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Sherlock Holmes, her favorite fictional character. While he might be imaginary, he’d taught her more about solving problems than most of her glorified education.
That story was meant as a message; Beatrice loved irony. Of course she’d pick the plot where Holmes died. At least until Conan Doyle resurrected his character to pacify enraged fans.
Would this prison break be her final problem? Would she die trying to leave this god-awful place?
Vivi scratched her neck. There was no collar there, no chains around her wrists or ankles—at the moment—yet, she felt like a caged dog. The government wanted what was in her head. What had happened that night in Berlin. They assumed they knew, and had labeled her a traitor. If they couldn’t uncover the details, figure out how vulnerable they were because of her, she was worth nothing more to them than this.
In the wrong hands, the intel in her mind palace could bring down the United States.
For the past long, lonely six months, she could have been helping people, operatives and those dealing with extremely sensitive matters. Those with PTSD and other career-based issues. But no, they’d stuck her here. Out of sight, out of mind, until she’d lose hers.
That’s what happened to folks who committed treason against their country. Who didn’t cooperate when caught and interrogated.
If they decided she was too much of a liability, she’d never stand a chance against whatever assassin they sent for her. She was a sitting duck.
But breaking out of here?Impossible.
Unless…
She slid off the flimsy, stinky mattress and toed the corner of the book. Something had been wedged inside the pages.
When she stepped lightly on the binding, it didn’t explode or leak gas, like in the old TV shows. A crazy thought, but Command & Control, the elite directorate inside NSA that didn’t exist on paper, was capable of such Mission Impossible theatrics. Beatrice probably was, too.
Bending down, she gave it a sniff. Nothing out of the ordinary; it simply smelled like an old book that had sat on a library shelf for too long.
A glance through the bars assured her no one was outside watching. Cameras were everywhere, though, and paranoia and a racing heartbeat made her use her foot to slide it farther into the room’s shadows and under the bed.
Returning to her one spot of comfort, feeble as it was, she lay down and listened to the sounds around her. A guard paced the second floor where her cell was located. Prisoners on the south wall murmured through the bars to each other. The HVAC system keeping the temperature at a generous seventy-five degrees year round hummed in the background.
The guard told the talkers to shut up, but once he was gone, they continued their conversation for another few minutes.
After half an hour, the rustles and creaks of those settling in for the night ceased. A few folks snored. Others flicked on contraband lights and read or did puzzles.
Vivi slid the book from its hiding place and tucked it into bed with her. A tiny packet fell from the pages.
Inside were three gummy bears and a note. The scent of lime hit her nostrils and the memory of a man filled her head. She nearly dropped the packet and the slim edition, closing her eyes against the onslaught. His irises, as green as mountain forests, deepening with anger—or desire—to the color of the sea on a stormy day…
No. It wasn’t possible. Lt. Commander Ian Kincaid didn’t work for Beatrice. He was a SEAL who’d completed dozens of missions in counterterrorism and special reconnaissance.
It couldn’t be him.
While her mind spun with the scenarios this presented, she considered the facts. Even if Beatrice had recruited him for this precise mission, he would have refused. The only time he’d ever failed since Vivi had been his assigned therapist was because of her. That night in Berlin.
Thing was, he didn’t even know it.
He thought she was dead. The rest of the world believed she’d died that night, as well. That a traitor had gotten what she deserved.
Somedays Vivi felt like they were right. Stuck in this place, she might as well be dead and buried.
With trembling fingers and racing pulse, she shifted, setting the candy aside and angling the note so one of the faded bars of light illuminated the block text written on it.
2300 hours.
Eat all three.
No less.
Then eat this note.
