They left.The door closed.Ben was alone again.
He waited until he was certain they weren't coming back, then resumed his work on the ropes.His wrists were slick with blood now, the skin rubbed raw by hours of careful movement, but the knots were definitely looser.Another day, maybe less, and he might be able to slip free.
If they gave him another day.
He thought about Kari, about the investigation they'd been building together, about her mother's research and the pattern of deaths that stretched back decades.If he disappeared for good, she'd keep digging.He knew her well enough to be certain of that.Kari Blackhorse didn't know how to quit, didn't know how to accept official explanations when her gut told her they were lies.It was one of the things he admired most about her.
And one of the things that scared him most right now.
Because if they were willing to kill him to protect their secrets, they would have no issue killing her, too.
* * *
The interrogations continued.Different questions, different approaches, but always the same core demand:What did you see?What do you know?Who have you told?Ben stuck to his story—I got lost, found nothing, told no one—and absorbed the punishment that came with each repetition.His body became a map of bruises, his wrists a bloody mess of torn skin and loosening rope.
Then something changed.
The two men left, called away by a phone conversation that Ben only caught fragments of.Something about a search warrant.Something about moving locations.
They were getting nervous.Outside pressure was building, and they hadn't gotten what they wanted from their prisoner.
"We can't keep him forever," one said to the other, no doubt unaware how far his voice carried."He's a cop—people are looking for him.We need to make a decision."
"The decision isn't ours to make.We hold him until we get orders."
"And if the orders are to dump him in the desert?You really want his blood on your hands?"
"We signed up for this, remember?In for a penny, in for a pound."
That was when Ben knew he had to move.Another day, maybe another few hours, and the order might come.He'd be taken out into the wilderness, shot in the back of the head, left for the coyotes and the vultures.Another disappearance that no one would ever explain.
Had these two men killed Evan Naalnish?What about the other names on Anna Chee's list, all the people who'd died for getting too close to whatever secrets this land hid?
The door opened.
Ben forced his hands to go still, forced his breathing to stay even.Through swollen eyes, he watched the violent guard enter—the one who enjoyed his work a little too much—carrying a small cooler and a folding chair.The calm one was nowhere in sight.
The guard set up his chair against the far wall, positioning himself where he could watch Ben while he ate.He pulled a sandwich from the cooler, unwrapped it, and took a bite.
"Hungry?"He chewed with his mouth open, a petty cruelty."Thirsty?I got a beer in here, too.Nice and cold."
Ben said nothing.His wrists throbbed where the rope had worn through the skin, but he'd made progress in the hours since the last beating.The knots were looser now.Not loose enough—but close.
The guard took another bite, watching Ben with the casual interest of a man observing an animal in a cage."You know what I think?I think you did see something out there.I think you're just too stubborn to admit it."He shrugged."Doesn't matter to me either way.I get paid whether you talk or not."
He pulled a phone from his pocket and started scrolling, his attention divided between the screen and his sandwich.A video played—something that made him chuckle, some stupid clip that meant nothing except that his eyes were on the phone instead of on Ben.
Ben resumed his work on the ropes.Slow movements, careful movements, nothing that would register in the guard's peripheral vision.The knot at his right wrist had a weakness, a loop that had loosened incrementally with each hour of patient manipulation.If he could get his thumb past that loop—
The guard laughed at something on his phone.Took another bite of sandwich.Cracked open the beer.
Ben pulled.
The rope caught on the heel of his hand.He twisted, feeling skin tear, feeling the rough fibers bite into raw flesh.Pain flared up his arm, sharp and bright, but he didn't stop.He pulled harder, felt something pop in his thumb—a joint forced past its natural limit—and then his hand was through.
The guard looked up.
For a frozen instant, their eyes met.Then the guard dropped his phone and reached for the gun at his hip.
