The Battle: Alone: Book 4 (12 page)

Chapter 22

     Swain closed the bedroom door behind them and said, “Please, my dear. Take off your clothes. Let my eyes feast on your body.”

     His tone was soft, but she knew it for what it was. A command. A directive that was not debatable and non-negotiable.

      She complied not because she wanted to, but because she had to.

     “I see you’ve shaved this time. Thank you for that.”

     “I know that’s how you like to see me.”

     “My own Sarah did, long before it became the standard…”

     He caught and corrected himself.

     “I’m sorry, dear. I meant you no disrespect. I meant my
first
Sarah.”

     “I know what you meant, sir.”

     “Ah, once again, you call me sir. Why the formality, after all this time? I’ve asked you time and time to call me John. You’re the only one in this compound I’ve given that permission to, yet you choose not to take advantage of it. Why is that?”

     “I just don’t want you to think I’m giving into you. That’s all… sir.”

     “You’ve gotten more bold over the past months. If you were anyone else I’d have knocked you down. Maybe even had you taken out and shot. Do you realize that?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     As Sarah settled into an easy chair, completely naked and trying to position herself to hide her most intimate features, Swain walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer.

     He removed a glass pipe about six inches long, with a bowl on the end about the size of a golf ball. At the top of the bowl was a tiny ventilation hole.

     Crystal meth addicts called the contraption an “oil burner” because that’s essentially what it did. It turned crystalized meth into liquid form, then to a gas, which could then be sucked into their eager lungs and expelled quickly in a thick white cloud.

     From another drawer Swain took the package that had been delivered by horseback from his dealer.

     Just because the world had gone to hell in a handbasket didn’t mean he had to give up his favorite pastime.

     He loaded the burner by dipping the long end into the pile of chunky powder, then raising it upright and tapping it until the powder fell to the bottom of the bowl.

     Then he took a cigarette lighter and held the flame beneath the bowl, while he slowly twisted the pipe back and forth with his fingertips.

     The first time he’d done it in Sarah’s presence he saw the curiosity on her face and had explained.

     “Once the powder is melted you have to keep it moving to keep it from burning. You have to get it hot but not too hot. You have to turn it to gas without it burning, because if it burns it loses most of its potency.”

     After a few seconds a thin wisp of pure white smoke began to seep out of the tiny ventilation hole.

     Swain wrapped his lips around the end of the pipe and slowly drew the smoke into his lungs, while continuing to hold the flame beneath the pipe and turning it with his other hand.

     When his lungs were full, he quickly exhaled, blowing the sweet-smelling white smoke in Sarah’s general direction.

     “Oh, don’t worry,” he’d said while laughing. “You can’t get a contact high. It ain’t weed. That’s why you can’t hold it in, like you do weed. If you don’t exhale quickly, it crystalizes in your lungs. It can cause all kinds of problems.”

     Sarah had watched, a bit fascinated by the process. And a bit hoping that he’d overdose and die before her very eyes.

     But then he’d dashed her hopes by saying, “You can’t OD from this stuff. All you can do is over-amp and crash for a couple of days.

     He’d never explained what “over-amp” meant, though she was a bit disappointed that it didn’t sound fatal.

     He took four quick hits from the pipe and then held it up to the light to see how much was left.

     Then he turned and offered it to her, knowing full well she’d pass as she’d always done in the past.

     “Want some, my love?”

     “No thank you, sir.”

     “You don’t know what you’re missing. The rush is amazing, when you get the good stuff instead of the crap. You really should try it sometime.”

     “Perhaps another time, but thank you, sir.”

     “Very well. Fix me a bump while I get comfortable.”

     Sarah rose from the chair and approached the dresser while Swain removed his clothing.

     She didn’t mind fixing his needle for him. It gave her something to distract her while he sat on the bed and pleasured himself while watching her.

     She took the packet and poured about half a gram into a glass ash tray, then took a bottle of water and poured a bit over the powder.

     Then she took the dull end of a cheap ink pen and used it to crush the coarse powder until it dissolved.

     While Swain watched her body move and fondled himself, she tried her best to ignore him, focusing instead on the task at hand.

     She tore off a piece of a cotton ball and dropped it into the solution, then took a diabetic’s hypodermic needle from a package in the second drawer. Using the cotton ball to filter any clumps or impurities in the dope, she drew the liquid through the cotton and into the syringe.

     She’d done it enough times now to know exactly how much he needed for his “bump,” and how potent he needed the mixture of meth and water to be.

     As much as she wanted to, though, she knew she couldn’t drag out the process forever.

     She knew he wouldn’t finish his act until she injected him, and then sat in the chair to watch.

     He’d told her many times that smoking the pipe only made him amorous. It was the bump that made him a “sexual beast.”

     Still, it could be worse. He’d never actually forced her to touch him, or to have sex with him. She knew he could well have done so, for at this point in time he held all the cards.

     He’d told her he didn’t force her out of respect.

     She never told him so, but she thought he had a very odd interpretation of respect.

     But she did what she had to do, out of self-preservation, and to protect Lindsey and the other hostages.

