Chapter 30
Debrief Room
Jade
The frigid SUV zipped past sunny streets and palm trees with me, Xavier, and Vova in the backseat. The car was Xavier’s, but Vova was the boss here.
“Give me arm,” he commanded Xavier, who had changed into all black. His hand was bandaged, but he looked rough. “Tell her dad you had fishing accident. Zis painkiller. You feel better one minute.”
Vova withdrew a syringe from his little first aid kit and, with incredible speed, plunged it into Xavier's upper arm, injecting the clear liquid. Xavier groaned loudly, but nodded, ready to do anything Vova proposed.
“Let me out here.” Vova pointed to a nearby intersection. “You go together. I have Vlad vatching you. I use knife.” Vova winked, melting into a smile. “But Vlad? He use pistol.”
Fuck. I would forever have nightmares of Vova.
With Vova gone, we finally pulled up to FBI headquarters, and as soon as we rounded the corner, I spotted my father waiting on the steps of the building. He walked up to the car before it even stopped, and I noticed it immediately—he looked tired, depleted, and like death.
He swung the door open and lunged for me before I could step out. The hug was awkward and long. I stood there in his embrace, not sure how to react to this sudden show of gentle parenting.
“Jade.” My father looked me over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Xavier just called me half an hour ago. Where did you come from? How did they free you?” He spat out questions in a panic, and the thought hit me so hard: he looked devastated.
If it wasn’t for Gianna and Xavier, Alex and Andrei’s plan might have worked.
“I was so worried—these were the worst weeks of my life!” My father clasped his arms around me again, on the verge of tears.
A wave of guilt flooded me. He was my father.
He raised me by himself, and we had been through so much together.
The death of my mother when I was only four.
My first period at twelve, and the subsequent visit to the drugstore, where I almost imploded from embarrassment.
My university graduation, when, instead of letting me celebrate with my friends, my father insisted we celebrate together at a restaurant of his choosing.
But then my father stepped back and stretched out his hand to Xavier, pulling him into a hug too. “You’re a godsend, Xavy. Thank you! Thank you for bringing her back.”
Xavy?!
Their hug, the familiarity, the ease with which they chatted—it all drew one picture: they’d been in contact and spending time together while I was gone.
“What happened to your hand?” my father asked, the concern in his voice jarring.
Xavier shrugged, waving his good hand. “Just a small incident. Fishing gone wrong.” He laughed easily, still scared of Vova, and I hid my smile, remembering his screams.
This felt surreal. Like I had just experienced a great misfortune: falling into the hands of a captor who took my freedom away. I sat in a small, cold room with harsh lighting, waiting for the FBI agents to come in and begin their debrief.
“Miss Moretti? Can I offer you a coffee or water?” An older agent peeked her head in the door.
I shook my head to say no.
“Are you sure? Maybe a tea?”
I knew the tactic—they wanted something in my hands so they could analyze my body language. Did I fidget? Was I calm? Did I drink after certain questions? There was a process, but, unfortunately for them, I paid attention when it mattered.
“No, thank you. I’m okay.”
She nodded curtly and disappeared again. I drummed my fingers on my thighs, wanting only one thing—to disappear from this room and run into Alex’s arms. The image of him on the marina, his hands in a symbol of heart, spread warmth through me. Fuck, I missed him.
“Miss Moretti. How are you?” Two agents walked in: a man in his forties, already with graying hair, and the same woman who had offered me coffee, slightly older. Seasoned agents. They grabbed their seats in front of me, their smiles sympathetic and utterly rehearsed.
“I’m okay.” I nodded. “H-how are you?”
I’d thought about it while waiting—I had to be traumatized, but not too much. I had to be put together, but slightly unstable. I had to play an Oscar-worthy role to escape their suspicions and be let off the hook.
The man smiled warmly. “I’m Special Agent Collins, and this is Special Agent Riviera. We have a few questions about what happened. Take your time with the answers. There’s no rush.”
I nodded eagerly, looking into their eyes, showing them I was on their side.
“What’s the last thing you remember before being taken?”
My gaze drifted to the side, as if thinking about it. “Um, I was in the club. Going to the restroom. It was, like, down a hallway? I just remember someone grabbing my waist and pulling me—"
“Pulling you where?” Agent Riviera interrupted.
“I-I’m not sure. Just…away from the restroom entrance. Did the cameras at the club catch anything?” I asked, trying to sound like I cared.
