The Steeles strolled through the elegant lobby with Laura’s heels clicking on the parquet floors.  A clerk at the registration desk admired the gorgeous couple and the obvious sparks between them that trailed in their wake.  They stepped into the freezing air.  Little snowflakes blew around and plastered themselves against the black limousine waiting in the circular drive.  The driver held the door open.

As they ducked into the limo, a young man dressed as a bellhop came running out of the hotel.  “Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Laura Steele,” he panted, “Ah, a message for you at the front desk.”

Laura and Remington looked at one another and she shrugged.  “I’ll go get it.  You stay warm; I’ll be just a minute.”  She slid out of the car.  “It’s probably the butler at Ashford wondering where we are.  I did give them our itinerary.”  She briskly walked to the front desk where the clerk handed her an envelope with her name on it.  She opened it only to find a perfectly blank sheet of paper inside.  She frowned as she walked out the door and looked up to the waiting car.

The limousine exploded, the force of it knocking Laura to the ground.  She rolled to her knees and scrambled to her feet, first saying, and then screaming, Remington’s name.  She flew to the burning car, grabbing the scorching hot handle.  When that failed to open, she reached through the shattered window and tried to unlock it from the inside.  Her left hand blistered and seared in the process, but she was oblivious to it.  Her only thought was to get to her husband.

She felt people grab onto her and pull her away as smaller explosions rocked the limo.  Someone snuffed out the burning embers on her coat.  “Rei!  Rei, Rei!”  She screamed his name over and over again, pulling and kicking to break free of the kind strangers pulling her to safety.  “No, no--my husband’s in that car!  Oh God, oh God, Remington--"

The pain in her hands that washed over her before she lost consciousness was nothing compared to the black hole that opened in her heart.


*****


From the rear of a sleek grey car pulling away from the ghastly sight, a hooded man held a 9mm to Remington’s head with one hand.  His partner had a firm grip on his hair and another on his bound arms.  "Yer supposed to look, mate,” rumbled the man with the gun and a foul grin.

Even if he wanted to turn away, Remington had his eyes riveted on the scene unfolding in front of him.  He flinched when the car exploded.  His captor’s grip tightened, leaving bruises.  He watched his wife as she pounded on the car screaming.  No, no, Laura, I’m not there, he shouted in his head.  He breathed her name as she struggled to shrug off the very people trying to help her.  When she collapsed, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I’m gonna need yer wallet, mate.”  That was the last thing he heard before a sweet-smelling cloth was pressed to his face.  He struggled against the men and rope that held him, but the chloroform did its trick, and Remington collapsed on the seat of the car.


*****


The horrific explosion at a luxury hotel was picked up by the local news.  A persistent reporter pried the names of the victims from the flustered clerk at the desk and practically ran to his office to submit the story to the Associated Press.  Anytime Americans were involved in a foreign bombing, the first to report it was almost guaranteed worldwide print time.


*****


Her clothes felt gritty and smelled like smoke.  Involuntarily, she flexed her hands, causing her to shiver from the terrible pain.  Eventually, Laura opened her eyes to gaze blankly at the stone wall four inches from her face.

Her body was one long ache.  Each time she moved, her muscles protested as the bruises and scrapes from landing hard on the pavement became apparent.  She ignored them and rolled onto her back.  Above her, old wooden timbers supported the high, blackened ceiling.  All four walls of stone radiated cold, and the wooden floor was scraped and battered from perhaps centuries of use.  The small room had an equally battered wooden door and a tall narrow window near the ceiling.  It held only a rickety, rusted iron bed with the thinnest of mattresses that Laura was lying on.  A tiny camera was mounted above the door.


*****


Remington watched Laura on the monitor as he had for the past three hours since a couple of goons dressed as paramedics had dumped her on the bed.  He saw her gingerly sit up and take inventory of her injuries. He caught a glance of her reddened hands before she hid them and tipped her face to the ceiling.  Even from the screen, he could tell she was dazed.

A heavy, pale man walked into her cell.  Fuck me, it’s Denis O’Callaghan.  Remington recognized the man tossing a blackened rectangle on the floor in front of Laura and saying something with a nasty grin.  He watched Laura pick up the burnt wallet and peel it open to reveal his own twisted and melted driver’s license and credit cards.  The con artist in him impassively judged the scene being played out as an excellent scam.  He couldn’t hear everything O’Callaghan was saying, but it clearly upset Laura though she hid it well enough from anyone but her own husband.  When the man departed, she retreated to the bed with the wallet, thumbing through it, smelling it and stroking it over and over again.  She stared blankly into the cell, turning the filthy thing in her hands, clearly not caring about the ashes coating her blistered fingers.

