Missing

Chicago Thursday, May 27th, 10:30 pm There were better ways to die. But never a good time. Jonathan Foley wouldn't have chosen to die in a vacant warehouse with the river lapping at its crumbling foundation. Definitely not while shackled to a cast-off swivel chair beneath the glare of a single bare bulb. But life stunk that way sometimes. "Amp it up another notch," the punk gripping the defibrillator paddles ordered. Then he smiled at his prisoner. "Last chance, tough guy." Evidently the trigger-happy lackey was through playing. Foley braced for the electrical charge that would throttle through his chest the instant the paddles touched his naked skin. Nope, there was never a good time to die. But then he had accomplished his mission. This was likely as good a time as any. He lifted his gaze to the nimrod currently holding the power. "We both know I'm not going to talk." The jerk laughed, his pale blue eyes glittering with anticipation. "I was hoping you'd say that." The one manning the controls gave the appropriate knob a violent twist then checked the readout. "Ready," he announced. Jonathan's jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to close his eyes. He stared straight at the SOB with the paddles. Refused to allow even a glimmer of fear or defeat. This waste of DNA might kill him but he couldn't make him cooperate. Better men had tried. "Stand down." The sharply issued order echoed in the stale air of the long-abandoned warehouse, wiped the smile right off the paddle punk's face. Foley should have relaxed. After all, he was just a few volts from dead. This unexpected interruption provided a momentary reprieve. He shifted his attention in the direction of the footsteps coming nearer. Not that he needed visual confirmation. He knew the voice. Victor Lennox. Tall, distinguished, with just enough gray at the temples to lend an air of wisdom. Even at a time like this—in a place like this—the man sported a three thousand dollar black silk suit. No doubt the leather shoes he wore were handcrafted. Nothing was too good for a Lennox. A similarly dressed underling, briefcase in hand, rushed after him. Well, well, Foley mused. Would wonders never cease? He'd thought Lennox was long gone by now. Yet, here he was, in the flesh, assistant in tow. "Sir," the underling urged, "the Learjet is waiting. There's no time." Lennox held up a hand, cutting off his much younger colleague. "Before you die," Lennox said to Foley, his gaze narrowed with disdain and fury, "I have one question." Foley licked his cracked lips, noted the taste of blood and sweat. "For the past two hours I've been beaten—" his ribs ached with each indrawn breath "—shocked with ever increasing amperage and—" he jerked his head toward the punk with the paddles "—I still didn't talk. What makes you think I have anything to say to you?" "Let me give it another go," paddle punk pleaded. "He'll talk." He smirked at Foley. "They always do." Lennox shook his head firmly from side to side. "Not this one." "Sir." The assistant dared to intrude into the exchange yet again. "You must hurry." Lennox ignored him. "I did my research, Foley. I know all about you." He made a disparaging sound deep in his throat. "And you're right, you won't talk." He crossed his arms over his chest then reached up and tapped his chin with a finger as if mulling over the situation. "I have friends in places you can't even fathom. I'm aware of your military career, Major Foley." One corner of Foley's mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. "Then you know it was over a long time ago." Bits and pieces of images flickered through his brain. He banished the memories. "You endured days of torture," Lennox went on as if recalling documents he'd only just recently read. "Never uttered a single word while every member of your reconnaissance team was executed right in front of you." A hint of respect flashed in the man's eyes. "Still you remained strong. Loyal to the bitter end. Didn't let your country down." He gave another shake of that distinguished head. "No, no. You didn't talk then. You won't talk now." "Then what's your point?" Foley looked him dead in the eye. He would have a point. A man who'd just been nailed for treason wasn't going to hang around for anything without a compelling reason. "After a few years of doing nothing significant, you joined a firm called the Equalizers," Lennox explained, as if he had all night and wasn't the slightest bit worried about the feds who no doubt had already turned Chicago upside down to find him. "Your most recent assignment was to do what no one else had been able to do." "That's right." Foley had gotten Lennox. Gotten him good. No one else had been able to penetrate the perfect shield he'd built around himself. No one had had a clue that it was the esteemed Victor Lennox who was selling out his own company, his own country. Now his crimes were bared to all. He could run, but he wou
ASIN: 0373745915
VSKU: RDV.0373745915.G
Condition: Good
Author/Artist:Webb, Debra
Binding: Paperback
Note: Any images shown are stock photographs and product may differ from what is shown.
Condition Notes: This book is in good condition with very minimal damage. Pages may have minimal notes or highlighting. Cover image on the book may vary from photo. Ships out quickly in a secure plastic mailer.