Chapter 49
Rachel's ribs screamed with every breath, the pain sharp and specific, like someone had driven a knife between each bone and was twisting it with every inhale.
She forced air through her nose, slow and controlled.
In. Out. A rhythm she could count. A pattern she could follow instead of spiraling into panic.
Her wrists burned beneath the zip ties, the plastic edges biting into skin that had already been rubbed raw.
She'd fought the restraints earlier, pulled and twisted until she felt the warm trickle of blood running down her palms. Now every throb of her pulse sent fresh pain up her arms, sharp and immediate.
But she kept her spine straight. Kept her chin lifted. Kept her expression blank.
They thought she was broken. Thought the beating and the fear and the isolation had crushed whatever fight she'd had left.
They were wrong.
Somewhere behind her, water dripped from a broken pipe with metronomic precision. Plink. Plink. Plink. Each drop marking seconds she didn't have.
Then the door slammed open.
Rachel's muscles locked tight, adrenaline flooding her system even though she forced herself not to flinch. She kept her eyes forward, kept her breathing steady.
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Coming closer.
Carver walked in first, hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets, his stride unhurried. Like he was strolling into a coffee shop instead of a black site where a woman was zip-tied to a chair. He looked completely in control, relaxed, even.
Rachel's stomach clenched.
If Carver was here, that meant Ghost wasn't far behind. The team was supposed to be tracking him. Using him to find her. Which meant they were close. Had to be close.
She just had to survive long enough for them to breach.
Carver's expression stayed neutral as his gaze swept the warehouse, cataloging positions, counting hostiles, building a tactical picture. When his eyes passed over Rachel, they didn't linger. Didn't show recognition. Professional to the core.
Two guards flanked the door, both armed with rifles slung across their chests. Their attention bounced between Rachel and Carver, uncertain about this new variable in an equation that had been simple moments ago.
"Langley sent me," Carver said, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "Said she's clammed up. Thought I might have better luck." One of the guards snorted. "She's been real quiet since we brought her in. Barely said a word."
"That's usually when they're thinking hardest." Carver took a step closer to Rachel's chair, his tone more clinical now. "She was embedded with SEALs. Knows their tactics, their training. That makes her dangerous." He paused. "And valuable."
The second guard crossed his arms, his rifle shifting against his chest. "So what, you're the interrogation specialist now?"
"I get results," Carver said flatly. "But I need room to work. Space to build rapport." His gaze flicked to the guards. "Can't do that with an audience."
The first guard shook his head. "Langley's orders. We don't leave her alone. Not for anything."
A beat of silence passed.
Carver gave a tight nod, his jaw flexing. "Fine. But stay quiet. Don't interrupt. You break my rhythm, you compromise the interrogation." He moved closer, stepping into Rachel's space until his shadow fell across her lap. The warehouse lights behind him turned him into a dark silhouette.
Rachel held her breath.
His eyes found hers. His left eyelid twitched, barely perceptible, gone in half a second, then his gaze slid away, professional and detached.
I'm not here to hurt you. Trust me. Just hold on.
Before either of them could speak, before Carver could make whatever move he was planning, the sound of boots echoed from the corridor outside.
Different footsteps. Slower. Each one deliberate.
Rachel's lungs seized in her chest.
Langley.
The guards straightened automatically, their casual postures snapping to attention. Even Carver went still, his body language subtly adjusting.
Langley walked in like he owned not just the warehouse but the entire world. Each step measured and unhurried. A man who'd never encountered a problem he couldn't buy, intimidate, or eliminate.
He stopped just behind Carver, and Rachel felt his gaze settle on her. Heavy. Assessing. Calculating. Already planning what came next.
"Good," Langley said, his voice smooth and controlled. "You can help me with something."
Rachel kept her expression neutral. Wouldn't give him fear. Wouldn't give him anything.
Langley moved around Carver, coming to stand directly in front of Rachel's chair. "I was just about to search her for that goddamn thumb drive," he said, his tone conversational. Like they were discussing the weather. "The one with all our names on it. All our transactions."
Rachel's pulse hammered in her temples, in her throat, behind her eyes.
Langley's gaze traveled slowly down her body, over the dirt-streaked denim of her cutoff shorts, the sweat-dampened fabric of her shirt clinging to her ribs and waist. His eyes lingered on her exposed skin with an assessment that sent nausea surging in her stomach.
He exhaled through his nose, a sharp, satisfied sound.