Remington’s violent anger was restrained only by years of experience.  Icy calm, old chap.  Can’t get us out until we know the game.  He, too, had been tossed into a cramped stone room, but beyond the initial scuffle when he was yanked out of the limo by the two bully boys, he was uninjured.

Angry with himself for walking into a trap, he stalked about the nearly empty room.  It only held a small cot, a chair and the computer screen sitting on a little table.  The door to the cell had a window where an armed guard kept careful eye on him.  Remington knew he could pick the lock in seconds but at the moment had no way of taking out the sentry.

The door to his cell opened, and the man who spoke to Laura came through it.  Nattily dressed, he noisily pulled up the lone chair and sat, propping an ankle across his knee.  Once known as a handsome man, he was now heavy with a florid face from too many late nights and serious drinking.  “Michael O’Leary.  Or perhaps, I should call you Remington Steele.”

“Mick’ll do, Mr. O’Callaghan.”  He smoothly shifted character and sat on the bed with lazy indifference.   Mentally, Steele played a poker game with the man.  The cards had been dealt, and he had a lousy hand.  

“So you know me?”

“Aye, and who wouldn’t be knowin' Denis O’Callaghan of the Dublin Six?  Be in the trade for a while, ye get to know who’s pullin' the strings.”  That was an understatement.  The Six were well-known in the underworld as the kingpins of Dublin and had been for the last fifteen years.  Drugs, prostitution, blackmail, gambling and theft--they had fingers in all the pies.  Combine that with the revenge and betrayal that goes along with the territory, and no sane man wanted to associate with them.  But there were always the greedy ones that couldn’t resist temptation.

“Then you know I pay well.  But I don’t like shirkers.”

“Aye, I’ve heard that about you.”

“Good.”  The thick man gave him a hard look.  “Well, Mick, that’s a gorgeous lass you’ve got yourself there.”

“Aye.”  It wouldn’t do any good to deny they had a connection.  He acted bored and scratched his chin. 
“What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a job for you.  And some incentive for you to do it well, I think.”  He nodded at Laura on the screen.

Time to bluff, Remington thought.  He snickered.  “Her?  She’s a sweet lass but not worth a job a bloke like you is sure to be thinkin.’ ”

“Ah, that’s the way it is.  Well, then you don’t mind us having a little fun with her, do you?”

Steele shot him a wary look.  O’Callaghan pointed to the screen.

One of the bully boys set a sack inside the room and propped himself against one of the walls while motioning to Laura.  She crossed to the bag and poked at it before dipping her hand in, pulling out a cold sandwich.  She gingerly tasted it before setting it down with her right hand.  With her mouth and wrists, she opened the bottled water and drank the entire contents.  By the flex of her hands, Remington could tell they were causing her quite a bit of pain.

“Now that wasn’t a very smart thing to do,” O’Callaghan commented.  Steele sharpened his eyes on him.  “The water was spiked with a mickey and a painkiller.  It will all go straight to her head.” O’Callaghan gestured casually toward the monitor.  “You’ve got a choice.  Either you can go take care of her, or I’ll let my boys have a go at it.”  In one move, the man called the game and left Remington holding a losing hand.   

From their detective work, both Remington and Laura were familiar with the insidious drugs that loosened all inhibitions and blanked out the memory.  There was one case in particular involving a young girl that still haunted both of them.  He folded, admitting she meant something to him.  “I’ll do it.  She doesn’t deserve what yer boys are sure to do.”  He rose to his feet.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Laura fanning herself as she stripped out of her coat.

“A moment, Mick.”  O’Callaghan went to the door and gave instructions to someone outside.  He returned a moment later.  “Strip down to your skivvies, my friend.  Leave the rest of your clothes here. You’re slippery, and I can’t take the chance of you running.”  Very matter-of-factly, the man continued, “Take care of the girl and we’ll talk.”

Infuriated at the setup, Remington stripped down to his undershirt and briefs while the man strolled over to the monitor and watched Laura for a few moments.  “If you’re not going to let the boys play, be sure to give us a good show.”

Remington shot a sour face at him.  “Aye, I can do that.”

“Good.  If you leave before the job is done, I’ll send my boys to finish it up.”  The threat chilled Remington to his bones.  The mere thought of one of these men touching Laura was too terrifying to consider.

