33. Sloane
33
SLOANE
I wake in the rocky cabin of the Short C-23 Sherpa we were rebuilding in the adjacent hangar. It needed parts the last time I talked to the mechanics. I don’t remember logging them in.
Seems they got them around me, anyway.
My head throbs and my vision is blurry, but I’m curled on the floor with my hands secured behind my back and my ankles grinding together.
Swallowing hard, my mouth is dry and slimy with a rag tied around the back of my head. Some of my hair is caught in the knot. A steady sting at the back of my head worsens when my head bobs with turbulence and pulls on it.
Taking a few slow, deep breaths through my nose, I will my sour guts to stop churning. It’s hard to swallow back the acid jostling up my throat. I can taste it.
Thrumming engines make most of the ride silent. Occasionally, two men up front murmur.
Half of my thoughts circle on, just settle down, no puking, just settle down.
The rest are of my daughter’s face and how worried she must be right now. How I trust the guys to make sure she’s safe.
And then, I’m trying not to throw up again.
By the time we land, my joints ache. Hours? Half the night? I can’t tell. But it is dark. Wind howls in the opening of the cargo bay, ruffling my pants. A pair of strong hands hoists me up on my ass.
I struggle against the grip lifting me under the arms, shoving back with my feet, even though they feel like cement scraping against rebar. It doesn’t stop the guy from jostling me out.
Lowered to the ground, a fresh, salty wind hits me in the side of the face and makes me squint. Someone cuts my ankles loose so that I can stand on my own—not that the restraining grip on my arms retreats.
Edmund is there with two other men. He’s rubbing the back of one thumb with the other as he watches me, and he looks half as sick as I feel. “Just do what they say, and they won’t hurt you.”
I glare at him with full accusation, and I know that sheepish glint in his eyes. He didn’t want me to get involved. No one did, but I insisted that I follow through with what I found. And you know what? Fuck him for bringing this shit into my workplace.
I’m so tired of people blaming me for their mistakes. For their flaws.
I lunge for him, but I’m pulled back quickly.
Edmund swallows hard and looks away as if he could read half of my thoughts.
I’m dragged across rocky dirt and grass. There’s little light, but I can hear the ocean. Its salty marine scent is fishier than the lakes back home.
There’s a tunnel in the ground, waiting for us to slip below the surface.
I need to fight to get back to Reese.
With my legs free, I don’t make it easy on the guy holding me, but all of my effort barely slows our progress. Underground, I’m escorted through tunnels and do my best to keep my orientation. Left, left, right, left… How many rooms do they file me through? Five? Six? There are more people than I expected. Their gazes distract me from other important details that I should be noting.
But I feel like I did when Alistair had his parties. Like everyone is watching me, calculating how to take a piece out of me without anyone noticing. Or at the least, caring.
When men are in a crowd like this, they’re more willing to share as long as they get their taste.
At the end of a hall, I catch the glimpse of the dark ocean and starlight. There’s no easy way out of this place.
I’m pulled to a stumbling stop in front of the person who is in charge. If not from the respectful way people move around him or the low murmurs they speak to him in, the air of cold power that surrounds him is enough to scare me.
He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks young, like he should have just graduated college before starting his corporate job. His tan skin has a healthy glow, and his face is freshly shaved. The tight curl of his hair frames his eyes.
But his gaze slices through me like a blade.
It takes all of my energy not to fall into a bottomless pit of panic as the man inspects me. After a moment, he nods, and I’m shoved forward into a bare room with two bunks. There are no windows, no bathroom, and nobody else there.
I wobble down onto the edge of one bunk and take deep breaths until the threat of complete overload fades.
I can only hope that the guys will find me.
What clues were left behind when I was taken? Is it enough for my SEALs to figure out what happened and where I am?
Is my cell still on? Rhett would know how to track that, even if just for a direction. I’ve seen some of the stuff they can dig up on a dime.
Oh, God. Please be able to find me before I find out their plans for me.
Nausea barrels down on me again, and I curl up on the bed. It smells of dirt and ocean and sweat, but it’s more comfortable than the floor in the cargo bay of the Short C-23 Sherpa. After a wave of ick passes, I wiggle my hands under my butt and slowly down my legs until I have my hands in front of me.
It’s a small comfort to be able to press my forearms into my stomach. It would be better to wrap my arms around myself more fully, but I’ll take what I can get.
The low light in the room lets me doze as the adrenaline wears off. My head is foggy, and I curl in on myself as what feels like days go by.
I have to survive this. I have to get back to Reese. If anyone can find me, it’s Sterling, Jack, and Rhett.
I’m imagining my daughter growing older without me when the door at the foot of the bed opens. The man in charge steps in and sits on the edge of the bed across from me. His back is straight, hands folded together in his lap as he stares at me.
Calm and casual, he takes his time looking over every part of me, pressing the complete power he has over me as he stretches out the silence.
I take the opportunity to study him in return. Not that I have much experience reading people. At least, not like this.
His posture is so proper that he’s had to be raised by someone with power and money. The crisp nature of his clothes confirms it. But the cracks in his knuckles say he’s not opposed to doing the hard work if it’s necessary.
I’m sure he used to have to do a lot more of it to gain the respect of his men.
When his head tilts, I know he’s deemed me as a non threat in this condition. And you know what, he’s probably right. There’s not much I could do to him even with my hands free.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from having to navigate the last six years is that I know how to adapt and survive.
It’s exactly what I plan to do.
Pushing myself upright, I mimic his posture, propping myself at the edge of my bunk, hands in my lap, back ramrod straight.
Releasing the clench of my teeth, I present myself as timid, passive, pliable.
His laugh is chilling. “Such a chameleon. I don’t believe this version of you for a second, Specialist Montgomery. Not with the way you lunged at your co-worker earlier or the fight you gave on your way in.”
He shakes his head as if amused.
My skin prickles in warning, and my shoulders hunch forward out of the instinctual need to protect myself.
“You see, you’ve been a pain in my ass and drawn attention to the goings on of my business. Things I’ve worked very hard to keep under the radar.” This man’s hands curl into fists and flatten out again along his thighs. “And you’ve made it difficult for my men to do their jobs. That’s bad for business.”
When he leans forward, I have to stifle the quiver in my breath. Being bad for business is the equivalent of being marked for death. Still, I refuse to drop my gaze from his. Like he said, there’s no need to project myself as weak even if I am terrified. I’m not fooling him that way.
Instead, I need to be as useful as possible without really helping him.
“So what I want to know is if you’re just a lucky girl or if you present a real threat. So, tell me how much you know about what you’ve found.”