18. Reyna
CHAPTER 18
The interview room I woke up in consists of four concrete walls—one with a door, another with a viewing mirror. A steel table is bolted to the ground, and two metal folding chairs sit on either side of it. The cot I was lying on when I came to has no blankets and is situated on the far wall, opposite the door.
It’s a nearly exact replica of any police interview room on any crime show ever, but I know, without a doubt, it’s not the police who brought me here. As far as I know, they don’t crash into the side of your vehicle…and they don’t shoot you with tranquilizer darts.
I run my hand over the back of my neck, rolling it to try to alleviate some of the tension. Every inch of my body aches from the impact, though when I woke up, I discovered my forehead had been bandaged, which means whoever grabbed us wants me alive…right?
Michael. He’d been shot and on the side where the truck hit us. Is he even alive? Tears fill my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. I need to get myself out of here, then I can go for him. Isn’t that what they tell you on airplanes? Fix your own oxygen mask first?
God, please let him be alive. Guide me to him. Help us get out of here.
Shoving the fear down, I focus only on the task at hand. Getting out of here has to be my top priority, so I aim to keep my heart rate steady and conserve my energy, and try not to catch someone’s attention.
I remain standing, my hands on the back of the chair since it’s the only weapon I see. Aim high, swing fast. Just like softball. Kind of. I was good at softball. Thing is, the timing hast to be right because whoever comes in, can’t see it coming.
The door opens and my heart hammers as a man wearing a shoulder holster steps in. His firearm is on plain display, and the folder in his hands looks relatively thin.
No badge anywhere in sight.
But his knuckles are bloodied.
Michael. Please be alive.
“Who are you, and why am I here?” I demand.
“My name is Asher,” he replies with a smile. He looks to be about my age, his hair cut short—prior military, maybe? He takes a seat at the table and gestures for me to sit. A large tattoo starts on the side of his hand and snakes up his arm, disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt.
“Why am I here?” I ask again.
“You’re here because we need information.”
“Who is we?”
He smiles. “I work for a very small law enforcement agency branched off of the FBI.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me ID.”
His smile turns savage. All teeth. “Of course not.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a leather badge holder. After flipping it open, he lays it on the table. I inch closer and take a look.
Given that I don’t have a lot of history with fake government IDs, I can’t tell if it’s real or fake. But my gut tells me it’s the latter. Still, I slide it back toward him. “Since when does the FBI crash into people’s vehicles and tranquilize them?”
“Since we needed this to be completely off the record.” He opens the folder and withdraws a picture. He slides it onto the table, and I find myself staring down at an image of Carter crossing the street, talking on a phone. “Do you know this man?”
“Where is Michael?” I demand.
“In another room having his injuries tended to.” He runs a finger over his bloodied knuckles, almost in mocking.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks.
“Because you’re the ones who caused his injuries.”
“Miss Acker, I can assure you that we saved your life by getting to you when we did.”
I don’t believe his lie for a second. “Then let me see Michael.”
“After I get some answers, I will take you to him.” He taps the photograph of Carter. “Now. Do you know this man?”
“No,” I lie. “Am I supposed to?”
Asher smiles again. “I know you’re lying. But I can imagine you’re nervous, so let me help you out. That is Carter Acker. Your brother, and head prosecutor for the city of Boston, Massachusetts.”
I don’t say a word.
“We have reason to believe he’s wrapped up in something illegal.”
He’s fishing, so I continue to keep my mouth shut.
“Miss Acker, this will all go a lot smoother if you just answer us.”
“I want to see Michael.”
“After we’re done here.”
“No. I want to see him now.”
“Not possible until you answer my questions.”
“Then get me my lawyer. I’m entitled to one.”
Asher leans in closer. “Go ahead and call your brother, then.” He slides a cell phone across the table. “I imagine he’s who you’d call, correct?”
I swallow hard. It’s a trap. I know it’s a trap. And yet the urge to phone my brother, to let him know something is wrong, is so strong I have to actively fight against it.
I cross my arms.
He chuckles and puts the phone back into his pocket. “As I said. Your brother is wrapped up in some illegal stuff, Miss Acker. We merely need information on his whereabouts.”
“Looks like you’ve been tracking him. Seems to me you could figure it out yourself.”
“One would think so,” he says. “But as it turns out, your brother has deep pockets and an even deeper connection network. We can’t track him or his family aside from the times he’s in his office. He hasn’t been staying at his house, and his car has remained parked in the underground garage at his office building.”
My stomach twists again. All of this is wrong. Everything he’s saying is wrong. “Let me see Michael.” I plant both hands on the desk. “Now.” Jaxson will have sent out an emergency signal, right? Won’t he know we’re missing?
“Miss Acker. This can be as easy or as difficult as you make it. Give me the information I want, and I will let you and Mr. Anderson go.”
“So we are being held captive here. We have rights.”
“Rights that became invalid the moment Homeland Security was threatened.”
“Homeland Security?” I ask, brow furrowing. “You’re wrong. Whatever it is you think you know, it’s wrong.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“I do.” I slam both palms on the table. “And I’m not telling you anything until you let me see Michael.”
Asher glares up at me, then stands, though he leaves the folder on the table. “Maybe some more time in here alone will help. I tell you what, though, how about I go let Mr. Anderson know you’re asking about him. He and I have already had one great conversation this morning.” The way he says it makes my skin crawl.
He starts toward the door. I have mere seconds to act, so I quietly lift the chair and sprint over toward him, reaching him right as he turns the doorknob.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “Maybe I do know something that can help.”
“I thought—” He turns, and I slam the chair into his face. He stumbles back, so I hit him again and again, using every ounce of strength I have to take him to the ground. As soon as he’s still, I rip his firearm free, grabbing the cell phone, a set of keys, and his wallet, then I kick off my heels so I can keep my movements quiet, before I slip out the door. After checking to make sure the door is locked behind me, I head down the sterile hallway, firearm cocked and at the ready.
