Chapter Thirty-Two

Gladys

I keep expecting Doherty or the other one—the mean one—to come and drag me out of the food court, but after ten minutes, I start to relax. Until a tall drink of water with some gray in his brown hair and an easy smile strides my way. Then I sit up straight.

"Ma'am, I heard you might like fireflies." He sweeps his gaze around the mall, then leans closer—which ain't easy since he has to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall. "Gladys, my name's Ford. I'd like to get you out of here if that's okay with you."

"Hey, you in my ear? This your man?" He had the code word—sort of—but that raspy voice has been quiet since I sat down, and I don't like it. Not one bit.

"For fuck's sake," the voice mutters. "Yes. Give him the damn earbud, will you?"

"No. I want to know what's goin' on, and I doubt any of you are gonna tell me. So I'm gonna listen in." With a huff, I take Ford's hand and let him help me to my feet. "You find Doc?" I ask.

"No. By the time we went in, the basement was empty." Ford drapes his arm around my shoulders. "No more questions until we're in the van. Got it?"

I huff. "One more. You got any cash on you? All I've had to eat in the past two days is a bag of chips and part of a Snickers bar. I'd kill for some french fries."

Ford pivots so quickly, I almost topple over, and heads straight for a burger chain at the end of the food court. "Foxtrot to Delta team. We're…stopping for food. SmashMelt D.C. You want anything?"

When we reach the counter, he waits for me to order a double-smash meal deal with a lemonade, then pulls out his phone. "Add four additional meal deals, two with Coke, two with lemonade, and three extra orders of fries."

"Shitsicles. How many folks you got in that van with you?" I whisper after he's paid and we're waiting off to the side for the food. "And are they all as hot as you? Because my heart might not be able to take much more sexiness."

He lets out a rich laugh. "Everyone ‘in the van' is spoken for. Except Vasquez, but he's way too young for you, Gladys."

"Well, fuck me sideways. Can't blame a girl for asking."

"Is that even possible?" Ford shakes his head. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Sierra, get up here. Need an assist with all the food."

Five minutes later, "Sierra" hasn't shown, and laden down with two large bags, a drink carrier, and a boatload of napkins, we head for the elevator.

The doors slide open, and a blonde dressed all in black pushes off the wall. "Damn, darlin'. That's some shiner."

"Who the hell are you?" I look to Ford, then back to the pretty young thing in front of me.

"Raelynn. Also known as Sierra when we're on comms. I was comin' to help y'all with the food, but looks like you got it handled." She jabs the button for P3, and the doors close with a whisper. "Sierra to Delta team. Come and get us."

"Someone want to tell me why I can't hear anyone you're talkin' to?" I stare up at Ford, but the position makes my neck ache before the elevator dings. He's just too damn tall.

"Because the asshole you were talking to earlier is a control freak," Ford says with a grin.

"You want to repeat that?" the raspy voice in my ear asks.

"Nope."

A black van pulls up as soon as we step into the garage. The side door slides open. My jaw drops. Shitsicles. Two men and a woman are in the back, with a young guy behind the wheel. Ford hands off the food, while Raelynn takes my arm.

"Come on, darlin'. We can't stay here." She helps me into a seat, and the young whippersnapper behind the wheel turns.

Dark hair, even darker eyes. Wowza. Is he the single one? He ain't too young.

"Where to?" he asks.

"That park we passed on the way from the airport. It's between CID and the Correctional Treatment Facility," a man with a pistol strapped to his hip says.

Raelynn pats my arm. "Gladys, that's West. Vasquez is drivin'. Then you've got Ripper, and Inara."

"Where are Doc and Nat?" I demand.

"Natasha is still at CID—the Army Criminal Investigation Division," Ripper says. "Her GPS tracker hasn't moved since a little after 9:00 a.m."

"We have two people watching the office," Ford adds. "They won't be able to move her without us knowing."

"And Doc?" I'm scared to ask. "I told you all where he was. Why didn't you storm in there and rescue him?"

"We tried." West pops the top off a Thermos, and the scent of coffee fills the van. "By the time we got there, the basement was empty. Nothing but a busted zip tie, an empty can of Coke, and a small pool of blood on the floor."

I drop the fry back into the bag. "Shitsicles. He was too sick to fight them."

"Sick?" West straightens, his eyes narrowing on me. "Sick, how?"

"They injected him with insulin. On the plane. He said that's how they separated him and Nat."

"Fuck. They could have killed him. Ford? Call Joey. We need to know how long Doc's going to be compromised. And what we might need to do for him when we get him back." West pulls a tablet out of the bag at his feet and fixes his hard stare on me. "We need to know every single thing those fuckers said from the moment they took you."

Hastings stopped trying to hide his contempt hours ago—when I told him that Chris and I killed an entire family outside of Albaghdadi because the husband wouldn't hand over a shipment of opium. Every time I have to implicate Chris, I want to throw up. Killing him wasn't enough. Bastian is determined to ruin him, even in death.