“I’m sure you’ll understand why you need to wear this.”  The pale man dangled a hood from his fingertips.  Without a word, the captive slipped it on and allowed O’Callaghan to lead him out of the room.

By the time Remington was shoved abruptly into Laura’s cell, he was chilled and not just a little frightened.  He had an idea of how O’Callaghan was setting him up, but with Laura at the bastard’s mercy, Remington saw little choice but to play along.  Already half-naked and lying on the ragged bed, Laura flirted with the bully boy as he left the room.  “Remington!”  The siren rose from the bed to wrap her arms around his neck, spreading ravenous kisses over his face and throat.  Despite the cold, her lips were warm and lusty.  She purred and slid her hand into his briefs.  “I’ve got something for you, darling.  Come to bed.”

It would take a stronger man than Remington to resist his own wife in full come-hither mode.  He simply could not help responding to her, despite having full knowledge that the drugs were talking, not the Laura he knew and loved.  It didn’t take long until he was stiff as a board.  It never did when it came to her.  He gathered her into his arms and carried her to the pitiful excuse for a bed.  With his foot, he flipped the thin mattress to the floor and laid her on it.  Feverish in her need, Laura frantically pulled at their clothes, and the moment they were free, she straddled him and took him inside her body.

He tried to pace himself, but she was relentless and even violent--biting and scoring her nails across his chest.  In mere moments, she screamed with pleasure while he hung on with every ounce of will he possessed.  Icy calm, icy calm, icy calm, he chanted.

Laura still had hours to go before the mickey wore off, and Remington had to draw on sheer willpower to deal with his drugged wife.  She had no control over her body’s responses or her emotions.  She swung from seductive to demanding and back again, forcing Remington to use all his talent to satisfy her through the night.  Most of the time she was frantic--burning in the wake of the drug.  He used every trick he had ever learned to bring pleasure to her, giving her a few minutes of relief at a time, but it was never long before she needed him again.  Wild and frenetic, she often bit and scored his skin with her nails.  Several times he had to restrain her or risk injury to a vital organ or two.

In the wee hours of the morning, he was beyond exhausted when the drugs began to weaken.  As the painkiller wore off, Laura’s eyes shadowed and her mind played tricks on her.

At last, the mickey unhooked its vicious claws.  Laura rolled away from Remington one last time and instantly slept.  He carefully shifted her to her side because one of the nastier side effects of the drug was a suppressed gag reflex.  If she vomited while her body rejected the chemicals, she could drown in it.

He used her coat to cover her.  The blackened holes dotting the material reminded him of the explosion, so he carefully uncurled her hands to inspect the damage she had done to them.  From the fingertips to the wrists, they were reddened with mostly first degree burns.  But where she had reached inside the broken window to grab the door lock, the first two fingers of her left hand were deeply burned and blistered.  Appalled, he tore two strips from his shirt that he retrieved from the floor and meticulously wrapped the worst of the injuries.

Now he lost the battle to stay awake.  Snuggling in next to his wife, he breathed in the smoky scent from her hair and fell asleep with visions of Laura fighting and screaming through his nightmares.

He guessed it was only a couple of hours later when one of O’Callaghan’s men yanked him from her bed, replaced the hood, returned him to his cell and tossed his clothes in after him.  He stumbled to the table to watch the monitor with bleary eyes.  Laura still slept.  Remington pulled the chair near the table so he could watch his wife.  Eventually, he crossed his arms, dropped his chin to his chest and dozed.  Sometime later, he awakened when he heard Laura rustling on the bed.


*****

Laura stirred, cold and alone.  She had a horrible headache, and she was lying half-on and half-off the mattress on the floor.  The old wood radiated cold through the thin pad.  It didn’t take her long to realize that she was naked under the coat.  She leaned up on her arm and pulled the cashmere away.  In the sunlight streaming from the window, she could see the evidence of sex and feel it still sticky on her thighs.  Thumb and finger-sized bruises dotted her thighs and arms.  The last time she felt this well-used was after a long night with Remington at the conclusion of a perilous case, with both of them revved by the excitement.

The explosion flashed through her head along with the burnt wallet.  The awful man that dropped it at her feet had told her he was dead.  He wanted information from her but wouldn’t tell her yet what he wanted.  She had a vague memory of a strange man flirting with her. 

