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“I can’t. That’s all I can tell you.” The kid started shaking his head over and over, finally seeming to realize how much danger he was in.
“You ever seen anyone burned?” Gage said. “I’m talking bad burns. The nerve endings never heal right. Not much anyone can do for you. The pain is constant. Agonizing. Debilitating. Morphine doesn’t even touch it.”
The kid made a pained noise, and the stink of urine bloomed in the cabin. He nodded. “Yeah, I seen a guy—guy burned all over. He’s the one who hired me. The one behind this job. I don’t know his name. He’s just this…this mean dude. Said he was with SEAL Team Four.”
Spencer stepped away from the fire. “Everyone on that team died.”
The kid shook his head. “I wish they had. This guy—he looks like he clawed his way out of hell, and not all of him came back.”
Gage leaned closer, touching the blade to the fake cop’s arm. “What does he want with Anna?”
“It’s not her. She’s just…she’s leverage. Her boss—Williams—the dude wants something from that old guy. We grabbed him, but Williams swears he passed the file to her. That’s all I know, I swear it. That’s it. Now he’s gonna kill me.”
Gage straightened. “No, now you’re going to take us to this house.” His phone beeped with a message. Gage ignored it. He was out to find Anna—that was all that mattered right now.
13
Boarded-up windows. One door, securely locked. And Anna was hungry. She had no idea how long she’d been here—it seemed like hours. Would her phone still be working? Had her message ever gone through, or was this a dead zone? She didn’t know, but she was starting to lose hope. Her head hurt, her stomach was knotted, and she needed to pee.
Looking around the dimly lit room, she wondered if she should bang on the door and ask to be taken to a bathroom. But she didn’t want them back in here. Alone, she was at least safe for now. She inspected the ties around her wrists again. They were tight, but her fingers hadn’t gone numb.
Shifting to her butt, she wiggled her legs, trying to get the circulation back into her feet. The door opened, and she froze. It was the fake cop—he’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, but she recognized his face. Dark hair cut short, a lot of muscle, dark eyes. He pulled out a knife, and she shrank back. He cut the ties on her wrists and ankles and motioned for her to stand. She did so, wobbling on half-numb feet.
Taking her arm, he pulled her with him and pushed her into a bathroom. “You have two minutes.” She tried to close the door, but he blocked it with a foot. “You now have one minute and fifty seconds.”
Heading to the toilet, she emptied her bladder as fast as she could. After she flushed, she washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and drank from the faucet. The water tasted brackish, but it was cold and wet, easing her thirst and taking the barest edge off her hunger. There was no towel, and bars shadowed the windows. She glanced around for anything she could use as a weapon—break the mirror and use the glass, maybe? But the guy stepped in and waved for her to come out. He grabbed her arm. She thought about pulling away, but why bother? Why not let them think she was defeated, passive? She needed to save her strength until the moment when she could make the most of it.
He put her back in the room and locked it, but he didn’t bind her hands or feet again.
She sank down on the mattress. It smelled stale, but it seemed clean enough. She hugged herself and tried to figure out what came next.
Her wrists stung from where the plastic had cut into her skin. Her feet were better—her jeans had protected her skin, and feeling had come back into her feet now that the plastic bands were gone. She wiped her face. The urge to give in to tears was strong. She hoped Romeo was doing better than she was.
Realizing that she was getting nowhere sitting here feeling sorry for herself, she stood on shaky legs and walked around the room. It took two laps for her to figure out that there wasn’t even a loose floorboard. She began another circuit, this time trying to feel for a hidden door or mechanism. But if there was anything like that, she wasn’t able to find it.
There was no way out.
Returning to the mattress, Anna curled into a ball. Exhaustion overtook her, and she fell into a nightmare-filled sleep.
* * *
She woke shivering. Sitting up, she saw a box on the floor near the door. When she inspected it, she found what appeared to be military rations, bottled water, and a woolen blanket. She wrapped herself in the blanket, then dragged the box back to the mattress and sat down.
It seemed like a lot of food—several packets of premade meals. Enough for a few days, if she was careful with it. That wasn’t good. She didn’t want to be here for days—or even hours. But she was hungry.
She chose a package labeled “Tuna,” opened it, and found crackers and some kind of pasta dish that might have bits of tuna inside. The food and water left her feeling better—but with her basic needs taken care of, her mind started bouncing all over the place as she tried to make sense of her situation. What did these men want from her? And what would they do to her when they found out that she couldn’t provide it?
She went back and leaned against the door, pressing her ear to the wood. She could hear voices on the other side. Oddly, one of them sounded like Coran.
“I already told you where to look for it.” Yes, that was Coran—sounding pissy and tired. Another voice answered, so low she couldn’t hear the words, but Coran’s voice rose with impatience in response. “Stop deluding yourself, Becks. You and I both know the truth—and the truth is sixteen should have died that day.”
The voices dropped, and Anna strained to hear. Who was Becks? Why was Coran here?
Coran’s voice lifted again, mocking now. “How else could you have survived? You ran, didn’t you?”
She heard a scream and jumped away from the door. She backed up until the wall stopped her.
The door opened, and a man came in. His skin had the glossy texture of someone who had been in a terrible fire—he’d lost eyebrows and eyelashes, and the skin that wasn’t glossy and smooth as melted candle wax was puckered and scarred. “Sit down, Miss Middleton,” he ordered.
