Psyop Kings (The Crowne Conspiracy #1)

Prologue

Romy

Present Time

I ’m an unreliable narrator.

If my life story were a book, that’s what they’d say about me.

That’s what my therapist, Maura, often says. Same with Dad.

Sometimes I almost believe that too.

Almost.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Oh my God, I can’t breathe.

Hot, thick air settles on top of me like a wool blanket, smothering the last bit of breathable oxygen. My lungs ache and my head throbs.

I’m going to die.

Just a dream, Romy.

Just a dream.

The pounding inside my skull clouds my thoughts. I’m unsure if I’m drowning or floating in space—either one a terrible situation concocted deep in the fragmented recesses of my mind.

It’s not real, though.

It never is.

Not anymore.

I try to think about the grounding techniques Maura taught me. Deep breathing is out of the question. It’ll only make me fixate on how much oxygen I have available to me and how long it will take me to pass out without adequate air.

Why can’t I remember what she said to do?

I’m catapulted back to when I was six and I’d rub my pinky in a small line along the side seam of my nightgown. The little balls on the fabric from being washed a thousand times were comforting and distracting. The dark and all the monsters who lurked there terrified me back then, but the small action soothed me in unimaginable ways.

When I focused on the movement—up, down, up, down, up, down—and counted all the ups and all the downs, the terrible nightmares would eventually end. And, before I knew it, the sun would come up.

I was always safe and free in the daylight.

A trickle of sweat races down my temple, rousing me from my erratic thoughts.

I’m not a child.

I’m a freaking grown-ass woman now.

So why am I so frightened of the dark still?

My hand shakes as I slide it down to my side. The fabric isn’t soft and worn out. It’s thick and durable. Blue jeans? Since when do I wear jeans to bed?

A thrill skitters down my spine.

It’s just a dream.

The throbbing in my head intensifies, spotting my vision.

Turn on the light, Romy. You’ll see. Just another stupid nightmare.

I reach for my lamp and bump my hand hard on the nightstand. Except it isn’t a nightstand. It’s the wall. Did I fall asleep on Tara’s bed?

A shudder ripples through me.

My roommate hardly washes her sheets and, given how many men she has in her bed, it grosses me out on a daily basis. The thought of being in her bed has me jolting upright.

Thump!

A wave of dizzying pain floods through my head where I smacked my forehead.

What the hell?

As awareness finally clutches its piercing claws into me, clarity quickly surveys my situation.

Hot, stale air.

Not on a soft bed but something hard and unforgiving.

Walls all around me.

Am I dead? Did I just wake up inside my own coffin?

A surge of panic explodes through me. The urge to scream is overwhelming, but past experience has me smothering it with a pitiful whimper. Stinging tears burn my eyes and wet my lashes. I push against the wooden wall above me with all my strength, but it doesn’t budge a millimeter.

I’m trapped.

Somehow, someway, I’m trapped.

I don’t know how I got here or who put me here, but it’s a fact. Not a dream, not a mental side quest, not a hallucination. It’s real.

Think, Romy!

What is today? What time of day is it? What’s the last thing I remember?

I desperately try to calm my erratically beating heart to focus on anything I can recall. A hint of tobacco. My nostrils flare as I suck in the musty, thick air. The scent clings to my hoodie that’s over my now sweat-soaked shirt. Once I’m focused on the smell, it becomes all I can notice.

How did I get that smell on me?

The faint sound of glasses clinking together and an ancient Guns N’ Roses song thread through my consciousness.

A bar.

I’d gone to a bar.

I’m only eighteen, though. How did I— fake ID . I got in with a fake ID that my brother helped me get last summer.

Thoughts of Bastian have tendrils of calm cooling my burning skin.

Think about your brother, Romy. That’s it. Breathe, girl.

My brain skitters past Bastian, back to the memories swimming in my foggy head.

Why did I go to the bar alone?

Who was I meeting?

Where was I?

A lead.

I was meeting a lead regarding my classmate Megan’s disappearance.

My breathing quickens as I desperately try to piece together my last memory. With the intensified breathing comes a fresh wave of panic over my air supply. I frantically beat my fists on every reachable surface of my wooden cage.

Help!

I feel like I croak out the word, but the sound barely reaches my ears. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my head and the dull thuds of my hands beating on the wood.

Someone put me here. I’m not going to be able to beat my way out of this box I’m in. I need to focus—to pay attention to what I do know.

