Chapter 42
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
Air shoots into my lungs.
I lurch forward but am slammed back down. Groaning, my eyes finally begin to adjust to the dim room.
One door.
One window.
Two pairs of cuffs restraining my arms to an ornate wooden chair.
There’s a damp feeling in the air, despite the pristine state of the room.
No furnishings of any kind—save for the portrait of a young woman on the wall before me.
My head’s pounding, throat like sandpaper.
I blink and strain for a glimpse through the window behind me, but the view is mostly blocked by curtains.
I can tell by the light that it’s early morning. My feet are bare and numb.
My green dress is gone, replaced by an outfit eerily similar to my ISA training clothes.
Based on the vaulted ceilings, the stone floors, and the engraved molding around the door and window, I’d guess I’m in a castle.
In Scotland.
The Consultant’s castle, most likely.
It turns out that all of Graham’s talk about architecture came in handy.
My stomach sinks at the thought of him—his lifeless body in the van, the men who abducted us and stabbed me. I glance down at my side, my eyebrows pulling together. How many days has it been?
The door creaks open.
A thick man about my height strides through, a bottle of water in his hand. He scowls when he realizes I’m awake, which is when I notice the black eye and the taped nose.
I feign a grimace. “Oh, did that hurt? It sure looks like it hurt.”
The man, let’s call him Black Eye, practically growls in response. He stops beside me and places the water bottle on the floor. Well out of my reach.
Touché.
Black Eye starts for the door again, appearing rather satisfied with himself.
“Hey!” I shout, voice still rough. “What did you do with him? Where’s Graham?”
He turns. Scoffs. “You would like to know,” he replies in a jeer, thickened by an Eastern European accent I can’t quite place.
Well, yes, I would. That’s why I asked.
“Please,” I reply instead, utilizing my most convincing damsel-in-distress doe eyes. Although I’m not sure how well it’ll work when I’ve already broken his nose. “I’m just—” I pretend to sway. “—so thirsty.”
Black Eye turns to the door, then back to me. His shoulders slump and he reluctantly approaches, as if his greatly noble rescue complex has persuaded him to help the woman he stabbed and abducted.
Chivalry is not dead.
He brings the water to my lips, and I lurch backward, flinching like he’s going to hit me.
“Relax,” Black Eye grunts.
“I find it hard to relax after I’ve been stabbed.”
He lets out a derisive laugh. “You are unharmed.”
Well, technically untrue, but—tomato, tomahto, as Carmine would say.
Carmine. He’ll be here with Jones and her team sooner or later. I only need to hold out until they arrive. Finding Graham, then, is the first order of business.
“It was a heavy sedative,” Black Eye continues. “Can’t speak to your hallucinations.”
A therapist would have a field day with my brain.
At least that means I’m not wounded, which means I don’t need to worry about dying of infection or not being able to escape. Which leaves…
“Would you mind?” I lift my right arm as if it weighs a ton and jingle the handcuff. “It’s cutting into my skin, and I could really use a drink of water. You can put it back on right away.” The wince afterward really sells it I think.
Black Eye glances at the door, hangs his head for a second, then retrieves a key from his pocket. I feel the adrenaline begin to pump through my veins as his fingers brush my racing pulse and the handcuffs begin to loosen. The metal falls from my skin. My senses sharpen to a pinpoint.
“Sorry about this,” I say.
Except, no I’m not.
We make eye contact right before my elbow finds his nose again.
The blood’s gushing from his face when I stand, gripping the back of my chair and smashing it over his head like I’m in a WWE ring.
Wood splinters everywhere. He falls to a heap.
Bending over, I locate the key and unlock my left wrist from the final remaining shard of chair.
I quickly pat him down, stripping him of his gun, his phone, and a small set of keys.
After some awkward maneuvering I’m able to peel his jacket off, cuffing his hands behind his back and tying his ankles to the handcuffs with the sleeve.
As my pièce de résistance, I open his mouth and stuff a leg of the chair between his teeth like an apple.
That’ll buy me some time.
I use his face to unlock his phone—really, criminals should not be using Face ID—and quickly change his password. Based on several previous experiences, a phone will definitely come in handy sooner or later. I give Black Eye one final check before carefully slipping into the hall.
No guards wait outside for me. That’s disconcerting in itself.
The hall is nearly pitch black, unlit candle sconces lining the walls, but I follow a faint glow emanating from around the corridor, halting briefly at an open door.
Inside, a lone metal chair bolted to the stone.
Varying shades of reddish-brown stains surround it like the rings of a tree. I swallow thickly and move on.
At the corner, I draw Black Eye’s gun and take a peek. A large door with what appears to be sunlight pouring through the crack at the bottom. A door which is most definitely locked, explaining the lack of guards or surveillance in this hallway.
I sigh and stalk noiselessly toward it.
Kicking it down would risk a break while I’m barefoot. Shooting the lock off would bring every single guard in the vicinity bearing down on me.
The keys.
I roll my eyes at myself and quietly unlock it, opening the door a fraction so I can get a glimpse of what I’m dealing with.
A foyer with two giant windows and a massive front door.
No visible guards, which should be a good thing, but it only leaves me wondering why.
There’s one other room that I can see, where the Consultant’s butler from Paris is standing at attention outside it.
Muffled voices float across the foyer. A muffled voice that sounds a lot like Graham.
My heart does that pesky pitter-patter.
Slipping through the cracked doorway, I train my weapon on the butler and skulk closer. His eyes blow wide a millimeter—clearly not the first time he’s had a gun pointed at his chest—and I mouth, “Open it.”
He hesitates.
I move my finger to the trigger.
The butler puts his hands up in surrender. He reaches across and opens it, backing away.
“Smedley?” a voice calls through the open doorway.
I step through instead.
Seated at a long, mahogany table lit by an impressive chandelier, Graham’s gaze flicks to mine. No teary reunion full of kisses and hugs ensues. Instead, his features fall in disappointment. He gives a nearly imperceptible head shake.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand.
“It’s good of you to join us,” the voice from moments before says.
Previously hidden by shadows, a figure shifts away from the shrouded windows and into the light of the chandelier. A distinct thud, thud, thud sounds.
“Please, won’t you have some breakfast?” Manon asks. “I’m sure you’re quite hungry.”