and Barrett escort Hamza toward us. We hold out our arms so that Hamza’s men can frisk us for weapons and scan us for recording devices. When they’re done, they nod.
“Welcome,” says Hamza, his accent hardly detectable. His dossier says he grew up with family in Miami and studied engineering at Stanford before returning to his native Saudi Arabia. Handsome and only a few years older than me, he wears a sharp blue suit rather than a thawb or kaftan. “It’s good to finally meet.”
I bow.
“The honor is mine,” I say. If intelligence about him is to be believed, Hamza Bin Khaled doesn’t give two shits about scripture or customs — just making money. Considering how well he’s done for himself selling advanced weaponry, I’d say he’s got the right priorities.
“Are you enjoying your stay?” he asks, smiling.
I’d rather get straight to business, but if he wants to make small talk, it’s his dance. He’s no doubt studying my body language and tone, making sure he’s dealing with a professional and not an undercover INTERPOL agent. Luckily, I’m famous. The owner of Innovative AF doesn’t work for any law enforcement agency or government. I work for no one. Whether they know it or not, the world now works for me.
“Riyadh is a beautiful city,” I say. It’s not a lie, though I’ve only seen it from inside my jet; from ten-thousand feet, it was beautiful. On the ground, there’s no way I’d step foot out of my bullet-proof Hummer.
Hamza laughs.
“It’s nice to visit,” he says. “I’d rather be in Miami, but business is too good here.”
“That’s how I feel about New York,” I reply. “But Riyadh is much nicer.”
“I agree.”
He says nothing after that, just smiles at me. I smile back, refusing to be the first person to speak. Only a weak man bends to an uncomfortable silence.
After more than a minute, Hamza says, “So, you have the money?”
I nod to Barrett, who holds his hands in the air and slowly retrieves a laptop from the car. He opens it, then approaches. Hamza’s men keep the guns trained.
“Just enter the account and routing numbers,” I say. “You’ll have the transfer within seconds. Can I see the missiles?”
Hamza nods to his men, ten of whom return to the SUVs. Two set up folding tables while eight carry out massive steel briefcases. They open them all at once, letting me see the hundreds of missiles. Metal tubes the length of a ballpoint pen, they look more like old-fashioned laser pointers than rockets.
“The fins deploy upon firing,” Hamza says, showing me small slits running along one of the weapons. “The thruster only has enough fuel for a thousand feet, but it can be fired from anywhere: a car, a helicopter — a shoulder-mounted launcher or a drone, even a handheld device will work. If you can get close to your target, they can be detonated like bombs. Invisible to radar due to their size, they’re supremely maneuverable, limited only by your targeting system. The onboard chip will do a suitable job, but I have a feeling you have access to better tech.”
He’s absolutely correct, though it’s not like I’m going to tell him. Between my satellites, implanted trackers and Innovative AF’s phones and tablets, we should be able to aim these missiles at a specific individual with pinpoint accuracy. No collateral damage, no warning. My enemies will die like the hand of God reached down and pinched them between his fingers.
“Excellent,” I say. “I’m satisfied. You can enter your payment details whenever you’re ready.”
“Great.” Hamza strides up to Barrett and enters his information, transmitting through the high-speed satellite uplink. After a second, the app chimes. A moment later, Hamza’s phone echoes the sound. “It’s done,” he says. “Mr. Ford, the pleasure has been mine.”
I reach out to shake his hand; he takes mine with a firm grip.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a night of clubbing?” he asks. “I have access to every VIP lounge in the city.”
“Another time,” I reply. Club or no, I’d rather not spend a single extra minute in this country.
“In that case, before you go, I’d like to ask you something.”
He gestures for me to follow him. I suppose we can talk. I walk with him a few steps, waving back Nick and Barrett.
Once we’re out of earshot, he says, “I have theories about you, Anton. You’ve taken over the world of tech, and now you’re acquiring weapons. I don’t think they’re for your personal protection. I believe you’re building toward something big.”
Smart man.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
He laughs.
“Of course not. But, so you know, I have vast resources and global connections. I can design, procure and supply all kinds of weaponry. I employ some of the best engineers in the world. If you’re interested in partnerships, I would make a powerful ally.”
I wonder how he would feel about having an explosive implant injected inches from his heart. He makes a compelling case, though. I haven’t given much thought to adding to the Masters’ ranks; I control them all. If anything, I will be shrinking their number, not expanding it. Although, what if I were to replace them? Create a new generation of Masters — younger, innovative and loyal to me.
Of all the blustering nonsense Jamison Hardt has told his lapdogs, one thing is probably true: no one can ever exceed his accomplishments, since what he’s done cannot be topped. But what if I started from scratch? It’s an amusing idea — though, not one I’m eager to put into practice. I don’t care about grandeur, or making a mark on the world no one can best.
Besides, when I’m finished, what Jamison did with his life will no longer be possible; not for anyone.
“I look forward to working with you in the future, Hamza,” I say.
“As do I.”
We’re walking back to our lines of guards when I hear a grunt. Hamza stops. Blood pours from his neck, then a muffled gunshot cracks from afar.
I run. My men and Hamza’s draw their guns.
“It wasn’t me!” I shout, my words distorted as time slows.
Barrett’s head splits apart; he crumples. A shot rings out. I keep running.
Hamza’s men dash to take cover behind their SUVs. Two go down before they have a chance.
“Get in the car!” Nick shouts.
Gunshots hammer my eardrums; Hamza’s men scream at each other in Arabic, their voices panicky.
“Get the missiles!” I shout back, making for the tables. The cases should be bullet-proof, if I can get one, I can use it as a shield.
However, when I’m steps from the table a shot thuds in the sand in front of me, and another bullet whips past my head. I drop to the ground, certain I’ve been hit. I run my hands over my neck and chest; they come back moist, but it’s only sweat.
I crawl for the Hummer and get in; Nick’s already starting the engine.
Bullets smack against the car’s windshield, forming tiny, circular indentations but failing to penetrate. Shots spark off the armor paneling as Nick floors the gas, propelling us away from the construction site and back to the road. A bullet hits the passenger side window, lodging in the pane at eye-level. In the distance, I can barely make out a muzzle flash from within a mound of sand, as if the desert itself was attacking, rather than a sniper.
In a few more seconds, we’re out of range. The gunfire ceases. I look behind us, but don’t see any of Hamza’s vehicles in pursuit.
“What the fuck?” I scream, pounding the window with my elbow. My heart thunders in my ears, louder than the guns. I howl, “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!”
I shouldn’t act out in front of an employee. I shouldn’t show weakness, but I’m beyond rational thought. What just happened was fucking impossible. Did Hamza fuck up? Did someone get to him, force him to lure me into a trap? There will be an investigation. Who could have set this up? Who would have dared?
An insane thought whispers to me.
Reaching in back, I grab my phone and pull up the surveillance app. Kate’s asleep on her mattress, smiling to herself. Is she dreaming about Ingram? Even when she moans his name, she doesn’t smile.
But if she knew how close to death I came…
Except, that’s pure insanity. She couldn’t possibly have anything to do with this.
You’re losing it, Anton.
Maybe so. Kate’s locked in her cell, cut off from everyone but me and my employees. I have no rational reason to suspect her. I’m likely in shock, not thinking straight.
Still, I’ll talk to her.
I have to be sure.