There was a note about Megan. Bar. And then what?

A cute guy. A little flirting. A drink. A distraction from my task.

Was he the lead?

I don’t think so.

He never mentioned a note.

As I waited for the person I was to meet, I got lured into conversation with…

Green eyes. Floppy brown hair. Crooked grin.

Theo.

I’d become transfixed by a guy I’d just met. Did he roofie my drink and then kidnap me?

I can’t make my thoughts come together to create a clear picture of the puzzle I’m attempting to finish. Usually, puzzles are my superpower. Now, however, everything is fragmented and confusing.

Whatever happened, it wasn’t good. It led to me being confined to this coffin-like space with sketchy recollections. If I have any chance of getting out of here, I need to pay attention to what I’m working with.

So what am I working with?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Despite sweating profusely and soaking through my clothes, I’m thankful I still have them. My kidnapper hasn’t raped me.

Yet.

A ball of emotion clogs my throat, but I swallow it down, ignoring that terrible line of thinking.

Listen, Romy.

I’m reminded of my therapist. She wanted me to listen—to ground myself to the moment rather than letting my unraveling thoughts tear my brain in half. But this exercise was only a coping mechanism. Right now, it’s a useful tool for saving my own life.

The stakes have never been higher.

Thud.

I think I heard something. My breaths come out ragged and too noisy. Pressing my lips together, I suppress another whine and strain my ears to hear something—anything.

Nothing.

Wait.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The cadence of the thudding is what I’m realizing are footsteps. Firm, long strides. The person is tall and big. Another ripple of fear travels down my spine. Focus. The sounds are getting closer.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

I count each step, mentally calculating how far away the person is coming from. Usually, details don’t matter. They’re not important. That’s what the therapist says. This time, she’d be wrong.

Details—like the distance from my trap to a door to the outside—could be a key to my freedom.

So I continue to count and measure. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. My thoughts race for a moment, making me lose count. But not for long. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline that’s pushed the potency of the drugs forced into my system or just the passing of time, since I have no idea how long I’ve been here—but it’s losing its strong hold on me.

Good.

I lean my head to the side, wondering where the sounds went. Did I imagine them? No, I heard them. I counted them. Fourteen steps. Or was it fifteen? The darkness only confuses me and makes me question reality.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Squeak.

I want to cry out and beg to be released, but I don’t know who’s on the other side. They’re there, though. I can sense them. A weighted presence nearby has each hair on my sweat-slicked arms standing on end. My bladder aches and my thoughts race along, wondering if they’ll release me to use the bathroom. I squeeze my thighs together, shuddering at the thought of peeing on myself.

Focus, Romy.

Your captor is close!

I hear some shuffling and then yellow light slides its way into my space. I’m not exactly sure how it’s getting in, but then I see cracks between wood panels.

I think…I think I’m under the floor.

The sound of keys jangling has me holding my breath in anticipation. I fist my hands and brace myself to attack the second I’m freed from this prison. I’ll catch the captor off guard and run the seventeen or so steps away from this hellhole.

Timing is everything.

Aside from the keys clanking together, I don’t hear anything else. No heavy breathing from the person, no words, nothing. I’m wondering if he’s expecting me to scream or cry. I sure as hell want to, but I’m not stupid. It would become their focus—shutting me up—and I’m not sure what that would entail. I don’t want to know.

I hear more shuffling and the sound of the keys is gone. Then there’s a click—a distinct sound of a lock disengaging.

Don’t move.

Bide your time.

A clunk can be heard on the floor. I’m assuming the person just set down the lock to my cage.

I wait an agonizingly long twenty-seven seconds before metal clinks against metal. Then the door swings open above me. After having been in the dark, the light is blinding, and I squint to try to make out the shadowed form. Before I can launch myself out of the hole, I’m staring down the barrel of a fierce-looking handgun.

I’ve never seen a gun up close and now one is inches from my eyeball. All hope of escaping floods away along with the hold on my bladder. Warmth soaks my jeans, and the pungent smell of urine hits my nostrils.

“Oh, little brother,” a deep, gravelly voice utters, “what have you done this time?”

The door slams closed before I can utter a word. My gut roils at the sound of the lock snapping closed. Then all light is snuffed out as something once again covers the trapdoor of my prison.

I’m trapped.

Again.

This time, I find my voice.

I scream and scream and scream.

But no one ever comes.