Someone was in the room with him. A male, judging from the scent of him. Dante was lying prone on something icy cold and slick while his captor yanked his hands behind his back, then bound him at the wrists with a length of wire cord. He should have been able to snap it like twine, but it wouldn‘t budge. His strength was useless. The captor bound Dante‘s feet next, then hog-tied him on his stomach, a slab of bare metal beneath him. Loud crashes sounded from somewhere outside the room. He heard bansheelike shrieks, smelled the coppery stench of death nearby.
And then, a low taunt sounded near his ear: ―You know, I thought killing you was going to be difficult. You‘ve made it very easy for me.‖
The voice faded into a self-amused chuckle as Dante‘s captor came around to where his head hung over the edge of the metal platform that held him. Denim-clad legs bent at the knee, and slowly the torso of his would-be killer came into Dante‘s line of sight. Rough fingers grasped him by the hair, lifting his head up to face him in the instant before the vision started to fade away, as quickly as it had come...
Holy hell.
―Ben Sullivan.‖ Dante spat the name out like ash on his tongue. Released from the clutches of the premonition, he dragged himself to a sitting position on the floor. Dante wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow as Tegan stared at him in grave acceptance. ―Son of a bitch. It‘s the Crimson dealer, Ben Sullivan. I don‘t fucking believe it. That human—he‘s the one who‘s going to kill me.‖
Tegan gave a grim shake of his head. ―Not if we make him dead first.‖
Dante pushed himself up to his feet, planting one palm against the concrete wall next to the elevator while he tried to catch his breath. Beneath his fatigue, rage simmered, for Ben Sullivan and for former Agent Sterling Chase, who‘d evidently taken it upon himself to let the bastard go.
―Let‘s get the hell out of here,‖ he growled, already stalking across the cavernous garage, flipping one of his malebranche blades between his fingers.
CHAPTER Twenty-six
Ben‘s captors had let him sit forever by himself in an unlit, windowless, securely locked room. He kept waiting for the one they‘d called Master to appear—the nameless, faceless individual who‘d been covertly financing the development and distribution of Crimson. Time dragged, maybe a full twenty-four hours since he‘d been picked up and taken here. No one had come for him yet, but they would. And in a dark corner of his mind, Ben understood that when they did, he wouldn‘t get out of the confrontation alive.
He got up off the floor and made his way across the bare concrete to the closed steel door on the other side of the room. His head was screaming from the beating he‘d taken before he was dragged off the street to this place. His broken nose and neck wound were crusted over with dried blood, both injuries on fire with raw pain. Ben put his ear to the cold metal door and listened to movement getting louder on the other side. Heavy footsteps clopped nearer and nearer, the purposeful gaits of more than one man, punctuated by the metallic jangle of chains and weaponry.
Ben backed up, retreating as far as he could into the darkness of his holding cell. There was a snick of a key turning the lock, then the door swung open and the two huge guards who‘d brought him here came inside.
―He‘s ready for you now,‖ one of the thugs growled.
Both men took Ben by the arms and wrenched him hard before shoving him forward, out the door and into a dim hallway outside. Ben had suspected he was being held in some kind of warehouse, based on the crude quarters he‘d been stowed in until now. But his captors led him up a flight of stairs and into what looked to be an opulent, nineteenth-century estate. Polished wood gleamed in elegant, low lighting. Beneath his muddied shoes, a soft Persian rug spread out in an ornate pattern of deep red, purple, and gold. Above his head in the foyer his captors pushed him through, a large crystal chandelier twinkled.
For an instant, some of Ben‘s alarm eased. Maybe everything would be okay, after all. He was deep into the shit lately, but this wasn‘t the nightmare he‘d expected it to be. Not some torture chamber of horrors as he‘d feared.
Ahead of him, a set of open double doors framed yet another impressive room. Ben was guided there by his handlers, who then held him securely in the middle of the large formal sitting room. The furniture, the rugs, the original oil paintings on the walls—all of it reeked of extensive wealth. Old wealth, the kind you didn‘t get without a few hundred years of practice.
Surrounded by all that opulence, seated like a dark king behind a massive, carved mahogany desk, was a man in an expensive black suit and dark sunglasses.