If a breaking heart had a distinct sound, Olan knew he was hearing it now. The cry coming from Niko's throat could only be described as a bellow of rage and horror, much as a wounded lion crying its death knell.
Olan was at a loss in the face of a pain so raw. He could only stand and watch as Niko shattered right in front of him. Walking around the front of the vehicle, Olan went to his friend to lend whatever support or strength he could. He no more than put a hand on his shoulder when Niko took off at a dead run, heading for the forest and presumably the spot where Camille had landed.
Muttering a stream of oaths, Olan ran a hand through his shaggy red hair, turning to see several curious on-lookers approaching. Years of training and his need for self-preservation kicked in, galvanizing him to action.
As quick as his injured body would allow, he slid behind the wheel of the car. He hoped that the narrow road he was on would take him through the woods and close to the spot where Camille had landed.
He feared what Niko might do in his current state. A man with that kind of love and passion for a woman could very well lose his mind, go on a rampage or even kill himself. He only hoped he got there in time to stop Niko before he did anything crazy.
Given the trajectory of the fall and the distance of the helicopter, it was difficult to say where Camille's body had landed. Olan did his best to estimate the distance and tried to get the car as close as possible, but eventually was forced to abandon it. He'd long since lost sight of Niko in the crowding trees.
Calling out, Olan made his way through the thick undergrowth, stumbling from time to time in his weakened state. Just when he was afraid that he'd never find his partner, he heard a voice call out to him. He had to wait for a second call before he figured out the right direction.
When he finally found him, Niko was sitting on a fallen tree, his head in his hands. Not far from his feet lay a shattered body, the blond hair the only distinguishable feature by which to identify her. The remains were so badly broken the only word that came to Olan's mind was "pulverized."
"Niko...," he said, reaching a shaking hand to his friend.
"
Nothos
," Niko cursed, raising bleary red eyes to Olan. "The bastard wanted me to think he'd killed her."
"Huh?" Olan grunted, confused.
"That's not Camille," Niko replied. "I don't know who she is, but she's not my Camille."
Olan was convinced that his friend had lost his mind. Her body lay at their feet. What more evidence did he need?
"Niko, just hang in there, buddy. We'll get through this."
Shaking his head, Niko reached down to lift the shattered leg of the body, pulling the tattered, bloodied cloth of her slacks away to reveal a small tattoo of three small white flowers clustered together.
"White Oleander? She's one of them."
"Yeah," Niko said, his voice shaking. "She's a decoy to make me believe my wife is dead."
"They're trying to draw you out."
"Makes no sense. He could've just set that copter down and killed me."
"They want you alive, I'd say. Question is, why?"
"I don't give a shit. All I want is Camille. We have to get to her before they..." Niko said, letting his voice trail off.
"I know, pal. We're going to have to come up with a plan. That woman of yours kept me alive. She saved my life, Niko. I want to save her as badly as you, but we have work carefully."
"I know," answered Niko, "and we're going to need a little help."
***
Pain was Camille's first conscious thought upon waking. It throbbed in her skull, radiating downward through her torso and limbs. Some piercing source of light was shining in her eyes, each in turn, while the sounds of voices echoed around her.
She moaned, trying to move her head away from the light. Too late she realized her mistake. The sudden movement shot a wicked spasm of white hot pain through her head. Someone slapped her face lightly, telling her to wake up and be done with it.
Another voice, angrier than the first, came to her defense, while still another spoke to her with a slight accent. None of them made any sense and only one of them sounded familiar; the one that had belonged to the man who had slapped her.
The fog began to lift from her brain, allowing some of the chaos to form coherent thoughts. It was Doug's voice that spoke to her now, cold and cruel, telling her to pull herself together.
She opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh light overhead. As her vision cleared, she could make out the faces of the people around her. None of them was friendly, eyeing her with frosty scrutiny, seeming to size her up for some reason.
"Wake up, Camille," Doug said. "You've had long enough to recover. Snap out of it."
"Fuck you," she whispered, the sound of her own voice making her wince.
She heard his hand connecting with her face before she felt it. He had backhanded her hard, setting her mind to reeling again while the other man yelled at him.
"Christ, Gerhardt," the man said, "she has a concussion. You'll put her in a coma. Get out of here. At least let her heal up before you beat her to death."
"You stick to medicine, Doctor. I'll take care of interrogations," Doug shot back.
"Get out," the doctor ordered again, "or there won't be anything left to interrogate. I'll call you when she's fit."
The third person, a woman, waved Doug toward the door, saying, "Let Dr. Mark do his work, Señor Gerhardt. The woman goes nowhere. She talks soon enough."
"I'll handle this, Alma," the doctor said before turning back to Doug. "Leave here at once or I'll report you to Oleander."
Camille tried to sit up on the bed, discovering that her left wrist was manacled to the bed frame. To make matters worse, she was naked with no more than a sheet between her and the other people in the room.
"Where are my clothes?" she demanded, clutching the sheet to herself. "Get this damned thing off my arm."
"I disposed of those rags, Princess," Doug answered. "You never did have any taste in clothing."
"
How dare you
," she screamed, ignoring the pain in her head. "Get me something to wear."
"I prefer you this way. It will be so much more convenient for what I have in mind."
Camille screamed again, pulling so hard on the shackle that the steel cut into her flesh. He drew back, laughing at her attempt to kick him.
"I told you to get out," the doctor yelled. "You'll kill her."
Doug finally relented, flashing a chilly smile at Camille. He left the room without another word.
Shuddering uncontrollably, she held the sheet up tighter under her chin. She watched the doctor closely as he handed a bottle of pills to the nurse.
"Give her two of these every four hours," he said, picking up his stethoscope.
