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“I’m afraid my wife is in the ladies’ room.”
“Your wife is being handled,” smiled Abe. “She’s being handled, just like you handle all those sweet young girls that Quetz provides for you. In fact, I believe you’ve even been handed a few boys. Different for you, but if they look a certain way apparently, you’re all in.”
That brought him to attention. His eyes went wide, and he reached for his cell phone. Abe grabbed it, dropping it to the floor and smashing it with his heel.
“That was foolish,” said Garvin, swiping at his pant leg. “I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at what’s on there, or not on there.”
“Oh, we’ve already done that,” laughed Luke. “I think you forget who we are. Let’s go. We’ve got a date with the POTUS.”
Garvin held out hope that someone would come to his rescue. Right up until he was shoved into the backseat of the SUV. That’s when he looked up to see his wife in handcuffs, crying and screaming. The two women gripping her elbows were Amazons. Both tall, well-built, and one was covered in tattoos and piercings.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know! Just let me go!” she screamed.
He was screwed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Garvin had been tight-lipped since arriving at the interrogation room beneath the White House. He thought they’d give him the dignity of going through the front door, but instead took him through a dark tunnel and into the sub-basement level. Five secret service agents were waiting, snarling in his direction.
Somewhere down the hallway was his screaming wife. She would fucking sing like a little bird. He wondered exactly what she had hiding in her ‘secret location.’ Looking down at his hands chained to the table, he was trying to find a way to get out of the situation. When the president walked into the room, he knew he was screwed.
“Jon,” he said, frowning at the man.
“Mr. President, this is all a misunderstanding. I’d respectfully request that you tell these men to release me.”
“Respectfully? That seems an odd word to use for someone who swore to protect his country and its people, then turned around and betrayed us.” Garvin swallowed, suddenly realizing just how fucked he really was.
“You actually mentioned to us on the phone all the cool toys that the government uses from G.R.I.P.,” said Luke. “You would have thought someone who graduated at the top of his class at Annapolis, a former Blue Angel, would realize that our cool toys are everywhere. Shall I show you?”
“I don’t need the theatrics, Robicheaux. You and your fucking family. You’re all a bunch of inbred, muscle-bound thugs who ride the fine line of the law.” Gator reached across the table, gripping his throat.
“Watch your mouth, you piece of shit, or this inbred, muscle-bound thug will show you just how dangerous we are.” Releasing Garvin, he coughed, shaking his head.
“Let’s take a look,” smirked Luke.
Abe was watching the man closely to see the signs of which photos would make him squirm the most. The first were of him meeting Wolford and Quetzalcoatl. He just stared at the photos, not giving any emotion whatsoever. But it was the next few that made him start to squirm. Photo after photo of him with young girls and boys. Taking their hands and leading them into his vehicle or his condo.
Two photos showed him leading the young victims back out of his condo, bruised, crying, and clearly traumatized.
Garvin was running scenarios in his head. He was helping the children. They were disturbed already, and he was only attempting to support them. No. No, they wouldn’t buy any of that.
“How about this photo?” asked Luke. “Now, see, this one is really interesting to me. That is Polina Golubeva. A prima ballerina with the Moscow Ballet. Now, what in the world would you be doing having conversations with a ballerina?”
“I’m a fan of the arts,” he said quietly.
“Right, the arts,” frowned Luke. “Abe? Maybe you and your dumbass SEAL brain can explain to the admiral what we know.”
“Of course. My pleasure. Polina Golubeva, daughter of Anton Golubev, Admiral of the Russian fleet. Now, I’m just a stupid SEAL, inbred with my friends here, but I do believe that’s significant.”
“I knew her because I’d met her father at a few state events,” he snapped.
“We haven’t had Russian Navy personnel at a state event in more than ten years, Jon. You might want to rethink this approach of yours,” said the president. He said nothing, and Luke nodded at Abe.
“Anton Golubev has been attempting to get the technologies on the new Ohio-class submarines for the last five years. Those technologies, of course, belong to us. The dumb, inbred, muscle-bound criminals.” Abe turned to the others. “Did I get that right?”
“Thugs,” said Gator. “He called us thugs, but I suppose that’s the same as criminals.”
“Please, continue,” smirked the president.