Hastings hasn't given me a break. Or any water. I'm dehydrated, exhausted, and terrified. For all I know, he's working with Bastian. My testimony has to be perfect. But I only had five hours to memorize four pages of information. Ryker taught me some memory tricks that helped, but I'm sure I'm forgetting something.

He folds his hands on the desk and stares at me. "Let's go over it all again."

I sink my fingers into my hair, tugging at the strands until the pain helps me focus. "We've been over everything twice already. What else do you expect me to say? Nothing's changed. If you give me that computer, I'll access my bank account in the Maldives. There's five hundred thousand dollars in it. All I have left. You can see the deposits I made when I was in Iraq."

I want to scream at him. "It's Bastain's account. Bastian's blood money." But I can't. It—like all his other crimes—officially belongs to me now.

Hastings arches his brows. "I'm not letting you touch a computer."

"Well, then we're about to spend two more very boring hours going over the same exact information we've already covered. Twice."

"If you have somewhere to be," he says, "you won't make it. At six, the D.C. police will arrive to take you to booking. From there, you'll be processed and sent to the Correctional Treatment Facility until your arraignment on multiple counts of felony murder and war crimes. As those are capitol offenses, you won't breathe free air for the rest of your very short life. You don't have a choice here, Winters. If I want you to go over it all again, that's exactly what you're going to do."

Tears prick at my eyes. "Can I at least have some water?"

"No. Start from the beginning."

I lick my lips. Or try to. This is my life now. Doing what I'm told. No freedom. Nothing of my own. Of me. Someone will tell me when to eat, when to sleep, when to shower, when to take a piss. And when to die.

Before I can manage enough strength—mental or physical—to say a word, someone raps solidly on the door.

Hastings locks his laptop and stands as the door opens behind me. "Mr. Hastings, you're needed in the Chief's office."

If I weren't so exhausted, I'd weep at the man's voice. As it is, when Hastings stalks out and Graham takes the seat across from me, I can barely stop myself from reaching for his hand. He passes me a bottle of water, and I down half of it before I lift my gaze to his.

"Winters, you're in some serious shit." He taps his tablet, turns it around, and slides it across the table to me. "This is the list of crimes you're about to be charged with. Read it."

"Wh-what?"

"Read. It." Though his voice doesn't soften, his eyes do, and I glance at the document on the screen. I have to squint; the text is fuzzy.

"This is Ripper. We don't have a lot of time and we can't hack the cameras here. But this font is unreadable at any distance greater than three feet. Each message will last twenty seconds."

The words fade away, and another paragraph appears.

"Gladys is safe. Doc got her out. But he couldn't escape with her. His GPS tracker died early this morning, so we have no idea where he is."

Tears spill onto my cheeks. He could be anywhere by now. Or…nowhere.

The second message disappears. I glance up at Graham to find his gaze pinned on the door. Oh, shit. Hastings could come back at any time.

"We can get you out of there right now. Tell Graham you want a lawyer and refuse to sign the affidavit. But that'll make it harder for us to find and get to Doc. If you stay, you'll be arrested, processed, and sent to the CTV for violent offenders. We think that's where they're planning on getting to you."

Shit. He doesn't need me convicted. He just needs my confession.

"Bastian has a full-bird colonel behind him. We don't know who it is, but Gladys says he wants to be the one to kill you. Bastian just wants you to suffer. There's no better way to do that than killing Doc in front of you. We have a plan to get into the CTF. And we can track your location inside. But it's a big place, and we don't know how many hostiles we'll encounter. We might not get there in time. Or be able to save you both. You need to decide, Natasha. Right now."

The text fades away, and I slide the tablet back to Graham.

"Are you asking me for a lawyer?"

The hope in his voice breaks me. I wish I could. But there's one thing I want—no, that I need—more than my freedom. I need to know Doc is safe. Staying here is his only chance. Rubbing my hands over my face to hide my lips, I lower my voice to a whisper. "No. If I do, Doc dies."

Graham taps the screen a few times and turns it toward me. "We won't give up on him. I promise."

I lower my gaze to the table and blink back tears. "If I'm inside, there's a better chance Doc lives. Yes or no?"

He pauses for so long, I raise my head. His green eyes are full of sorrow. "Yes."

The door opens, and Hastings stalks back into the room. "Some asshole rammed my car in the parking lot. Now I'm going to have to fill out a fuck-ton of paperwork with my insurance company. You can go, Mr. Tempelton. I'll take it from here."

"Winters?" Graham stands, tucks his tablet under his arm, and meets my gaze. "I need an answer."

Under the table, I dig my fingers into my thighs as hard as I can. "I don't need a lawyer, Mr. Tempelton. I'm guilty of my crimes, and I intend to pay for them."