Chapter Thirty-Three

Doc

Three times since Gladys escaped, I've passed out. Three times, I've been jolted awake in the most painful ways possible. The first was when Collins and Doherty dumped me into the trunk of a car. The bright sun blinded me for all of a five seconds before they slammed the lid. I couldn't move. They'd hogtied me and slapped a strip of duct tape over my mouth. I don't think I'd been unconscious for long. Minutes, maybe. I could still feel the arm around my throat.

Exhaust fumes, combined with the intense heat, made it hard to focus. I thought I could turn over—maybe pull the trunk release level, but I'm a big guy, and it wasn't a big car. Eventually, I gave up, and the motion, noise, and my own exhaustion pulled me under.

Later, someone ripped the tape from my lips and poured juice down my throat. I choked, aspirating enough of the sweet drink I can still feel it burning my lungs. After gagging me again, they turned out the light and shut the door. I wheezed around the tape, and my head hit hard porcelain.

Fucking hell. They'd dumped me in a bathtub.

I tried to get free, but all I managed to do was bang my forehead against the spout and get blood in my eyes. Eventually, I fell asleep—or passed out.

It's the light that does it this time. And the door banging open. And Montgomery Bastian tearing the gag away so violently, my lower lip splits.

Rage twists his expression, and he grabs my arms and shakes me hard enough, whiplash is a distinct possibility.

"You had better hope the old woman knows what's good for her," he snarls. "I'd kill you right now if I could."

"Do it," I manage. "What are you waiting for?"

Bastian's eyes darken. "Natasha. Of course. She'll be on her way to lockup in a few hours. After lights out, her lights will go out. Forever."

"Really? That's the line you're going with? I thought criminal masterminds only used bad puns on television." I groan, then lose my breath when he punches me in the stomach. The coughing fit sends pain snaking around my torso. Fuck. The nerve block is wearing off. But Gladys got away. Even if the earbud didn't work, she would have gone to the police. Or called Bella. Hidden Agenda will protect her.

Bastian turns to Doherty. "He better last until tonight. The Colonel wants to be the one to put an end to Natasha. But I'll make her suffer. She'll watch me carve her lover into pieces before the end."

Fuck. He's going to torture me in front of her. I don't know why I'm surprised. Everything about this asshole is over the top. Pretty sure he could step right into one of those murder shows Gladys likes to watch and fit right in.

"Get him ready." Bastian pushes his way past the other men in the small bathroom. "We leave in two hours."

Collins and Bowen each grab one of my arms to haul me out of the bathtub. After so long in one position, my muscles scream at me. My vision blurs.

They drop me face first onto old, disgusting carpet. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air.

"Make a sound," Bowen says, his knee pressed into my lower back, "and I'll cut out your tongue so you can't even say goodbye to her."

I'll do anything to see Natasha again. To have the chance to hold her. To tell her she saved me from my own crushing loneliness—even if it was only for a short while. And for that, I need my tongue. So I keep my mouth shut.

The four of them work quickly, cutting the zip ties around my ankles, stripping off my boots and jeans, then replacing them with gray uniform pants and scuffed black shoes.

My arms are so stiff, when they free my wrists, I can only watch as they cut off my Henley and force me into a gray, button down shirt. Fucking hell. It's a prison guard uniform.

So that's the play. Get me into the prison and…what? Make it look like Natasha killed me? Then this Colonel can kill her and no one will think twice about it.

The zip ties are replaced by thick, heavy flexi-cuffs. They're not taking any chances. These, I'm not sure even McCabe could break.

But this time, when they shove me back into the tub, I have a purpose. I don't need to get free. With four of them in the next room, even if I could, there's nowhere to go. They'd just tie me up again. All I have to do is keep my muscles loose. When they get me to the prison—when I see Natasha again—I need to be able to fight.

The constant tick, tick, tick of the clock is now my least favorite sound. It counts down the minutes until Bastian and some nameless, faceless Colonel try to kill me and the man I love. It's almost six. The police will be here any minute.

Hastings moves to the door and presses the intercom button. "We're done here. Bring in the affidavit."

I fiddle with the hem of my tank top. My life is over. Everything that was mine is gone. Soon, I'll have to give up these clothes too.

Someone bangs twice. Hastings opens the door, accepts a thick, brown envelope, and shuts it again.

He makes a big show of pulling out the stack of paper. "Your crimes. Sign and initial where indicated."

My hand shakes as I pick up the pen. "What happens next?"

I know…most of it. But I need to hear him say it. If only to give my panicked mind something to focus on as I sign my name to so many of Bastian's heinous acts.