Her mind spun in shock.  Trembling, she grabbed every piece of clothing she had and dressed, buttoning every single button.  She felt dirty, wanting a shower so badly she shook with the need.  Hunkering down in the corner farthest from the bed and wondering what was next, she rested her chin on her crossed arms.  Her haunted eyes stared into space.


*****


When Remington looked hard at the screen, he could see a trail of tears on her cheek.  It only took him moments to realize what she thought.  Dear Lord, Laura--no one touched you but me.   


*****


Over her first cup of coffee later that morning, Mildred flicked open the L.A. Tribune, and her heart broke on the front page:  P.I. Remington Steele Killed by Irish Car Bomb.  In smaller print below: Wife Laura Still Missing.

It didn’t take her long to pack her bags for the next flight to Cork which was scheduled to depart late that afternoon.  With a short layover in Paris, she would be in Ireland by tomorrow night.  She called Ian. “Wake up, Connelly.  Time to show your true colors.”

“What?  What’s up?”

“Read the paper this morning?”

“No, uh, hold on, I have it right here.  Holy shit!  Oh crap, not the Steeles!”

“I’m catching the 4:00 p.m. flight out to get to the bottom of this.  I’m sure you’ll have a few thousand phone calls this morning.  Just tell them all that we’ll release a statement once we have more details.  Now get to the office and stay in touch with me.  I’ll stop by there on my way out and leave you my flight information.  I’ll stay at their hotel, so you can reach me there too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mildred sped through the city to the office and arrived in record time.  While she scribbled down the information for Ian, she called the answering service for messages.  Mid-way through the list, Ian walked in.  She started to hand the phone over but caught the name "Murphy Michaels."  She wrote down the number and passed the receiver to Ian.  He could handle the rest.  While she dug out the contingency folder with Laura and Remington’s powers of attorney, she dialed the man’s number in Colorado.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Michaels, this is Mildred Krebs.”

“Oh God, thanks for calling.  What can I do?

“How are you at detective work?”

“I trained with Laura.”

“Good.  Meet me in Cork.  I’m leaving the office shortly, so call me back with your flight information.  Call my private line so you won’t get the service.”  She gave him the number and hung up.  She made one more phone call to the Rothestown Park Hotel.  A few pithy remarks to the frazzled secretary got her through to the equally annoyed hotel manager.  Throughout the day, they had also fielded dozens of phone calls about the bombing, and the local gardaí were pressuring to begin an enquiry.

Mildred presented her credentials to the manager.  “You’ll hold all further investigations until I get there.  Do not tell anyone that I am coming.  I want you to close Steele’s account and re-reserve the suite in my name for the next two weeks, but make sure you leave their keys active.”  She interrupted his sudden babble.  “No, I don’t care who is supposed to arrive on Sunday.  That’s your problem.  And if Mrs. Steele should show up, I expect she’ll have complete privacy even if you have to post a bodyguard outside her door.”

The flustered man sputtered about the local gardaí, but Mildred continued, “I don’t care what the police are doing; I’m in charge here, and you will do what I say.  The Steeles are my responsibility, and you will not make any decisions on their behalf.  I’ll be there by tomorrow evening.  One more thing: when  you’ve made sure that no one else will be in the room, leave a note on the table.”  She rattled off a short message.  “Got it?”

The manager placated her.  “Yes, ma’am.  I’ll personally make it look as if we’re closing the room and cleaning it up.  Then I’ll leave all their personal things and the note in the room for you.”

“That’ll do.”  She slammed down the phone, only to have to pick it up again when Murphy called back.  She wrote down his information.  He planned to catch a flight first thing tomorrow and would be in Cork by Wednesday around mid-morning.  She gave him the name of the hotel and clicked off.

Before she left, Mildred went into Remington’s office and pulled out a paper file that only she and the Steeles knew existed.  It was well-hidden under a fake client’s name and buried deep in the back of a stack of paperwork.  In it, Remington had listed the various jobs he'd accomplished and the people he had come into contact with during the more nefarious part of his life.  The only purpose for this file was to give them some sort of starting point to investigate this kind of event.   


*****


Now Remington began to understand O’Callaghan’s game.  Laura’s brilliant mind would fill in the blanks of the night before, using the information she had.  She had every reason to think he was dead, and she could only assume that one or more men had raped her in that lonely cell.  Her fear was reinforced when one of the bully boys, the one Remington now recognized as being dressed as the blond bellhop with the message, brought her another sack of food.  He watched as the man squatted next to her and ran a finger along her chin.

