This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this, guaranteed.
I stop seeking her features in the dark when the faintest movement in the corner of my eye captures my attention. With my bladder at the point of bursting, the man had no issue finding the unexpected bundle in the lower half of my stomach. I’m still a novice when it comes to all things pregnancy-related, but even someone as naïve as me has no trouble identifying the blob on the screen, even with its head appearing alien-like.
I’m so in awe at the smidge of black on the screen, I don’t peer at the lady cloaking her face with darkness when she asks, “How far along?” I’m too interested in discovering the man’s reply to pay the disgust in her tone any attention.
The dark-haired man twists his lips. “Not far. I’d guess around six or eight weeks.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” After waving her hand through the air like a regal princess, wordlessly granting the man permission to untie me, she exits the room via a hidden entrance on her left. It’s just as dark in that part of the house as the room with my baby’s image frozen on the screen, but the moonlight bouncing off her golden locks reveals she’s as blonde as the reflection I saw in the mirror when Megan Shroud was admitted for a psych workup.
Endeavoring to keep my excitement on the down-low about the many pieces of the puzzle I’ve gathered today, I lower my sweater before accepting the hand the man is holding out to assist me off the sterile-looking bed.
Once my shuddering thighs are concealed by the low rise of the itchy material, I lift my eyes to the man and ask, “What will make things easier?”
I curse my inquisitiveness to hell when the man replies, “This will.”
He grips the nape of my sweater, bends me in half to ensure my stomach feels the full impact of his fist, then hits me with everything he has. His punch knocks the wind right out of me. I fall back with a gasp, the pain tearing through me the worse I’ve ever experienced. It doubles the cramps I’ve been having all day and forces tears to spring into my eyes.
The only good that comes from so much pain is my body’s natural instinct to curl into a ball. My new position protects my stomach from the man’s boot when he kicks me over and over and over again, his onslaught only ending when the blackness seeping out of his heart overwhelms me, and my will to live gives up.
9
Dimitri
Istare at the monitor on Smith’s laptop with my blood boiling and my fists balled. The shoddy live broadcast shows Roxanne lying on a dirty floor. She’s curled into a ball, unmoving and unspeaking. There’s no physical indication as to why she isn’t moving. If it weren’t for the dried streams of wetness marking her cheeks, you could believe she’s sleeping. She looks peaceful, almost angelic.
“There.” Rocco points to the faintest rise and fall beneath the two-sizes too large sweater Roxanne is wearing. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow and irregular.
“Count them out to me,” Smith requests after hacking into a 911 operator’s program. “By counting her breaths, we’ll get an indication of her heartrate. That will tell us whether she’s sleeping or not.”
“She isn’t sleeping,” I mutter out at the same time Rocco says, “Now.”
“They didn’t send me this for no reason. They want me to see what they’re capable of. They want me to back down.” When silence falls across my office, my determination grows. “I’m not doing that this time around. I’m Dimitri-fucking-Petretti. If you mess with me, you lose your life. Can’t explain it any simpler than that.”
I try to breathe out the anger eating me alive. I try to keep a rational head, but before even Rocco can predict what I’m about to do, I remove the gun from the back of my trousers, flick off the safety, then squash the barrel to the teeny tiny groove between Agent Ellie Gould’s brows. “Give me something.”
She’s been here, working side by side with us for the past couple of hours, yet she’s not shared one useful snippet of information. I don’t like praising the Feds, but that is as irregular as me maintaining my cool when the itch to kill is skating through my veins. The Bureau doesn’t hire solely on looks. They want the smarts as well. Ellie has both, and up until today, she used them to her advantage. She not once displayed the blonde bimbo she’s been faking today.
When I inch back the trigger, Ellie’s lips get waggling. “I don’t know anything…” Her words are gobbled up by a big swallow when even Smith hears the deceit in her tone. He was on his feet in an instant, prepared to protect her as he had promised years ago. Now he’s sinking away, certain he’s being played for a fool.
“Smith…” She appears hurt by his reluctance, perhaps even heartbroken. “I-I-I swear, I don’t know anything.”
Her pupils dilate as wide as mine when Smith flicks on the communication mic next to his makeshift terminal before he speaks a set of words I never thought I’d hear him say. “Activate extermination orders for 8324 West Mulberry Lane, Ravenshoe. Shoot to kill. No survivors needed.”
“No!” Ellie cries out with a sob, fighting me with more gusto than she’s shown at any stage today. “Don’t do this, Smith. Please.”
She’s so close to collapsing, I have to grip the front of her shirt as I did her throat only hours ago. Several buttons on her silky blouse pop, but it has nothing on the scream she releases when Smith lowers the projector screen at the side of my office to display Clover and a team of three men getting ready to storm Ellie’s family’s beachside residence.
I’m shocked. I thought I was the only one noticing Ellie’s erratic behavior this evening. I had no clue Smith, Rocco, and Clover were aware of it too. Raids like this aren’t something you set up in a couple of minutes. It takes time and preparation.
“No, no, no,” Ellie screams on repeat when Clover screws a silencer onto the end of his weapon before he covers his tattooed cheek with a balaclava. “You can’t do this. They’re not a part of this. My career isn’t on them.”
Smith’s accent is unrecognizable when he says, “You know what to say if you want it to stop. Tell Dimitri everything you know.”
Ellie drifts her drenched eyes to Smith. “As I told them, I don’t know anything. We broke up before Fien was taken.”
The fact she knows my daughter’s name is a slap in the face, but I keep my focus on the game I’m meant to be playing, not the one I already fielded. “Told who?”
Ellie’s eyes return to mine. “I don’t know who they are. They wanted information about your daughter. I told them I didn’t know anything.” Tears topple down her cheeks when she blurts out, “That’s when they told me to go to the warehouse and await further instructions.”