     And all the while, she’d bide her time, and wait for the tide to turn. For her to get her own hand of cards. And to make this bastard pay.

     “Where do you want it, sir?”

     He paused long enough to inspect his arms. The main veins were getting scarred over now, and it was getting harder and harder to find a good vein.

     He found one in his left forearm that looked promising.

     “Try this one. Let me see the stick.”

     She handed him the needle, and he examined it closely. He didn’t really think she’d fill it full of air before injecting him. But one could never be too careful.

     She took a soft rubber hose from the night table and placed it around his arm. He clinched and relaxed his fist several times until her target vein swelled.

     As she pumped the clear liquid into his body he leaned back onto the bed. His eyeballs rolled back into their sockets as the hot rush overtook his brain.

     At that very moment, as she’d done several times before, she thought how vulnerable he was at this particular point in the process. How she could stab a knife into his heart. Or remove the needle, pull back the plunger to fill it with air, then plunge it into his jugular vein.

     But once again, she chose not to act. His loyal troops were all over the house. One cry from Swain, even if it was the last one he’d ever utter, might send one of his men to slit Lindsey’s throat. Or her sister Karen’s, or one of Karen’s sons.

     She couldn’t risk it.

     Instead, she released the rubber hose, removed the needle from Swain’s arm, and pressed her thumb against the puncture site until it stopped bleeding.

     Swain lay back on the pillow, his eyes closed.

     But she knew he wasn’t sleeping.

     “How many nights have you been up?”

     He said, “I don’t know. Five. Six. Why?”

     “You should take a day off from the junk. Get a good night’s sleep. It’ll do you as much good as this stuff.”

     He opened one eye and looked at her.

     “Are you finally starting to care?”

     “I just hate to see you destroy your body, that’s all.”

     He sat up and moved himself up, so that his back was against the headboard.

     He began fondling himself again as he talked.

     “What were we talking about before I lit up? Oh, yeah. Insubordination, and why I let you get away with questioning me.

     “You see, my love, a man in my position cannot tolerate insubordination from anyone. Insubordination is the mother of mutiny. The only reason I allow it from you is because you do it only behind closed doors. Therefore it cannot spread to the others, and make others think it’s okay for them to do it too. Were you aware that I’ve noticed that?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Have you wondered why I’ve learned to tolerate it from you without punishing you?”

     “No, sir.”

     “It’s because this is a world of give and take. I’m well aware of that. I let you get away with certain things that I would never tolerate from others. And you, in turn, allow me to satisfy my… urges, without complaint. Isn’t that right?”

     “If you say so, sir.”

     “I say so. But what you fail to realize, my love, is that I’ll win in the end. Love always does. You’ll spend time with me, doing these things that I love so well, and in the end you’ll learn to love them too. And then you’ll love me, because you won’t be able to help yourself.”

     “If you say so, sir.”

Chapter 23

     Dave awoke refreshed and ready to go. The time he’d spent the evening before meditating and looking up to the stars for spiritual guidance had relaxed him and made it easier to get several hours of quality sleep.

     It was just before sunrise, and Dave knew it would be a beautiful day ahead. The sun had been reddish in color when it set the previous night, which meant clear skies and no chance of storms.

     It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. One of his tactics required a good hard rainstorm, so he’d have gone today even if the weather was bad. But he’d rather have a clear and dry day to get his personal war started.

     He munched on a bag of rabbit jerky as he cleaned his handgun and rifle, then sharpened his knives. They were his killing tools, and they had to be in top-notch condition to do their job.

     Cleaning and servicing his weapons did something else, too. It gave him a chance to review in his mind, over and over again, the plans he had for the day’s activities.

     If everything went according to plan, he would take out three, maybe four of the enemy troops before nightfall. It would alert the men on the farm that there was someone out there gunning for them, sure. And that would make it harder for him to carry out future attacks without being seen. And there was a very good chance they’d be tromping through the woods searching for him.

     But reducing their numbers was crucial. The more men he could take out one or two at a time using guerilla tactics, the better his chances of winning when it came time to assault the compound.

     When he was finished preparing his weapons, he dressed himself in woodland camouflage pants, black combat boots, and a long-sleeved woodland camo shirt. Long sleeves would increase his body heat and make him sweat. But part of the day’s mission would call for his being able to hide in heavy green shrubbery. And he didn’t want his bare arms to give him away.

     Lastly, he painted his face in a camouflage pattern. He didn’t bring a mirror to check his handiwork. But he’d camouflaged his face enough times in the Corps to know instinctively he’d done a respectable job.

     He covered the top of his head with an olive drab green watch cap and tucked his long hair beneath it.

     “God, I need a haircut,” he muttered to himself.

     With any luck, Sarah could cut his long and dirty locks in a matter of days.

     Finally, he was ready to go. Into his leg pockets he placed a pair of wire cutters. Onto his back went a rack containing six crossbow bolts. And up the steps he went, carrying his weapons of choice for the day… his crossbow and the sniper rifle. The handgun was always with him, of course, and today would be no exception. But he had no need for the AR-15 rifle Sarah had bought him for Christmas two years before. It was a great weapon. But it was wrong for what he had planned to do in the coming hours.