Remington couldn’t hear what was said, but judging by her ashen face, she believed whatever he was telling her.  The man stroked one hand through her hair, laughing when she flinched.  Mentally, Remington gut-punched him, then used his favorite carving knife to slit the man’s throat and watch him bleed.

The bellhop brusquely squeezed her breast before strolling out the door.  Her eyes filled with tears.  I’m
sorry, Laura.  I’ll find us a way out.  I’m so damned sorry.  Remington watched her break.  She stared
blankly at the ceiling, pressing a hand to her heart, and then she ran a hand through her hair and across
her chest to wipe away the other man’s touch.  He saw her curl up into a tight ball against the stones and
slam her hand into the stone wall over and over again--covering it in bloody streaks.  She said only one
word, and her voice throbbed with stifled tears, “Rei.”  He watched, stunned by the ferocity of her grief.

By the time O’Callaghan returned, Remington paced the floor as he fumed, trying to think of a way out
of this trap.  The pale man slapped open the door.  His other lackey stood behind him pointing a 9mm at
Remington.  “Good show, my boy.”  The nasty man clapped him on the shoulder.  I think even I learned
a thing or two last night.”  He smiled broadly.  “Now I know why the lasses always went for you.”

Dropping all pretenses of "Mick," Remington snapped, “Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

“Ah, there’s the Remington Steele I’ve been looking forward to meeting.  Quite a scam you’ve got going.  Private investigator.  Must make a fortune in finder’s fees.”  The man chuckled.  He strolled to
the monitor and tapped on the screen.  “I needed to keep her busy so she doesn’t put her agile little mind
to use while you do a job for me.  I’ve been studying you two.  She’s good, but she doesn’t quite have
your nose for a bad situation.  Her smarts and your instincts are quite a team.”  Remington kept silent.

“You I want for a little project.  There aren’t many with your touch, and quite frankly, I couldn’t think
of a way to get to you that wouldn’t involve her dogging my heels trying to find you.  Now she thinks
you’re dead, and she’s been treated like a whore; it will be a while before she pulls herself together.  Not
only that, I think you’re more than just a little attached to her.  She’ll make a handy guarantee while you
do a the job for me.”

Remington’s rage exploded again at the epitaph for his wife, but he kept his face clear as he listened.  
“What do you want me to do?”

“We’ll talk tonight.  After I make sure your wife won’t be going anywhere for a while.  She’s too bloody
smart for my tastes and I can’t take any chances.”

“What do you mean?” Remington shot back.  But the man didn’t answer.  He and his bodyguard walked
out the door.  Remington slammed his fist into the wood behind them, feeling like a rat in a cage.


*****


Laura paced the room, trying to keep warm.  She shivered and swallowed tears while her mind circled
from Remington to rage and back to him again.  His death was becoming a reality to her, leaving a yawing emptiness in her heart that hurt beyond any pain she’d ever experienced.  Terrified of giving into it, she tried to think past it by focusing on the events of the previous few weeks.  She attempted to identify something, anything at all, that would give a clue as to why they were someone’s targets.  Not for one minute did she believe that all this was just an accident.  Her fingers throbbed terribly, but she blocked them out as she tried to concentrate.  What information did they want?  What do they know about Remington, and what do they want with me?

Failing that endeavor, she surveyed the room in detail.  In the late afternoon, the sun blazed through the
single window.  She blushed shamefully when she noticed the mounted camera.  It was mortifying to
know that others had watched her humiliation.  The only thing she could think of to do was to stare
defiantly into the lens, hoping to intimidate the person on the other side.

Remington smiled ever so slightly when he saw that insolent look.  They hadn’t defeated her yet.  He
smiled more when she disappeared from view.

Laura stepped under the camera so as not to be seen by it, putting her right in front of the heavy door.  
Picking the old iron lock held a real possibility for escape, but it wasn’t the only one.  She could climb the
stone walls, and the window made for a handy exit.  Feeling around her coat, she fingered the picks and
the small knife; it was comforting knowing that Remington’s last gift to her could be her ticket to
freedom.  Damn it, she had to stop that thought or she would cry.  Laura hated to cry.

The snick of the lock warned her that someone was coming in.  Frightened, she backed against the
opposite wall, putting the bed between her and the door.  O’Callaghan’s two thugs, the bellhop and the
bully, stalked into the room.  One of them quietly shut the door behind them.  “What do you want?  
Where are we?” she sputtered.  But the men shook their heads at her, refusing to answer.  Laura
clutched her coat when one of them ordered her to lose it.  Terrified of being raped again, she shook her
head and blocked their initial attempts to grab her.

