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Stepping through the door, his words sting a little.
The guy in the center of the room is yelling at the men standing in front of him, making it plain that he doesn’t want to be here, just as much as I don’t.
I knew making my choice it would turn my life upside down, but I didn't mean to upset other people’s lives too.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out as barely more than a whisper before I can stop it.
Standing in an open kitchen, dining, and living room, it looks more like an operations room. There are laptops, tablets, and phones all over the table, with a few files. But what I wasn’t even thinking about is front and center—the guns that are strapped to the men’s waists and on their bodies that would normally be hidden under a jacket, I assume. Part of me is happy to see them, but it makes me feel sick to my stomach, worse than I already did. That means I really am in danger.
I knew I was, but seeing guns makes it hit home with a thud.
The man who was so busy yelling is just staring at me.
He’s intimidating.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with arms that look like solid muscle. They’re hard to miss in the black t-shirt that is tight-fitting on his body. His eyes are still fixated on me, and I continue to look at him, with his chiseled jaw and unshaven facial hair. Not a full beard or mustache but just a small amount of hair to give him a rugged look. His head is covered in buzzed brown hair that is so short it’s almost not there, making him look fierce. It’s the look of a soldier. He may as well be bald. The thing that throws me off with his appearance is the look in his eyes.
I'd built the initial image coming into the room of a strong, daunting, and in a way threatening man, but his eyes aren’t telling me that, though. There is something there that shows the smallest amount of softness behind the façade he is holding up in front of his men.
The words now coming from his mouth are far softer than a few moments ago. My brain is overstimulated with everything, and absorbing anything is getting harder the longer I go without sleep.
He stretches his hand out to shake mine. My hand just automatically starts to reach out in politeness to shake with his.
“My code name is Ghost, and I will be your agent for the whole time you are in our care. Nice to meet you, Cassandra.” His voice is calm as the name rolls from his lips.
“Cassandra.” He was looking at me so intently as he said it. “That’s my new name, Cassandra?” I thought I was just thinking the words, but they tumbled out of my mouth on the breath of a whisper.
He continues talking, and I hear the words "freshen up" and "coffee." I continue to nod my head, mumbling responses, aware of the men leaving, until it’s just Ghost sitting before me. He stands, holding out his hand to me.
My brain kicks in; he said something about carrying my bag. I start to feel my muscles relax slightly and move to hand it over to him. Our fingers brush over each other, and instead of feeling frightened, it is the first feeling of calm that I have felt in weeks. It's gone as quickly as it came, and the shock of the sensation has me pulling back a little. Looking at him, I try to work out who this man is that I’m going to be stuck with for God knows how long.
I have no choice but to trust him with my life, but it actually seems a little easier than I was imagining it to be, and that alone scares me.
I trusted Jason and look where that got me.
Stepping back from him, I know I need to be cautious. Not everyone in life is who they appear to be. That lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and it’s what has led me here.
Following him down the hallway, I feel like I’m in another world. Seven days ago, I was sitting on my bed trying to work out what I should do with the information that had consumed me since I'd come across it the night before. Now, fast forward a week, and I am in a house in the middle of nowhere, with a complete stranger who is walking around with a gun strapped to his chest. Yet for some reason, I feel safer here than I did that day in my bedroom. Shaking, I was so petrified, trying to work out what I should do.
“Here you go. Take your time. Lock the door so you can relax.” Placing my bag on the floor, Ghost leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Again, I am surrounded by silence, and I don’t like it.
“Cassandra, lock the door.” His deep voice comes through the door between us.
Oh yeah, that’s me he’s talking to. Fumbling with the slide bolt on the door, it clicks into place, and I hear his footsteps echoing on the floor as he heads back down the hallway.
Leaning with my back against the door, I take in my surroundings. It’s not like a five-star hotel, but it’s clean and functional which is all I need. All white tiles with a strip of green around the top. The shower is over the bathtub, with a shower curtain with green leaves on it. An old white pedestal sink that could have been here as long as the house, even though the décor looks a little newer. The toilet is tucked in the corner of the room. It’s basic but right now looks like heaven, to be able to shower and wash away the last twenty-four hours.
Flashes of everything start replaying in my mind, and I can feel my chest tightening. Tears are building, and the panic is racing, knowing that I finally might break down like I have been trying not to do since I walked into the FBI office. Grabbing my bag, I rummage through for the small toiletries bag I packed. Nothing flashy, just soap, shampoo and conditioner, my toothbrush, toothpaste, and my sanitary products. The rest I can survive without, I’m sure.
I look around to make sure there is a towel hanging somewhere. My breathing is getting faster, and the tears escape my eyes and roll down my cheeks.
Stripping off my clothes and starting the shower, the warm water invites me to step into the bath, and I pull the curtain closed. It’s like my own hideaway from the world, and I’ve given my body permission to finally let go. Hot water now pelting onto my back, the first sob comes out, and I wrap my arms around myself, lowering myself onto my knees in the bath and letting my body release everything I have been holding in.
My body jerks with every sob, and the only thing that helps to soothe me is the massaging water that is falling onto my skin. Mixing with my tears, it washes them down the drain, like they aren’t needed here anymore.
I don’t know how long I’m in here, curled up in my little ball, but finally, I have run out of tears. I have no energy left to shed them.
Time to get on with it.
