44. Ellie
ELLIE
The one-way glass is cold against my palms. I'm leaning all my weight into it.
I'm standing in the little surveillance nook.
It's barely big enough for two people. A narrow box with a one-way mirror, with Jackson's monitors casting blue light across the concrete walls.
Beyond the glass, the interrogation room stretches out like something pulled from an old prison.
The walls are exposed brick, stained dark with age, and God knows what else.
The fluorescent strips overhead hum and flicker enough to make my eyes ache.
They cast harsh shadows across the floor, turning the drain in the center into a black mouth that seems to swallow the light.
The ceiling is low, crisscrossed with exposed pipes and metal grating. A ventilation shaft in the corner rattles every few minutes, the sound echoing off the brick like something breathing. The whole space feels compressed, like the ceiling is pressing down on my skull.
The basement is all Killian's work. Soundproofed walls, cold concrete, the sharp sting of bleach and old copper.
The chair is heavy, dark timber, braced with iron bands, bolted through the concrete floor.
Leather restraints at the wrists, ankles, and chest. There's a metal table against the far wall.
Syringes filled with clear liquid. Scalpels in a neat row.
Pliers. A car battery with alligator clips.
A bone saw, Killian says he's never had to use.
I didn't ask if that was because his subjects talked first, or because they died.
Julian Ross sits in the center of it all.
His wrists are raw where he's been testing the leather straps, but his face is calm, almost bored.
He watches the metal table the way a man might watch a menu.
Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the drain in the center of the floor, then back to the door. He doesn't look afraid. Curious, maybe.
It's been six hours since we touched down in Montana.
Six hours of the guys trading shifts behind the glass while Killian and I retreated upstairs to steal a few hours of dead, dreamless sleep.
The quiet only lasted so long. Six hours of pressure, and Julian hasn't cracked.
As I observe Julian, I can still feel the traces of heat Killian left on my skin, and the contrast makes my stomach churn.
"Jackson, what am I looking at?"
He doesn't look up from the monitors. "His heart rate hasn't moved. Not once. He's not scared, Ellie." Jackson finally glances at me and sighs, and there's something uneasy in his eyes. "He's waiting for you."
"Ellie," Killian's voice comes from behind me. I don't turn around. "You don't have to do this, Gabe and I can handle him."
I finally turn. He's leaning against the concrete wall, arms and ankles crossed, jaw tight.
Being down here is hard for him, I can see it written all over his face.
His eyes keep flicking to the table, to the tools he laid out this morning.
This basement is his work, but it's also a reminder of everything he was trained to be.
"Yes, I do." I smooth down the front of my blazer, the one I wore to work a lifetime ago. "Julian doesn't respond to physical threats. He responds to being outsmarted."
Killian's jaw tightens. Gabriel's over by the table, arms crossed, watching us.
"I'm the one who can prove they failed," I say quietly.
Gabriel straightens, rolling his shoulders. "We need him talking. What we pulled from the compound is just the surface. Facilities in twelve states, financial networks, international connections. He's got decades of intel in his head."
"He'll talk," I say. "Men like Julian can't help themselves. They need you to know how clever they are."
Killian steps closer. His hand finds mine, for a split second, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "If he gets in your head?"
"He won't."
"Ellie, promise me you'll walk out if he starts fucking with you."
I look at him, really look at him. His eyes are like a storm rolling in.
All gray clouds and lightning. The kind that sees too much.
Right now, they're locked on me like I'm about to disappear.
His jaw is ticking, and there's a tension in his shoulders I haven't seen since those first few days after he pulled me out of Grace's facility. He's worried about me.
"I promise. But I can do this. We need what's in his head, and I'm the one who can get it."
Gabriel clears his throat. "Whenever you're ready, Ell's. Clock's ticking. The longer we hold him, the higher the chance The Order comes looking."
Right. Because, according to Julian, The Order isn't just an assassination network. They have power at every level. Which means we can't trust federal authorities or rely on the justice system. We're on our own.
I take a deep breath. Julian Ross is a source of information. That's all. A means to an end.
"I'm ready."
The interrogation room is colder than the surveillance nook.
