“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to convince you to stay?” he asked her, one last time.
“No. Just hold me,” she said. Outside, a cowbell rang.
He held her tight and made love to her one more time.
CHAPTER 33
Morgan regained consciousness with a start and found himself in a room with concrete walls, a concrete floor and ceiling, and exposed pipes that emerged from concrete to end in concrete. It was all concrete except for a rusted metal door that looked shut tightly from the outside.
Still groggy, he tried to move his arms and noticed that he was handcuffed to one of the pipes, which was thicker than his thigh and stretched from floor to ceiling. He was seated on a metal chair, his feet tied to its legs. The only other thing in the room was a table against a side wall. He saw all this by the dead yellow light of a dim, incandescent bulb that hung from a wire. The room was dark and damp. Why did these places always have to be dark and damp?
He racked his brain, trying to remember being brought there, how long he’d been out, or any clue as to where he might be, but it was no use. He wondered about Conley. Had he tried to attack T after Morgan was captured? If so, was Conley sitting in an identical room, a few yards over? Or maybe he was dead and stuffed in the trunk of a car. But there was nothing Morgan could do to help him now, and he had to assume that Conley had no way of helping him, either.
He ran his fingers along the handcuffs. They were high-security, hard to pick even if he had something to pick them with. Nor would he have time to, he realized when he heard footsteps echoing faintly from outside the door, getting louder. They stopped just outside, he heard the sliding of a dead bolt, and the door creaked open. It was T. Beautiful, deadly Natasha, wearing formfitting black pants, a black top, and heavy boots that contrasted starkly with her fair skin and hair.
“I see you are awake. I was getting concerned that you would be out for the whole day.” She was calm and breezy, a cat playing with her prey.
“I’m not dead yet,” he said, shaking off the haze. “Which means you must still want something from me.”
“How very American of you,” she said. “All business. No time for old friends.” She was still stunning, and even now, her presence woke something intoxicating in him. He had the feeling she knew it, too. Even now, she moved seductively, looking at him with those deep, alluring eyes. “Well, then, here is the business, Cobra. You have some photographs. Photographs in which I believe I am featured.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to worry, sweetheart. They got you on your good side.”
T smirked. “Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Cobra laughs in the face of death. But you won’t be laughing very long, I don’t think.”
“Oh, is it the threat portion of our evening already?”
“I assure you,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “it will be very short.”
“Then let’s get to it, shall we? Tell me you’re going to torture me until I tell you what you want to know. Tell me I can stop it at any time, whenever I want, that all I have to do is talk, and you’ll let me go.”
“I will not tell you that I will let you go. I believe that would be an insult to your intelligence. You know very well that I will not let you leave this room alive. But answer my questions, and I promise you that your death will be quick.”
“Go ahead and make it slow if you want to. My schedule’s wide open.”
She remained unflappable. “Humor,” she said. “The last refuge of the weak. You won’t be cracking jokes after I’ve worked you over for a few hours.”
“I’ll be cracking jokes until long after you’re dead,” he said.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I like it when they are cocky. It’s that much sweeter when they break. Do you want to know how it’s going to go, Morgan? Why don’t I tell you, you know, out of professional courtesy? We are going to start off light. I start you off with no permanent damage. No toys, no tools. If you talk then, you will still be a reasonably good-looking corpse. But if you don’t answer all my questions, then I start getting creative.
“I like to improvise—did you know that? I’m not one of those who likes to carry around a little toolbox with dainty little instruments like a surgeon. Why would you want to, when you know the damage you can do with everyday implements—a hammer, a pair of pliers, a vise. Who needs all this precision equipment when all you really need is access to your neighborhood hardware store?”
“I tend to prefer Home Depot myself,” he said. “They have the best selection of torture gadgets anywhere in the lower forty-eight. Listen, if you’re going to go on much longer, do you mind if I step out to use the bathroom?”