The brutes changed tactics and worked as a team to get the coat off her.  The bellhop produced a knife
and sliced away the buttons while the bully pinned her arms back.  Laura kicked and twisted to shake
them off, but when she landed a decent kick on the bellhop, he stunned her with a fist to the face.  
Dazed by the broken nose, it took only moments then for the two men to strip the covering from her.

But they didn’t rape her as she feared.  They beat her instead.

To a stranger, it might have seemed that Remington impassively watched the horrifying scene.  Someone
who intimately knew him would take in the clenched jaw, the ice cold eyes and the faint sheen of sweat
on his brow.  He was nearly incoherent with rage but remained absolutely motionless while he kept his
eyes on the screen.  His tiny wife tried to deflect the raining blows and even managed to land a solid kick
or two, but the bellhop got a good grip on her arms while the other man struck her head, chest and
stomach with his boots and fists.  She screamed when he connected his foot hard with the once-injured
knee.

Unable to support her own weight, she sagged against the bellhop, and he dropped her to the ground.  
Surprisingly, she still had the presence of mind or the automatic instinct--Remington was never sure
which--to curl into a ball to protect herself.  The tormentors still landed blows on her back and legs, but
when one of those kicks connected with her temple, she quit fighting to lie limply on the cold floor.

Remington was stunned by the attack.  What kind of monster was O’Callaghan?  While he had heard of
the Six and their harassment, he hadn’t picked up on anything like this--and he had a fair number of
contacts.  Helpless and enraged, he pounded his fist into the stone wall until it, too, came away bloody.  
The pain was minor compared to the anguish tearing through his heart.


Is she dead?

No, not even close.  My boys know what they’re doing.  Do you want the doc yet?

That depends on Steele.


O’Callaghan tapped his gun against the little window in the door.  Remington whirled and nearly sent his
fist through the glass before pulling himself together.  He had to keep his wits about him and figure out
something, anything, about the situation.  Right now he had zero answers and a wife, possibly dying,
somewhere in this ancient castle.  O’Callaghan and the guard watched Remington warily while they came
into the room.  Both were armed and kept their weapons trained on him.  Like gunslingers in the
American Old West, O’Callaghan and Remington faced each other without a word, waiting for the other
to make a move.  

The other man broke the silence first.  “Come.”  He sounded as if he were ordering a dog.

“Where?”

“To see your wife.”

They blindfolded him again, but it made little difference.  This second trip merely confirmed the route he'd memorized the first time.  He was sure they were taking extra twists and turns to confuse him, but it didn’t matter. He could find her.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he was told.  They shoved him into the cell and slammed the door shut again.

Remington ripped off the cloth covering his eyes and knelt by Laura, sliding two fingers to her throat.  He shuddered in relief when he felt her pulse steadily beating.  For a moment, he could only lean over her and press his cheek to hers.  “Bloody hell, Laura, what have they done?”

Conscious of the time, he began methodically searching out her injuries, starting with her head.  He brushed her hair away from her bloody face, in the process finding large lumps on her skull and a mark on her temple that would surely bruise terribly.  He checked her eyes.  Their uneven dilation confirmed a concussion.  Blood still trickled from her broken nose, a cut on her cheek and out of the corner of her mouth.  Remington used the blindfold fabric to wipe away what he could.  Taking a deep breath, he braced himself before snapping her nose back in place.  She flinched, but her eyes stayed closed. 

Lifting her sweater, he tried to ignore all the marks that would surely be bruises by morning.  Instead, he ripped off his own shirt and undershirt, replacing the former and tearing out more strips from the latter to wrap around her middle.  He pulled it tightly to support the bones as much as possible just in case they were broken.  There was nothing he could do about internal bleeding except to hope there wasn’t any.  He didn’t place much faith in that, but he mumbled a quick prayer under his breath.

He shifted her shirt and sweater back into place before loosening her pants.  Enormous red marks dotted her thighs, and her knee was already swelling terribly.  Not again.  Oh, Laura.  Remington used the last of his undershirt to wrap it securely.

Remington realized now that Laura had been very methodically beaten.  For what purpose, he didn’t know, but she would recover.  He had been worked over once or twice like this.  If the men really wanted to incapacitate her, there would have been broken bones and cudgels or knives involved.  What bloody fucking game is O’Callaghan playing?

