"Rise and shine, golden goose!"
Bleary eyes refused to cooperate. Nigel grunted, dragging a hand over his face in a halfhearted effort to dispel the cobwebs. His face was slick with sweat, and his head and throat ached. On his second attempt he opened his eyes, though the world remained an unfocused question mark. The daylight was too bright, the heat too oppressive, the din too loud, the scents too acrid. His every sensibility was exaggerated and distorted by the remnants of fever.
"Get up, Mr. Bailey. We need to get moving."
Slowly, Nigel’s vision cleared and his sight aligned to the unaccustomed surroundings. He took in the Viper’s enigmatic expression. Was it some bizarre twist of concern, or just another version of the killer’s blasé disregard for human life?
Suddenly it occurred to Nigel that he was alive for a reason. It was more than revenge against Sydney, and more than the £8 million. The Viper was too pragmatic to play such an extreme hand merely for revenge, and with Ichriem on the horizon, £8 million was a paltry sum. Never mind the uncharacteristic concern for Nigel’s welfare.
That realization did nothing to calm the maelstrom in his stomach. If anything, it intensified it. He didn’t care for the glittering hunger in the older man’s dark eyes. If the larger, powerfully-built man was the Viper, then Nigel was a mouse caught in the same cage – and he felt a lot like he was lunch for the serpent. Without realizing it, he’d scrunched back against the wall, drawing the worn cotton sheet over him in a pitiful effort to cover himself. It was no consolation to hear the murmur of voices beyond the adobe walls. Those voices still spoke a muddled version of Arabic. He was still a prisoner in the most hostile of surroundings
The Viper reached out and stroked a fingernail over Nigel’s cheek, commenting, "You really should shave. I don’t like the beard."
This latest in a series of personal coontacts and sent a new shiver through Nigel’s thin frame. The illicit drugs and the subsequent bout of heat stroke left him gaunt and shaky. Days (Weeks? Months?) of captivity decimated his sense of time and hobbled him more effectively than chains. He wondered how they were to navigate over the island of Mer de Tueur. If it was on foot, he’d never make it, not in his present condition.
He was on his own. He wasn’t going to be rescued. If he had any hope of escape, it would have to be on his own power, using what limited resources he could draw from his surroundings. Despite the Viper’s claims that Sydney was facing a trap in Cairo, Nigel knew that she wouldn’t walk out of the hospital.
At the thought of Sydney, moisture flooded his eyes. Wouldn’t walk out? He was afraid more than anything that she couldn’t walk out.
"Stop wasting time, Nigel. I am not a patient man, and it’s time for us to go."
This time, there was no mistaking the tone. Nigel nodded acquiescence. "All right. Give me a moment to get dressed."
The Viper stood, giving Nigel an expectant look. "Shower first."
As hot and sticky as he was, Nigel would have given anything for a shower. But at that moment, with the other man’s eyes devouring him, the thought turned his stomach. Reluctantly, he drew the flimsy sheet around him and padded to the tiny, shared bathroom down the hall. Along the way, dozens of dark eyes regarded him with contempt. If the heat and the drugs and the terror didn’t do him in, the humiliation might. He shut the door behind him, closing out the staring eyes. The solitude was welcome for its respite, even while it reminded him again that he was entirely on his own.
He let the sheet fall to the navy tile floor, and stared for a second at the ghost reflected in the broken mirror. He truly did have a beard. Not just a five o’clock shadow, but an actual beard. How long had it been? The haunted eyes that stared back at him couldn’t really be his, could they? His normally pale skin was now gray and drawn, stretched over his skeleton. If there was any muscle or sinew left, it was invisible. Except for the unruly mop of brown hair and sunken hazel eyes, he nearly disappeared against the dirty beige plaster walls.
Stepping into the shower, he had to brace his palm against the wall to remain upright. Antiquated plumbing groaned in protest when he turned the spigot. After a couple of sputtering false starts, the shower head finally settled on a reasonably steady stream.
The tepid water felt heavenly as it sluiced over his body. He knew he couldn’t risk wasting time, but this was one of the few moments when he was alone. His eyes raked over his surroundings, gazing through the open window that let in the sounds of a city. If he could get away, he might be able to disappear in the hubbub, but he didn’t even know where they were. He had no clothing but a ratty hotel sheet, no passport, no money, no resources. Desperation poured over him like an extension to the water, permeating every pore. There was no escape. He was going to die alone in this godforsaken tributary of hell.
"Nigel! Psst, Nigel! Hurry up!" Another of the ubiquitous Arabic robes was thrust at him.
He nearly fell in his astonishment. Was he hallucinating? The hoarse whisper he heard didn’t belong to the Viper. Too stunned to move, he froze in place, water still running over him.
"For God’s sake, Nigel, take it and get dressed! We don’t have much time! Lloyd’s gone after that Viper creature, and Sydney’s sleeping it off, outside with Claudia. Don’t dawdle, Podge!"
At that instant, the hated nickname from his youth became a beloved endearment. "P-P-Preston???????" His knees gave way and his head lolled back. The hood fell back from his brother’s head as Preston lunged to catch him.
"Shit! Nigel, what did that monster do to you? Come on, little brother, chin up, we’re getting you out of here." In one motion, Preston pulled the robe over him and wrapped him in a desperate hug.
In spite of the seriousness of their predicament, Nigel retorted, "Don’t call me Podge!" Then he did the perfectly sensible thing and passed out.
End of Part Twenty Five
Go to Part Twenty Six.