Chapter 7
Seven
In the morning, I find myself alone in bed.
A long-sleeved black shirt and a small gift bag are sitting on the chair in the corner staring back at me.
I get up and cross the room to inspect the shirt and then pull the tissue from the small bag and peek inside.
Undergarments. I pluck up the bra. It’s nude and see-through, so I roll my eyes and snap up the clothing, grabbing my jeans from the floor as I head into the bathroom.
After a shower, I put on the new bra and slip into the matching panties. It’s hard not to feel weird that he picked these out for me. Dressing, I comb my fingers through my wet hair and then tie it back and get my shoes on.
With the aim of checking in with the front desk to see what time they last saw York, I pull the door closed behind me. It must be mid-morning, so we’re going to have to get out of here soon.
Heading down the hall, I find myself dwelling on sleeping with York again, but it’s probably unwise to pick at it.
Nothing has changed this morning. I’m still everyone’s loose end.
Footfalls grab my attention, and I look up to see a dark-haired man reach the top of the stairs, with another on his heels.
We all pause. A third man pushes between them and gains the top step, and I know they’re agents.
My heart thuds, and I take a step back. The third man dashes forward, and I shriek. Bolting back the way I came, I fumble with the door lock and get it open, but not fast enough. The door thumps back into me as I try to close it. I stumble back as it bounces off the wall and I fall to the ground.
Panic screams its way up my spine, and I scramble over the bed, diving for the window. I’m not even sure it’s a viable exit, because I’m a fucking idiot and didn’t check when we arrived.
York is distracting me from my job, which right now is staying alive.
I get the window open and just glimpse the fire escape when someone grabs my forearm and yanks me back.
I stumble, crashing into the iron fortress of their embrace.
Grunting as he squeezes me, I ram my heel into the top of his foot.
He howls, and I slam the back of my head into his mouth, which hurts like a bitch.
When he releases me, I fall forward onto the bed.
The back of my head is throbbing enough that it might be bleeding, but someone grabs me by the back of my hair before I can check it, and I scream at the added pain.
All my weight hangs off the hair as he hauls me to my feet and then another vicious yank relieves me of enough strands that I scream again as my head snaps forward, free.
Cupping the back of my head, I spin and find one man unconscious on the floor with my hair in his fist and York going blow for blow with another of them. With one unconscious, one nursing a broken nose but getting to his feet, and York pounding on the other, I don’t know what to do.
The one with the broken nose coughs and spits a mouthful of blood on the bed that makes me grimace, right before reaching into his jacket.
“Gun!” I shout.
“Run!” York orders.
I jump to my feet and throw my shoulder into the one with the gun. It goes off, punching a hole in the wall above the bed as I careen forward and dive through the open window, slamming into the fire escape with my shoulder and crying out in pain.
Dragging myself up, I fumble my way down the ladders and leap around the platforms as fast as I can manage despite my shoulder.
Two more gunshots pop off above me, each one making me jump with fright as I grab the final ladder and slap the release lever.
It drops too quickly, slamming to a jolting halt that tears my fingers from it.
I rocket into the pavement below, my knees buckling under the force and dropping me to my back.
Breathing hard as my body aches with pain, I see York descending the fire escape and get to my feet slowly. By the time he hits the final platform, I’m anxiously bouncing on my toes.
What am I doing? I should run. I should run from him, them, everyone.
My vision goes dark, and something tightens around my neck, so I grab at it, grab at my face as I gasp and then hate the word that comes out of my mouth.
“York!” My voice breaks as I’m lifted off my feet.
I’m wrangled a short distance and then thrown, slamming into something cold and steely with my already sore shoulder. A heavy door tumbles closed as I bite back a sob. Did York hear me?
What am I thinking? It doesn’t matter.
I can’t rely on him; I’d be crazy to. I should have run when I had the chance, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do the next opportunity I get.
Someone rolls me to my stomach as I flail, and they wrestle my hands behind my back, securing my wrists as I try to wiggle free, and shocked there isn’t a bullet in my skull already.
When I thought York was going to kill me, somehow I felt calm about it, but now all I feel is an unrelenting fear and a heightened anticipation of what’s to come.
Death, torture . . . I don’t know. I let out a frustrated screech and flail again as my panic surges, but the effort only causes the bonds to cut into the shallow flesh of my wrists. I wince, and a few tears spring to the corners of my eyes.
“Whoo! Our little honeypot got caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I hear,” a familiar voice booms at me in the small space.
Jeffries.
A shoe presses down between my shoulder blades, partially choking me and pinning me to the floor. We’re moving, the occasional bump forcing the foot into me harder. The vehicle we’re in is large enough to accommodate him standing.
“What do you want? What have I done?” I rasp out under the weight of the foot.
The foot lifts, and I gulp in a breath as someone farther away clears their throat. I wonder how many people are in here with us.
“I’m just following orders, and orders are if you’re still breathing by the morning to pick you up.
” I can feel him shift closer. “Want to know why?” I can hear the sneer on his lips.
“Because only the leak would have the leverage to call off the Brits’ dog.
” A noisy pause fills the air. “So, really, he did the wet work for us and chased you right out into the open.”
“I haven’t made any deals!”
“Now that we have you . . . I wonder if he’ll finish out the contract on the others . . .” He trails off, ignoring my plea.
I may not know York at all, but he seemed pretty invested in absconding with me . . . There is no way this was all a ruse to chase me out into the open. And for what? I’ve not done anything.