When he replaced her corduroy slacks, he covered her with the coat and placed her on the bed, kissing her tenderly on the forehead and her lips.  “I love you, Laura.  I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this, but I promise you, we will.”  He left her after pressing one last kiss to her unmarked cheek.  He walked to the door, glancing at the camera mounted above it.

A noise from the bed alerted him that Laura was beginning to stir.  Glancing back, he realized what they had to do.  Thinking and acting at lightning speed, he shimmied up the stone wall to the right of the door.  He ripped out the camera, leaving it dangling from a single wire.  Dashing back to Laura, he leaned over and whispered softly, “Time to leave, love.”  He reached inside her coat to retrieve an item he knew she would need and placed it carefully in her hand.  Casually, he crossed to the door and rapped on it.  Laura, I’m counting on you.

The lackeys led him to another part of the castle where food and drink lay on a broad oak table.  Motioning him to sit, O’Callaghan forked up a bit of his own food.  Remington took small bites despite the fact he was ravenous.  “Eat.  The food’s not drugged.  Nor is the drink.”  He took a long sip of his wine.  “It’s time for us to talk.”  Remington arched that elegant brow, still not speaking.

“Now that you know what I will do to your wife without provocation, you’ll understand what I will do if you fail to execute this little job I have for you,” O’Callaghan said.

“Indeed.”  Remington shivered inside.  Come on, Laura, wake up!  “What do you have in mind?”

“A very special diamond.  Your particular talents come to mind.”

“And where is this diamond?”

“Éire Tower, Dublin.  There’s a jewelry broker there.  Name’s Rory Malone.”

Remington nodded.  “I know him.”

“Yes, your ... ” he paused, “association with him is legendary.  You’re quite arrogant, you know.  Not ten people in this bloody hemisphere would know you and your wife are wearing a matched trio of red diamonds in your wedding bands.  Maybe two of them know where you got them.”

“Is that what you want?  Our rings?”  Remington moved to yank it off.

“No, I’m not stupid.  I’m sure you’ve marked them so that they’ll be hell to move, even on the black market.  Besides, they’re still too small to be of use to me, matched though they are.”  The man stuffed another bite into his mouth.  “Malone’s got a rough diamond that he won at auction a few years back.  He’s sitting on it, waiting for the economy to improve.  Word is a good jeweler could cut a solid two carets out of it.  It’s pure red, not a purple or a pink, so no one wants to touch it.”

“It’d be worth a bloody fortune.  Cut, it’ll fetch upwards of two million, maybe more if the color’s pure throughout.”

“You do know your gems.”

Remington leaned back in his chair, trying not to think of Laura lying in a cold, dark room somewhere in this ancient place.  “Got a buyer?  You can’t sell it at auction without provenance.”

“Won’t need it.  That’s the second part of our little project.”

“What do you have in mind?”  Remington acted friendly, eating small bites and hoping for more tidbits to this puzzle.

“Later.  For now, I want the diamond in two weeks.  That should give you time to pull this off.”

“Fourteen bloody days.  I’ve spent months planning something like this.”

“Yes, but your wife’s life wasn’t on the line, was it.”

Remington clenched his fist, deliberately letting his anger show.  “There are things I’ll need.”

“Make a list.  Have it ready in an hour, and I’ll get them for you.”  

He took his time.  It took a lot longer than an hour.  Hurry, Laura, I’ll stall as long as I can.


*****


She had a dream that Remington was leaning over her whispering, “Time to leave, love.”  She didn’t really believe in ghosts, but she swore she could feel his hands soothing her pains and his lips pressing lightly on hers.  She brought up her hand to touch her sore nose, but something snagged on the fabric of the coat tucked in around her. Turning her hand over, she found her lockpick tucked into her wedding ring.

Every part of her body screamed as she tried to sit up on the uncomfortable cot.  Twice she tried to push herself up and failed.  The third time, she settled for rolling off the mattress to get her feet under her.  Her injured knee nearly gave out when she stood in the heeled boots, and she barely caught herself on the bed to keep from falling over.

The pain in her head exploded, and Laura had to pant through her mouth until it ebbed a tiny fraction.  She winced at the double images she saw when she opened her eyes.  Concussion.  She almost fell back on the cot, but Remington’s words echoed in her head, forcing her to move in spite of the excruciating pain.  She touched her ribs and felt a makeshift bandage holding them in place.  Not understanding and quite past caring, she focused only on staying on her feet and pulling the coat around her throbbing body.  She fumbled for Remington’s wallet that lay on the thin mattress and jammed it into her coat pocket.