"You didn't have a bag on you when we grabbed you off that street," he said, his voice dropping lower. Smug. "Which means if you've got that drive hidden somewhere..." His smile widened. "I'm going to have to do some digging."
Rachel's skin prickled. She kept her breathing steady, but every instinct was screaming at her to fight, to run, to do something other than sit here and let this happen.
But the binds held her immobile. The guards were armed. Carver was outnumbered.
She was trapped.
Langley leaned in, close enough that she could smell his cologne, expensive and cloying. His fingers ghosted along the side of her neck, barely making contact. A light touch that felt more invasive than if he'd grabbed her.
Intentional and calculated. Designed to make her understand exactly how powerless she was.
Rachel held absolutely still. If she flinched, if she recoiled, he'd know he was getting to her.
"Now, Miss Parker..." Langley's voice was soft, almost gentle.
The tone you'd use with a frightened animal.
"Are you going to tell me where it is? Make this easy on both of us?
" His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone.
"Or do I get to examine every inch of your body myself? "
Nausea churned in Rachel's stomach. Her throat tightened.
His hand slid to the collar of her shirt, Ghost's shirt, the one she'd stolen from his laundry, the soft gray cotton that still smelled like him.
Langley's fingers curled into the fabric.
Then he yanked.
The shirt split straight down the center with a violent tearing sound that echoed off the warehouse walls. Rachel's body jolted forward from the force before the ropes around her torso caught her and slammed her back into the chair. The metal frame groaned under the impact.
Cool air hit her bare skin.
The remains of the shirt hung in tatters from her shoulders and arms, exposing her torso. Only her black lace bra, the nice one she'd worn without thinking this morning, back when the world was normal and she was just planning to work on files, provided any coverage at all.
Langley chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Well, well." His gaze raked over her exposed skin with open appreciation. "Seems our little journalist has a taste for the finer things."
Heat flooded Rachel's face. Humiliation warred with fury, pure rage at being stripped, violated, made into an object for this man's entertainment.
But she didn't look away. Wouldn't give him that.
"Didn't take you for the type who needed an audience to play tough," Rachel said, forcing her voice to stay steady. She even managed a smirk, though it felt like her face might crack from the effort. "Still compensating for something?"
Langley's smile didn't waver, but his eyes went flat. Cold. Predatory.
He turned his head slightly toward Carver, who'd gone absolutely rigid. "You want in on this?" Langley asked, his tone still pleasant. Conversational. "Or are you just going to stand there pretending this bothers you?"
Carver didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Just stood there with his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, his whole body vibrating with barely-contained violence. The fury in his eyes was undiluted rage, one breath away from exploding.
Rachel saw it clearly now. Whatever role Carver had been playing, whatever cover he'd been maintaining, he was done. Finished.
But he couldn't move. Not yet. Not without compromising whatever plan Ghost had put in motion.
Langley turned back to Rachel, dismissing Carver entirely.
His fingers brushed the torn edges of her shirt, trailing lazily over the fabric still hanging from her shoulders, then his hand moved to the center of her chest, to the small clasp between the cups of her bra.
Two fingers hooked under the band. “Guess I’ll get the pleasure of starting first.” Langley said.
Rachel's breath stopped.
Then Ghost's voice exploded through the warehouse speakers, rough and seething and absolutely deadly.
"Get your fucking hands off her."
Everything stopped.
Langley froze, his fingers still touching her bra. The guards' heads snapped toward the speakers, searching for the source. Carver didn't breathe.
And Rachel—
Rachel's entire body responded to that voice. Heat spread across her skin. Her heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to hurt. Relief hit her first, then fear, then hope, desperate and raw.
Ghost.
He was here. Close enough to see through Carver's wire. Close enough to have watched Langley tear her shirt off. Close enough to breach.
Close enough to save her.
Langley's smirk faltered. His mouth twitched as he slowly turned toward Carver, his hand finally dropping away from Rachel's body. "They must be close," he said, and despite his attempt at sounding calm, his voice had gone brittle. Thin. "Listening in through your wire."
Carver said nothing. The muscle in his jaw flexed, his fists still clenched.
Langley rolled his shoulders, trying to project casual confidence even as tension bled into his posture. He turned his attention back to Rachel, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all pretense of warmth.
"Well then," he said, cold and detached. "I guess we'd better wrap this up."
His hand went to his hip.
To the gun holstered there.
Rachel saw him draw it. Saw the matte black metal catching the warehouse lights. Saw the barrel start to come up toward her head.
This was it. He was going to kill her right here, right now, before Ghost could reach her.
Then the front of the warehouse exploded.