“Tell me where it is,” he bargains with an air of boredom, “and we can skip the whole face-to-face interrogation with the Director.”
“And just kill me?”
“Maybe,” he sighs. “Though a trial is likely too . . . Still, it would be nice to be the one to bring the data in, so where is it, Tripoli? Can’t be in Maine. You haven’t been home in so long.”
There would never be a trial. They’d burn me at the stake in full view of the public before they ever put me on a stand or in a room with a lawyer. Besides, with what I know, I could probably buy the fucking judge.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
The dark cloth disappears from my eyes, and an anvil-like slap rolls me onto my side. “The attitude won’t get you anywhere.”
He stands over me, and I try to glare back as the fluorescent light burns my retinas, but my cheek stings, and it feels like my lip is already swelling as I squint into the harsh light.
“This misguided experiment of the Director’s is over.
” He looks me over. “No more dealing with you wannabe operatives who don’t have the slightest fucking clue .
. . It’s embarrassing to have an entire unit of prostitutes on the payroll, although from what I hear about the Director, it’s not that surprising. ”
I roll onto my back, crushing my wrists so I can survey my surroundings.
Every word out of his mouth just proves how low down the totem pole he is.
If he knew a fucking thing about the Raven program, he wouldn’t threaten such things.
If he knew that I know where his family lives .
. . but now’s not the time, not when I’m vulnerable.
There are two other suits in the compartment, leaning against the wall in quiet observation.
The back of the truck is separated and sealed off from the cab, and the only way in or out is through the large bay door at the back.
I’m grasping at straws trying to come up with some way to get free of the restraints—if I wasn’t tied up, I’d be able to fight properly. I’ll manage though.
“Bag her again,” Jeffries orders.
Cloth bag in hand, one of the others walks toward me. Just as he reaches my side, I jerk my legs up, wrap them around his thighs and force him back. Stumbling, he falls, bouncing his head off the floor, and for good measure, I bring my heel down as hard as I can manage onto his sternum.
I wrestle my hands under my butt and over my legs as the other one comes at me.
Blood is dripping from my fingers as I roll and push up onto my knees, just in time for a kick to come at my head.
Wrists still bound, I throw my forearms up to be battered by the force of the shin that slams into them hard enough that it helps me pop onto my feet as I curse in pain.
The kicker comes at me, and I step inside his guard, pinning a foot down with mine and burying my knee in his gut before stumbling back when the truck swerves.
My back slams against the wall and the kicker pitches forward, losing his footing, too.
Not wasting the advantage, I grab his shoulder in the stumble and guide his head into the wall. He crumples to the floor.
Doing all right, so far.
I spin around to face Jeffries, but he pulls out a massive blade from a sheath on his hip. Who the fuck carries a knife like that? I know he has a gun, but he must have orders to bring me in alive. That knife can cause some damage without killing me though . . . if he knows how to use it.
I need to get out of this truck alive, so I need to get that knife. Jeffries steps toward me tentatively, testing my resolve. I flinch.
Damn it.
He runs at me, and I dive, rolling over my injured shoulder and crying out in pain as I slam against the rolling door.
Panicked, I grab the handle and try to force it up.
The door creaks in resistance and starts moving, but a swift kick to my side winds me, and I coil reflexively, releasing the door.
Nabbing my hair, he tugs me back down the length of the compartment, and my scalp screams in protest.
“You bitch,” he grunts, panting for air.
The knife waves teasingly in front of my face, so I clasp his wrist and jerk it toward me. Panicking, he tilts the point away, and I bite down on his hand below the thumb until I feel the skin give way.
Hollering, the knife drops, and he lets go of my hair. I drop to my knees and fumble for the blade, hands blood-slick as I grasp it and work it around in my grip to press against the ties. Once positioned, I drag myself to my feet and back toward the door, working the blade as I watch him.
Pain and shock contort to resolve in his face and sweat pricks my body.
A new wave of anxiety hits me, and I struggle with the blade, finally snapping the ties and losing my hold on it.
The knife clatters to the floor, and we both look at it silently.
The truck turns again, throwing me into the corner as Jeffries loses his footing entirely.
“Fuck this,” I mutter and grab the handle on the door instead of going for the knife.
I strain under the effort, my hands slipping as I grip the cold metal, but I plant my feet, and it gives way with a groan, rolling up.
I plaster myself back to the wall as I realize how fast we’re going, but we’re still in the city.
The man driving the car behind us goes wide-eyed, and I know that he’s my only play.
This is going to fucking hurt.
I jump from the truck, diving onto the car and desperately gripping at the rim of the hood beneath the windshield. The car slams on the brakes, and as soon as it halts, I slide from the hood and dart down a nearby alley on shaky legs.
Saving my own ass is always a lot of work, but I manage. I can’t believe that just happened though. There is a lot to pick through in what Jeffries said.
Coming out of the alleyway and slowing down, I feel completely bewildered.
As the adrenaline wears thin, my anxiety creeps in with a wave of nausea, but only for a moment before the throb in the back of my head, the stinging pain in my wrists, and the ache in my shoulder remind me how battered I am.
I stop and prop myself against a brick wall. I have no idea where I am. Chicago, somewhere. That much is certain. When I look down at my hands, the urge to cry presses on the backs of my eyes and tightens my throat. Now is not the time.
I swallow the urge.
After a minute of feeling hopeless, I decide the first thing to do is get cleaned up and see how bad these lacerations are. Once that’s taken care of, I can worry about everything else.