She made herself limp to the wall directly under the window.  Glancing behind her, she noticed the broken camera and smiled slightly.  Thank you, love, wherever you are.  Then she looked up.  This is going to hurt.  Laura’s slow and meticulous climb up the wall caused her burned hands to shriek in protest.  Her knee yelled just as loudly each time she placed her weight on it, but she ignored them all while she ascended.  The castle’s window ledge was wide enough to stand on and the window itself tall enough that she could slide through the narrow slit.  Balancing on the window sill, it took her three long minutes to pick the lock with her right hand.  The hinges were stiff with age and squeaked a bit when she pushed at the pane, but it swung open.  Freedom.

What Laura didn’t count on was being three stories off the ground.  If she wasn’t in such a precarious position, she might have admired the view.  In the evening sun, she could see the castle was sitting in the middle of a rolling meadow and shadowed by a low hill.  A pretty stream burbled not too far away.  She could see several roads crisscrossing the countryside.  A thin layer of frost coated everything in sight and made for a postcard-perfect picture.

Time to leave, love, Remington’s voice echoed in her head.  Past advice from him came to mind, and as she balanced carefully, she closed the window.  Someone would have to look closely now to see that it was unlocked, perhaps buying her a little time.

She dug in her coat pockets and found her leather gloves stuffed in one of them.  It took longer than she liked to work them over her tender fingers, but she would need the protection for her descent.  With scrupulous care, she turned and began searching for footholds in the stonework.

Laura closed her eyes.  Once more, she relied on the skills her husband had passed on to her to break free of this nightmare.  He had taught her to rely only on her sense of touch while climbing.  He had started by blindfolding her at the local gym’s climbing wall.  She "graduated" when she’d climbed down and then scaled the wall of their apartment building with her eyes covered the same way.  Slipping over their penthouse terrace that night, she discovered Remington had set up a table for two with champagne and dinner waiting.  His only requirement before teaching her was his insistence on a safety harness while she practiced, and he had released it with much celebration.

Tonight, without a harness or a blindfold, Laura first scuffed the toes of her boots against the stones to rough up the tips for more leverage.  She began her descent, concentrating only on finding the next tiny indention or ridge that would hold her weight as she worked her way down the castle facing.  The stones were icy cold, and the boots she wore were way down on the list of appropriate footwear for escaping the clutches of an evil brute.

As the sun dropped below the horizon, her feet touched the ground and her knee throbbed terribly.  Saying a small prayer of thanks, to either God or Remington--she wasn’t sure which--she began stumbling over the frosty meadow and headed for the tiny stream.  She hoped her tracks wouldn’t be seen in the darkness.

*****

It was late when Remington gave O’Callaghan the list of information and tools he would need to pull off the heist.  He added a few things that were sure to be expensive and a pain in the ass to find just to be difficult.  The portly man grumbled over parts of the extensive inventory and nodded at the others.  He handed the sheet to one of the two men standing behind him.  “Get some sleep,” he muttered, “we’ll get all this tomorrow.”

Time to play it my way, O’Callaghan.  “Not in that hellhole again.  And I want to move my wife somewhere warm and get her a doctor.”

O’Callaghan gave him a nasty glare.  “Making demands are you?”

“If Laura dies, you get nothing.  You need me to get this diamond.  I need to know she’s alive.  I think  it’s a reasonable trade.”  The older man nodded and mumbled something to one of the men with him.  The guard left, apparently to make arrangements.  Remington picked up his wine and stared into the fire warming the room.  One more for good measure.  “I want to see her once she’s moved,” he demanded, seemingly out of the blue.  “I want to know you made good.”

But before O’Callaghan could answer, the guard hurriedly returned and whispered in the man’s ear.  Remington watched closely as the heavy man jerked before schooling his expression.  “No.  You’ll have to wait until morning to see her.  I’ll get her moved.  Now get out.”

Frowning, Remington allowed the guard to escort him out the door.  Looking back, he saw O’Callaghan and another man rushing the opposite way down the corridor.  He was led down the hall and into a small bedroom warmed by a decent fire.  He crawled onto the bed and pretended to sleep as the guard locked him in.  He concentrated on keeping a triumphant smile off his face.  My turn, love.  It won’t be long now.