Several hours after her kidnapping, Carla regained consciousness early next morning. She found herself chained by her left ankle to a masonry wall separating the bedroom from the En suite bathroom. She could move from bed to bathroom, but the chain prevented her going further.
The room was on the first floor of an old, almost derelict house. The dusty furniture and threadbare carpet were in keeping with the soiled bedding she lay on. The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage. The bathroom floor had a covering of worn-through lino over floorboards, a rust stained bath with black scab chips in the white enamel. The cracked white china basin had not been cleaned for a long time; so also the seat-less, shit-streaked toilet.
Obviously I am not at the Hilton, she thought sarcastically.
The front of her white dress was stiff with someone’s dried blood and her bare feet were gashed and bruised. A mirror in the bathroom showed a large dark blue-and-red bruise around her right eye; that explained the pounding headache. The bruise spreading down her cheek contrasted strongly with her fair skin and her previously-coiffed blond hair. She was not a pretty sight, though she couldn’t care less; she was in trouble and focused on staying alive.
Every moment of the fight outside Robert Leighton’s home was clear to her; despite the odds, she had gained the upper hand. The blow that ended her struggle came out of nowhere. One of the three men was under her; she had driven his knife between his ribs as she fell with him to the ground. The other two were about to grab her, so it could not have been them, and Max was keeping another man occupied. There must have been someone else there, observing; logically the person who wanted them captured. She was convinced all the terrorists involved with the Olympic threat had been caught by MI5, so who else would want them captured alive? There would be a long list actually, but only one person would have the resources to track them to London. Only this person would savor their capture as he took his revenge: her biological father.
The bedroom door opened. Philippe walked in. He looked like the classic impeccably dressed, Colombian drug baron. Black hair, swept back into a short pony tail, olive colored skin, handsome on the right side of his face, but brutally scarred on the left. That ear was also missing. His 6 foot tall athletic build made him look just over 40, but he was actually 51.
“So my darling child, judging by the lack of surprise on your face, you have just figured out it was I who took you.”
Carla would normally show no emotion to her captor. She knew her lack of emotion would raise doubts in the captor’s mind, by which she might be able to out-think and defeat him. In this case, she knew her father was seeking revenge. He would derive satisfaction by seeing her break down in tears. He would love high emotions and her fervent pleas for release. So she gave a performance that pulled even the strings of her father’s cruel heart, which he didn’t expect.
“Father, why are you doing this to me?” she screamed between sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her deep blue eyes had widened, imploring him to take pity on her. The corners of her mouth turned down in distress, and fine specks of spittle followed her words, wetting her soft pink lips which trembled like a little girl’s. Her hands reached out to Philippe, palms slightly upturned, the body language of honest intent, as though she meant every word, every plea, and she would never be naughty again.
“What would Lana say if she could see what you are doing to me? I’m your daughter, but we never had the chance to get to know one another. I need to know about my mother, and you must have loved her. Why can’t you love me just the same? Give me a chance to show you the real me, I will make you so proud. I want to know about you, I never wanted this fight; all I ever wanted was someone to love me, be part of a real family. I have been forced to fend for myself all my life. I have been so lonely, I need you Dad! Please, please don’t hurt me.”
He walked out.
Carla continued to sob for several minutes, gradually easing out of her act. There could never be a relationship with that man; he had no humanity in him, a psychopath if ever there was one. Certainly he had no conscience. Then Carla reflected on her own personality. Was she also flawed in the same way? This made her really cry. As far back as she could remember, she had always been a loner. People could not keep up with her physically or mentally and she soon tired of them.
Physically she had the speed and agility of Bruce Lee, and the endurance an athlete would envy. She could fight well, because from her perspective, her opponents were moving in slow motion. She had all the time in the world to think through her response, duck, dive and parry. Why would that make her a bad person? When it came to mental processes, her mind was also lightning fast. Often she felt she was a well-educated person interacting with an asylum full of morons. She had what is often called an eidetic memory. With her extraordinary ability to extrapolate from personal experience and endless facts cross-linked together, she could usually out-think, anticipate and manipulate others. It didn’t make her clever like a genius, just good at using God’s gifts.
Was it her fault that she was a stunning 28-year-old? Again, God had dealt her a good hand. Amy, Carla’s identical twin sister told her that Lana, her late mother, was beautiful and had a sparkling personality. Both girls were adopted by different families and it was only recently that they met by chance in the Maldives. Philippe had good looks and the cunning of a fox; she would have inherited his genes too. Was it such a crime to use your looks to achieve your objective? Little girls do it all the time; often the habit continues into old age.
Amy was much more normal as a person, but then she had a good upbringing with her foster parents. On the other hand, Carla took a different path filled with tension and adrenaline. Always seeking more from life, she grabbed it when she found it.
Of all her relationships, Max was the only person Carla loved unconditionally. Had they never met, both their lives would have been so different; possibly one or both might have been dead by now. Carla also realized that had Max opted out of this action-and adventure-filled life, they would not be together. They were an inseparable pair of adrenaline junkies.
Alerted by footsteps, she came out of her daydream. Jake, a skinny, unwashed man in his late twenties, entered and threw some fresh clothes on the bed. Jake was of average height, normal IQ, and low self-esteem. He appeared unaware his life was going nowhere, in the employ of Philippe.
“Philippe said you would be here for some time. The old fool Max Fortune is probably going to die in hospital. Someone smashed into his car and he is in a bad way,” Jake sniggered as he walked out.
That someone was Jake. Philippe had instructed him to wait at the junction in case anyone followed the abductors. On seeing the police car in pursuit, Philippe had phoned Jake, instructing him to ram it.
Learning about Max’s condition shocked Carla to the very core. She just had to find him. He needed her comfort and encouragement to recover and fight again. She became agitated, her facial muscles tightened and her eyes blazed like sapphire blue lasers as she focused again on her predicament.