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Freya gripped the syringe and the woman’s hand and twisted, surging up from the bed as she did so.
The woman’s wrist snapped, and now the needle was pressed to her throat. She screeched with pain, but the moment the needle touched her flesh she stilled, eyes wide.
“What’s in it?” Freya asked, keeping her voice sweet.
Her nostrils flared and she sucked in a pained breath. “It won’t kill me.”
“I didn’t think it would. You want me alive.”
The woman scanned Freya’s face. Makeup altered the shape of Freya’s features so she bore a passing resemblance to Diana, and she wore a wig that was the same color and cut, but it would never pass a close inspection, which the orderly hadn’t done in her rush not to be observed much herself.
“Not you. Edwards.”
“Who are you working for?” Freya asked.
Cal took control of the prisoner, not being gentle when he placed handcuffs on the woman’s broken wrist. He smiled at Freya. “God, how I love watching you work.”
“What took you so long?”
“I was asking a nurse about the blood draw when I remembered the mole.”
Freya had seen it too. The dark mole on her left cheekbone had clicked everything into place. The honey trap. “Emily, I presume?”
The woman strained against Cal’s grip. “That’s not my name.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is. Now, tell me, are you a freelance spy, or are you working for a particular country?”
Chapter Sixty-Four
As anxious as Chris was driving down I-95, it had to be worse for Diana, who was currently a stowaway in a small, cold trunk with only a thick coat and wool blanket to warm her on the long drive.
For Chris, who’d spent his entire adult life in the US Navy and several years as a SEAL, this op was a test of training unlike anything he’d ever known.
Ops became personal in the moment. When the bullets started flying and things went sideways, he was in it for his team. It wasn’t until Diana that the dynamic had flipped, and that was because he’d failed to save her the first time.
Now she was his lover, but more than that, she was his love. His future. His very heart.
He really didn’t know how it had happened, but he couldn’t deny it had, and she was two miles ahead of him in the trunk of a vintage race car likely heading for a rendezvous with a terrorist.
Beside him, he knew Rand was dealing with his own issues. He felt responsible for Kira Hanson. They were united in purpose even though they weren’t acting on orders from NSWC.
Hell, their XO would throw a fit if he knew what they were doing. But there was no time to bring the brass into the conversation, and they’d just order Chris and Rand to stand down and let the proper channels deal with the situation now that they were on American soil.
No way in hell would Chris trust Diana’s life to anyone else.
I’m coming for you, Diana. I have your back.
Trust me.
Diana was eternally grateful she hadn’t had any actual coffee in the shop that morning. Her bladder would never have survived this if she wasn’t practically dehydrated. It was bad enough that her ankle throbbed after being stuck in the small, cold space for so long.
According to her watch, she’d been in the trunk for nearly three hours, forty-five minutes of that before they even hit the road. Newport News was at least another hour and a half away.
In some ways, this wasn’t much different from when she’d been a prisoner in Jordan, blindfolded and on the way to Rafiq’s compound. She didn’t expect to get far inside the Gardners’ home or business before they caught her and she was a prisoner. Also, once again, she was leading special forces to a terrorist’s lair.
But this time, Chris knew what she was up to. He was following. Listening. She wasn’t on her own.
She reminded herself they were all on US soil. Her turf, not Rafiq’s. But then, it was also the Gardners’ turf, and they were American oligarchs, while she was just an unemployed archaeologist.