The air smells like damp stone and rust, stale air that hasn't moved in decades.
The door closes behind me. My hands are steady on the recorder, despite my pulse hammering in my throat.
My footsteps echo off the concrete as I cross to the table in my heels.
Julian looks up, and his expression shifts, boredom melting into interest. He was expecting Killian or Gabriel. He got me instead.
"Dr. Hart," he says, my name stretched out slow. "I was wondering when you'd grace me with your presence."
I pull out the chair across from him and sit, crossing my ankles and tucking them under the chair. The metal is cold on the backs of my thighs, even through my skirt. I set a digital recorder and a notepad on the table between us. "Mr. Ross. I trust Kai treated your shoulder adequately?"
"Quite well, thank you." His eyes flick to the recorder, then back to my face. "Though I suspect your medical care comes with strings attached. Making this official, are we?"
"I prefer thorough documentation. I'm sure that's something that you can appreciate, Mr. Ross.
" I activate the recorder. The red light blinks on.
"This is Dr. Eleanor Hart conducting a debriefing interview with Julian Ross regarding charges of kidnapping, conspiracy, and multiple homicides.
Mr. Ross, do you understand your situation? "
Julian laughs. The sound bounces off the brick walls. "My situation? I'm being held prisoner by criminals in a basement equipped for torture. I understand it perfectly."
"You're being detained by private citizens pending transfer to appropriate authorities." We have absolutely no intention of transferring him anywhere, but he doesn't need to know that yet. "Your cooperation will be noted in our report."
"I appreciate the effort, Doctor, but we both know this isn't official." He looks around the room, at the restraints, the table of tools. "Your boyfriend has quite the setup down here, doesn't he?"
"Let's discuss The Order's organizational structure. You mentioned congressional connections."
"Did I? Memory gets fuzzy after being shot and kidnapped." Julian shifts in his restraints. "Still. Not like I'm going anywhere."
"You said The Order has been operating for over a century. Banking, pharmaceuticals, technology, defense contracts. You described psychological conditioning as five percent of revenue streams."
"Smart woman. Taking notes while I was bleeding." Julian tilts his head, studying me like I'm something under glass. "Tell me, how are you sleeping these days? Any gaps in your memory? Moments where you can't tell if something really happened or if it was Grace?"
My throat tightens. He's trying to throw me off balance, to turn this back on me. I let him see a flicker of discomfort before I smooth it away. "Grace's conditioning was effective but temporary. I've recovered fully."
Not entirely true. There are still nights I wake up and I'm back there. But he doesn't need to know that.
"Let's focus on your organization's structure."
"Have you recovered fully, though?" Julian leans forward against his restraints. "Trauma leaves marks, Doctor. Questions that never quite get answered."
"Such as?"
"Whether your love for Killian is real or programmed. Whether your choices are truly yours." His voice drops, quieter now. Softer. "How can you trust any emotion, knowing how easily minds can be manipulated?"
My pulse kicks up. I force my breathing to stay steady.
"I trust my emotions because I choose to," I say. "Now, about The Order's financial networks."
"Choice." He says it like he's tasting the word. "And what did you choose before Grace got her hands on you? Can you even remember?"
My hand tightens on the pen. A fraction. But it's enough. Julian sees it.
He smiles.
"That doubt bothers you, doesn't it? Whether your love is real." He leans back in the chair, watching me. "Grace kept extensive notes on her work with you."
"Grace is dead."
"Her notes aren't. Her research continues elsewhere." His eyes glitter. "Would you like to know what she discovered about manufactured love?"
"I'd like to know about Order facilities in the pharmaceutical sector."
"Focusing on external threats is easier than examining internal ones." Julian studies me. "The real question is whether you're Dr. Hart or Grace's greatest creation."
I let the silence sit for a moment. Then I smile.
"Grace's greatest creation," I repeat slowly. "You know what? You might be right."
Surprise flickers across his features.
"Grace tried to break me," I say. "She strapped me to a table and fucked with my head for weeks. She wanted me broken and weaponized. She wanted me to doubt everything. My memories, my choices, my feelings." I lean forward. "And you know what? It worked. For a while."
Julian's watching me carefully now.