I’ve not used guns much in my adult life, but Michael and I used to go to the range with his dad nearly every summer, so I keep that training in mind as I creep down the hall, checking every door I pass.
There are no cameras in the hall.
No guards roaming around.
It all feels very—odd.
I reach a door that locks from the outside just like the one to the room I’d been in, so I unlock it and pull it open. A man is practically dangling from the ceiling, his arms chained above his head. His feet barely touch the ground, and his head is hung low. He has no shirt on, and the muscles of his back are strained, his skin coated in a mixture of dirt and dried blood.
Michael.
My heart pounds as I use Asher’s wallet to prop the door open and rush forward, moving around to the front of him. His shoulder has been bandaged, though blood has already started staining the white gauze, and his chest is covered in both fresh and dried blood.
It drips down his face from a cut along his strong cheekbone and is splattered on the floor beneath him.
I’m horrified at what must have been done to him, but even as I want to tend to every injury, I know there’s no time.
“Michael?” I whisper as I reach out to touch him. He looks up at me, and relief pushes past my fear—momentarily. Both eyes are bloodshot, his lip is bleeding, and there’s that cut along his cheekbone.
But he’s alive. And if we’re together, I know we can make it out of this. Thank you, God.
“Reyna. What are you doing here?” He chokes the words out, as if speaking causes him pain.
I set the gun and phone down on the table, then rush over with the set of keys. “I hit someone named Asher with a chair and stole his keys.”
He grins, but it falls quickly. “You are amazing, do you know that?”
“Yeah. I know.” I drag one of the folding chairs over and stand on it so I can reach up and get to his locks. Fumbling with the keys, I find one that fits the locks binding his wrists and unlock them. The moment I do, Michael falls to the ground.
He crouches low, catching his breath, and I jump down to help him to his feet.
“You need to go,” he tells me. “Get out. Use that cell to call Lance.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him.
“Reyna, I can barely walk.”
“Then you need me to help you.” I wrap his good arm over my shoulders and stand, biting back my own pain from my soreness after the accident, as I help him to his feet. Then I retrieve the gun and cell phone from the table and start toward the door.
It takes all of my energy to keep Michael on his feet, as well as ensuring we both keep moving forward.
He’s wheezing, each breath strained, and my fear for him grows. Please, God. Please. I don’t even have the words to continue pleading, so I focus on pushing my fear down once more. We can do this because we have God. He will see us through it.
I know He will.
“Any idea where we are?” I ask.
“Nope. Someone wants information on your brother, though.”
“I got that.”
“We can talk about it later. First, we need to get out of here.”
“I came from that way,” I point to the right.
“Then we’ll try this way.” He gestures to the left, so I bend and retrieve the wallet, letting the door close behind us and shoving the wallet and keys into Michael’s pocket. That way, if anyone sees the closed door, they’ll hopefully believe Michael is still chained inside.
We slip through another door and find ourselves standing in a large warehouse. Hundreds of crates fill the space, massive ones that are covered in cargo nets, as though they’re prepping them for transportation.
What in the world is Carter involved in?
Voices ahead have Michael and me ducking down behind one of the crates.
“Get me Asher,” a man demands. “He better have some answers from the woman. We’re running out of time. Pull everyone from their assigned locations, and get these crates loaded. It’s top priority.”
“On it,” someone replies.
Michael glances back at me, his worry plain on his face. It’s only a matter of time before they discover we’re gone. And then they’re going to rip this place apart looking for us. But at least they’re pulling everyone. That means the guards, too, right?
I continue walking toward the edge of the warehouse, scanning the drive as a suited man climbs into a black town car and drives away, the tires practically spitting up gravel as he does.
There’s no fence around the place.
No gate to try to leave through.
One thing is for sure. The humidity gives away the fact that we’re not in Boston anymore.
At least the field ahead is relatively open until it hits a line of thick trees.
We have to run—and we have to run fast.
Which, given Michael’s current state, is going to be impossible.
“You need to leave me,” he whispers.
“I’m not leaving you,” I snap. “Stop suggesting it because it’s not happening.” I lean him against the wall, tucking us both back behind a crate. I shove the gun into his hand and open the cell phone.
There’s no service. Of course there’s no service. I shove the phone inside the bodice of my tattered dress, then focus on what happens next.
“We don’t have time to wait for dark,” Michael says.
“I’m not leaving.” I turn toward him again, feeling beyond frustrated and terrified.
Michael reaches up with his good arm and cups my face, his thumb rubbing over my cheek. My gaze instinctively drops to his mouth.
To full lips I’ve tasted more times than I can count, lips I’m desperate to feel on mine again.
I swallow hard.
Now is not the time.
But his touch feels good.
So good.
“We can make it to the tree line,” he says. “But we need to move as fast as we can, not run in a straight line, and no matter what, we cannot look back.”
“Okay.”
“If they start shooting, you drop me and go, understand?”
“No. I’m not leaving without you.”
“Reyna.”
“No.” Tears blur my vision once more, and I wipe them away. “We’re going to make it to the tree line,” I say. “And we’re going to make it home.”
He smiles, but I see the exhaustion on his face. “We will.” Michael’s hand snakes around the back of my neck and he pulls me in, resting my forehead against his. “God, please be with us. Please guide us out of here and to safety. Amen.”
“Amen,” I repeat, the lump in my throat growing. I wrap his arm back around my shoulders and we stand together, remaining hidden behind the crate.
“Get in here!” a man roars somewhere behind us. “They’re out!”
“Go,” Michael urges, and we rush out into the blistering sun.