Chapter 22 #2
Greer slips her bony fingers around the bars, pressing her forehead against the cold steel. She points to the massive wolf, who is relentlessly attacking the barrier between. “Your death date.”
“Why?” I dare to ask.
“It’s not always about you, Florence.”
I roll my eyes, raising my brows. “Hard to believe that when I’m the only one sitting in a cell.”
“We thought Greer being signed on as lead would gain us the upper hand, but that didn’t quite go according to plan since your little cadre refuse to do their jobs correctly,” Vincent chimes in, raking the silver cane across the bars.
I back down the wall, away from his reach. “But I told them to let it go? They all agreed. It’s not my fault you suck.”
Greer slaps the file against the steel. “Not your band of misfits. Ana and Scott make excuse after excuse not to hand me any missions. Refusing to, if you ask me.”
I’m confused. “Per the government, you’re part of the misfits too,” I counter, shaking my head. “But they signed you themselves, didn’t they? I’m not following.”
“Only after I threatened to send hard-drive footage to Ellie, Todd and their chancellors, with your face plastered brightly on the screen with one of Maxim’s men’s detached thumbs in your mouth. Along with some other interesting images from your field missions.”
I hurl a laugh, the sound bursting off the walls. “There is no footage dumbass. If you did your own job right, you’d know the signal failed.”
Vincent hums. “Quite the contrary, dear Florence. Your signals didn’t fail. There was footage, until Cecilia decided to delete the evidence.”
Greer smirks. “But not before I downloaded it onto a pretty little flash drive while everyone was losing their minds over you in that trailer.”
“I don’t believe that. Cici never leaves her mission gear unattended.” I shake their lies from my head.
“Even when her best friend’s life is at stake?” She deadpans.
My heart drops at the realization. The plane. Greer had it on the plane. “No.” I take a step forward.
“Yes!” Greer barks, her laugh haunting me as she slips away.
“A meal will arrive for you shortly. Enjoy.” Vincent says, straightening his coat as he follows.
I scramble to the bars, squeezing my face between. “Why!” I call out desperately.
Greer pauses, spinning sharply on her heel. She tucks her short black strands behind her ears, and strides back to me. “I used to be a lead too, Florence. A real one! You never truly looked into why I was transferred, did you?”
I shut my eyes, an affair, I know. But was there more?
She continues, “I spent a year in Australia, the Red Earth Directive Unit, remember? But they transferred me when T.A.L.O.N discovered my little affair with my partner, Ben. No biggie, right? But what I didn’t know is that they didn’t transfer him. They fired him for it.”
Her cold eyes drift to the floor, and I take my chance, swiping through the bars, my cheeks smacking against the steel as I reach for the fabric of her vest. But she moves quicker, jumping back just in time.
Greer laughs again. “Aww, I thought you really cared there for a minute,” she taunts.
“And I thought I was witnessing a shred of sanity in you,” I grit out, snarling against the black steel.
She clicks her tongue, spinning back to the exit. “Keep it up and I’ll make sure your calendar runs out early,” she calls out, disappearing underneath the rolling door.
The wolf huffs, lowering her head to track Greer’s movement. She turns in a few circles, stirring up the straw beneath her feet and plops down, her eyes hungerly settling onto mine.
“Now what?” I ask her, but the wolf only flashes her teeth at the sound of my voice.
She’s definitely no Torin. I glance around, looking for any shred of hope for an escape.
Only small metal anchor rings in the wall stare back at me.
Probably for leashes. Greer must’ve had this specially built for me, as every cranny and corner is tightly welded shut. How thoughtful.
The smell reaches me before I even spot the bucket.
Rotten and metallic. Old piss sits baked into the rusted steel.
I stare at it from the corner of my cell, a small groan escaping me.
I try to ignore the way my stomach twists and my throat burns so badly it feels lined with glass.
Every breath tastes stale. Hours without water have turned my tongue heavy in my mouth.
Maybe longer than hours. I look at the bucket, humiliation sitting heavier than the light bruises.
My body aches as I push myself forward and stagger toward it anyway, knees threatening to buckle beneath me.
My shoulders droop. I’m not a Greyline lead.
I’m Florence Belcher, reduced to pissing in a rusted bucket in a cement cell.
A laugh almost leaves me. I brace one hand against the wall and force myself to lower my clothes.
Nothing happens at first. My body won’t cooperate; dehydration has wrung me dry.
I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched so tightly it hurts.
The pressure in my bladder burns, but only a weak trickle finally comes out after several miserable seconds.
The smell hits instantly. Dark amber liquid splashes against the bottom of the bucket in pathetic amounts.
My hand trembles slightly as I pull my pants back up and stare down into the bucket, feeling hollow.
Anger slowly begins replacing the humiliation.
“Look, it matches Vincent’s eyes.” I tell the wolf.
I curl onto the floor, my hair splaying onto the stained concrete. My belly grumbles, and I highly regret my last “meal” being nothing but a bottle of amaretto. I don’t know how long I was out; let alone what time it is. But the sun above the skylight sits high, possibly meaning its noon.
I wonder if the team thinks I just ran away after my meltdown last night— if it’s only been a night, that is. I send up an extra prayer. Someone’s got to know I’ve been kidnapped sooner or later.