"The D.C. police are waiting to take you into custody. Given the time of day, you won't be arraigned until tomorrow—at the earliest." Hastings jabs his finger at the first little yellow flag where I'm supposed to sign. "Hurry up. They won't be happy if they have to work overtime, and their shift ends in an hour."

My tears spill over, dotting the paper. Will I even be alive by this time tomorrow? And what about Doc? If Hidden Agenda can't get into the correctional facility, is there any way we survive this?

Ten minutes later, I've signed and initialed every page of that damn document. All of Bastian's crimes…they're mine now.

Hastings calls another warrant officer to join him, and they escort me back through the secured metal door to the reception area.

"Natasha Winters." A uniformed D.C. police officer approaches with a set of cuffs in his hand. "We have a warrant for your arrest. Turn around."

The metal snaps around my wrists. I'm unprepared for how helpless I suddenly feel.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to be present during questioning. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

A tear trails down my cheek. I can't even wipe it away. "Y-yes. I do."

A dull roar fills my ears. The officers exchange a few words with Hastings, then the younger one—his name tag says Hill—takes my arm.

The squad car smells like stale coffee and sweat. I can't brace myself when I sit down. Can't put on my own seatbelt. Can't rub my eyes. I'm so hungry. The last thing I ate was a protein bar while Doc and I were waiting to board the plane.

Outside the dirty window, the city passes by in a blur. People stroll along the sidewalks, oblivious to how precious their freedom should be. I squeeze my eyes shut.

There's a plan. Graham got into CID. He wasn't even in the Army. They'll find a way.

At the station, another officer enters my passport and the heart-shaped piece of sea glass into inventory before I'm fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell with four other women. Two are obviously here for solicitation. The other is high as a kite. My hands are cuffed—in front of me this time—and I sit on a well-worn bench, not making eye contact with anyone. Five minutes turns into ten. Then twenty. I'm starting to wonder if they plan on keeping me here all night. But they can't get to me here. It's too public.

Finally, two officers amble up to the cell.

"Winters! Your ride is here. Stand and approach the door."

I do as I'm told, but flinch when they snap a pair of leg irons around my ankles, then add a belly chain and lock the handcuffs to my waist. I wasn't planning on running. Being unable to…it's enough to send me into a full-blown panic.

"I won't make any trouble," I say quietly, keeping my head down.

"You murdered more than a dozen people," the older one snaps. "Shut your fucking mouth."

The back of the van is empty. A heavy metal grill separates the two front seats from a pair of metal benches—one on each side of the vehicle. There's nothing to hold onto, so when the driver accelerates, I slide three feet before I can stop myself.

Thank God it's not a long ride. Twenty minutes later, a woman in a dark gray uniform leads me into a sterile room with polished tile floors, a row of showers in one corner, and an exam table in the other.

The strip search is humiliating, but after that, she tells me to shower and put on the bright orange prison "uniform."

Washing away the scent of Doc's shampoo breaks me. Sobs wrack my body until a guard comes in and tells me to hurry the fuck up.

Then comes the doctor. Questions about my medical history. Allergies. Surgeries. I don't bother telling her that I'll be dead soon. I don't tell her much of anything.

I'm so tired. The clock on the wall must be lying. It's only 8:37? Will they come for me right away? Doubtful. After lights out will be easier. They'll have to get me somewhere…private. Somewhere no one will hear me—or Doc—scream.

Another guard shows up to take me to my cell. I don't look at her, keeping my head down, trudging along beside her until she stops. "This is you, sugar."

Sugar?

My head snaps up, and Raelynn passes me a small, resealable bag. She doesn't smile and barely makes eye contact. "Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, washcloth, soap, deodorant, feminine hygiene products, and ear plugs. No one sleeps well the first night. Once you're alone, make sure you have everythin' you need."

"Wh-what happens now?"

Raelynn glances up and down the cell block. All the doors are still open, but only half the cells are occupied. "This here is our intake wing. It's a little quiet at the moment. Lights out is in ninety minutes. I reckon you're gonna want to brush your teeth, comb your hair, and use those ear plugs. Maybe wash up a bit too. Go on. I'll radio up for them to lock you in. After that…try and get some rest."

I back up three steps, and Raelynn reaches for the mic clipped to her shoulder. "Close 21-B."

The loud metallic clang sends a shiver down my spine. I can't help but wrap my fingers around the bars. "Please. Tell me something," I whisper.

"Nothin' to tell, darlin'," she says under her breath. "We're wingin' this one. Don't know nothin' from nothin' yet. But we're here with you until the end. That's a promise."

I wait until I can't see her anymore, then sink down onto the thin mattress. A fresh sob tears from my throat, and I let go, helpless to stop the terror from ripping my heart into shreds.