Both agents shook their heads. “No. There was no footage from that night. At all. We suspect that whoever took you shut down their security system for the evening.”
I nodded slowly, so proud of Alex. They thought of everything. It was the perfect kidnapping. No traces, no leads, no witnesses—nothing.
“What were you wearing? Can you tell us anything about your appearance?” Collins asked the next question.
“Um, a dress? A short, sequined dress. Heels. I had a small purse too.”
“What about your hair? Makeup? Hair ties on your wrist?”
My mind was buzzing. Why the fuck did they want those specific details? I hesitated, as if thinking it over.
“I don’t remember about the hair ties…but my makeup was darker. You know, like, going-out-on-a-Saturday makeup?” I turned to Riviera, the only other woman in the room, subconsciously asking her to understand, but she simply blinked at me.
“And my hair?”
And then it fucking hit me—the video we made with Alex! I had put my hair up in a ponytail! Was the ponytail in the video too perfect? Not disheveled enough?
“Yes,” Agent Riviera confirmed. “Was your hair up or down?”
I paused for a second, my heart hammering. “Up. My hair was up in a ponytail.” I was expecting them to nod, write something down—anything—but they just stared at me.
“Tell us what happened after.”
“Well…I think they put, like, a bag over my head and then…someone carried me somewhere and shoved me into a car.”
“Did you see the car?”
“No.” I shook my head at the stupid question. “There was something over my head and my hands were bound.”
“With what?”
“I’m not sure. Something sharp?”
Riviera nodded, and Collins leaned in closer, ready to ask another meaningless question, but that’s when the door opened and my father stepped in—confident, and without an ounce of apology.
“Sir,” Agent Collins opened his mouth as soon as my father took a seat on an empty chair, right beside the door, “maybe it would be better if—”
“It’s okay.” My father held up his hand to Collins—harsh and firm—his go-to. “I’ll just sit in.”
Collins shut up immediately, avoiding Riviera’s glance.
“Let the record show that present in the room for the debriefing are Special Agent Collins, Special Agent Riviera, and United States Attorney Sebastian Moretti,” Collins stated into nothing, reminding me that the whole session was being audio and video recorded. “What happened after?”
I blinked at my father, hoping for an encouraging smile, but just like the agents, he was stoic. Ten minutes ago, he was almost crying at the sight of me, and now? Now he was here to interrogate me.
“After? Um…the car drove for a while. Someone carried me somewhere when it stopped. I was shoved in a chair and then they took off the thing on my head.” I motioned toward my head, hoping for a brief pause, but they continued.
“Who did you see?”
I shook my head, widening my eyes, thinking of things that scared me to the bottom of my soul—sharks, murky water, snakes, Xavier’s hands. “Men,” I said quietly.
“How many?” Riviera asked calmly.
“I don’t know. M-many.”
“What did they look like?” my father suddenly cut in, all heads twisting his way.
I gulped and shrugged but answered quickly. “They were all wearing black and balaclavas. I didn’t see their faces.”
“Did you see the color of their eyes?”
“N-no. No one stepped close enough…to see.”
“Were they white? Black? Latino? Asian?” my father shot out questions quickly.
This was another tactic—flood the suspect with information, provide options so they get confused, stumble, and make a mistake. Yet…I wasn’t a suspect, so why were they interrogating me like that?
But I was my father’s daughter, and I could be just as calculating as him.
“I-I don’t know. I didn't see anyone’s face,” I repeated the same sentence.
“Okay. What about their voices, accents?”
I shook my head again to say no. “No accents.”
The room fell silent. I was giving them nothing. I tried to imagine the scenario—multiple men in black clothing in front of me.
“What did the room look like? Do you remember a smell? A sound?” Agent Riviera spoke softly again.
“There were bright lights shining toward me, so I couldn’t really see the room, but there was a humming somewhere?
” I offered, leading them as far astray as possible.
“Like a fridge or air conditioner, maybe. And smell…” I trailed off, mentally calculating what to lie next. “It smelled fresh. Like the outside.”
“Tell us how they gave you instructions about the video.” My father’s loud and authoritative voice filled the room once more, taking over this question-and-answer period.
“They held up a note. It explained what to say.”
“Did you see the man who held up the note? His fingers? Skin color?”
“No. He was wearing gloves.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
“They sounded like men? They were big and broad. Men’s shoes.”
Phew, it was non-stop. My father paced behind Collins and Riviera, like a dark shadow over all of us. Just when Collins opened his mouth, my father cut in again.
“What happened after?”