As I painfully force my eyes open, I feel like I have the worst hangover of my life. Blurred vision causes my stomach to churn, and my head pounds so violently it feels like it’s trying to split itself in two. The acrid smell of the room—mildew, sweat, and blood—floods my nostrils, only adding to the bile rising from my stomach.
I try to move, but my arms won’t budge. My wrists are lashed behind me, and my ankles are secured to the legs of the metal chair, the rough plastic restraints biting into my skin every time I move. The metal chair beneath me groans as I shift my weight, futilely trying to pull myself free.
Panic sparks in my chest before reason can catch up.
Where am I?
What happened?
The accident… The truck… Chris…
Chris.
My heart stutters at the memory of him hanging lifelessly from his seat. I suck in a shallow breath, fighting against the dizzying fog pressing against my skull. “Chris…” I whisper, but it’s barely a sound. My throat is raw, and my voice cracks as I say his name. The room stays silent.He isn’t here.
A single flickering bulb hangs from a wire overhead, its weak yellow light trembling with each pulse of electricity. The walls are bare concrete, stained with things I don’t want to imagine. Though the air is hot, goosebumps prickle over my skin as my mind drifts along that road anyway.
Heavy footsteps stomp purposefully down the hallway, and every terrifying thought about what is going to happen in this room amplifies tenfold. My pulse spikes, racing so hard that the woosh in my ears nearly drowns out my approaching company.
The door behind me clanks open, the hinges screaming as boots stomp into the room. “Still breathing?” a man with a slight southern accent asks without a hint of concern in his voice.
A hand snakes around my neck, fingers pushing against my pulse. “Apparently, they make reporters a little tougher than has-been Delta operatives.” He laughs darkly, the sound scraping across my nerves like sandpaper. Leaning closer, his breath blows over the back of my ear as he whispers, “Are you scared, sweetheart?”
Yes. Fucking terrified.
I swallow hard and lift my chin, telling myself not to show fear. As much as I deemed it unnecessary, Chris and the guys forced me to listen to what would happen if someone took me. All of them were adamant it wouldn’t happen,and it was just precautionary, but I think deep down we all knew it was a possibility. A real and distinct possibility. Chris’s voice echoes through my head, “Fear is a weapon you hand your enemy willingly.” I’m not going to load the gun for them; I refuse to give them that satisfaction.
In front of me, the men move, shadows taking shape beneath the light. Military uniforms, though no flags, insignia, or name tapes sewn onto them. Their faces are hard and expressionless.This isn’t their first rodeo.The taller one steps closer, his boots echoing on the concrete as he circles me like a predator assessing its prey. “You are the journalist,” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.
I stay silent.
He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You speak English, yes?”
“Yes,” I grit through his firm hold.
His grip tightens. “Then fucking answer me when I speak to you.”
Searing pain shoots down my jaw, but I hold his gaze. “What do you want?”
He lets go, practically shoving me from his hold. “We ask questions. You answer. Do it truthfully, and you get to go home.”
A nervous laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in me. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. Men who slaughter villages aren’t worried about the ramifications of murdering one lowly woman. “You expect me to believe that?”
He shrugs. “Depends on how long you make this difficult.”
Another man, who I didn’t know was in the room, moves behind me. I can feel his presence, close enough that his breath grazes my neck. My pulse jumps, every instinct screaming for me to get away, but the restraints hold tight when I tug at them. “Who did you tell about this village?” His voice is a deep, low growl that causes my skin to crawl.
I try to keep my face blank and my voice calm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My head whips sideways, the sting blooming hot across my cheek. The backhand came so fast I didn’t see it coming.
“Who did you tell?” the man behind me repeats, louder this time.
“No one,” I lie.
Another blow explodes across my face, blood filling my mouth when I bite the inside of my cheek. He steps closer, his dark eyes void of emotion as he stares down at me. “You think we don’t know who you are? Reese Thompson. You came here to write your little stories,” he pauses to swipe his thumb across my bloodied lip, “but you found something you shouldn’t have.”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to keep from trembling. “I don’t know anything.”
