He stands abruptly and adjusts his tie. “Corporate security will handle you when they arrive. Until then, you sit here and think about the consequences of choosing to slander an innocent by spreading lies and damaging our reputation in the community.”
He gestures at the guards. “Don’t let her out of your sight,” he says as he walks out the door.
Despite his harsh words, something shifts inside me. A fierce resolve spreads through my mind. There is more going on here than meets the eye. I can just feel it. Plus, they wouldn’t be afraid if I weren’t onto something.
Time drags a bit after Hanley leaves. The guards stand near the door with their arms crossed, looking both bored and irritated at the same time. The tension in this room is palpable. I just hope Slate got the message I sent before I got rid of my phone. I’m pleased I threw my phone away—when Hanley’s goons finally caught up with me the first thing they did was search my bag. I told them I’d left my phone with the friend who drove me here. The fact that it’s just me here means that Rivera has managed to avoid capture.
So help should be on the way. I just need to hold on long enough for Slate and his club brothers to arrive.
Eventually we hear footsteps echoing in the hall. The steps are heavier than Hanley’s. And they seem to be moving with purpose. Even the guards react, straightening and adopting a more formal pose.
The door opens and three men walk in wearing dark suits that do nothing to hide the fact that their bodies were built for breaking people. They all have broad shoulders, stern expressions and stiff military posturing. Corporate security is code for REACH’s personal cleanup crew.
The tallest stands in front of me and rests his hands on the table, clearly trying to be intimidating. The name tag dangling around his neck says ‘Marc M’. He scans my face with the attitude of someone who’s used to people folding under his stare.
I don’t lower my eyes, because if I do, he’ll just crank up the intimidation. “Hello, Marc.”
“Christina Lane,” he says. “I know exactly who you are.”
I don’t respond because these guys are supposed to be professionals at getting information out of people. I want to pace myself and carefully choose my words.
He studies my reaction for a moment, then says, “You’re making this complicated. You made our security contractor track you down. You withheld stolen data. And now you walk into one of our facilities and try to get into our secured area.” His voice carries a note of raw power. These are the kind of men who believe their power is absolute.
I hold his stare. “Your company was hired to provide food and water to hard-to-reach areas. Then you triple charged for supplies that were sometimes not even delivered.”
“We did our job to the best of our ability and anytime we operated outside of parameters it was with express consent of the US military.”
“Then why did my investigation provoke such a wildly disproportionate response?”
Rolling right past my questions, he tells me in no uncertain terms, “You are going to deliver that flash drive to me. You’re also going to tell me if you duplicated it and who, if anyone, you shared the information with.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” I say defiantly.
He doesn’t blink. “You will. Trust me on that.”
I feel my panic rising, but I clamp down on it. I’ve survived a bomb blast, a coma, and childbirth, virtually all alone. Not to mention being on the run from the asshole they sicced on me while I had a baby in my arms. I survived waking up every day not knowing if I would make it to the next. These men might scare people easily, but fear does not rule my world anymore.
“We need to transport her,” another one says from near the door. “There’s an off-site location two hours away. It has fewer eyes.”
“Good idea,” Marc responds. “She’ll talk faster once she realizes she is completely isolated.”
They exchange glances. They’re making plans that pull me farther from Katie and a potential rescue by Slate—that’s if hegot my text—and maybe farther from any chance of surviving what comes next.
He steps back. “Let’s take a minute to regroup.” Glancing at one of the two security guards, he orders, “Prep the vehicles for extraction.”
The three of them walk out, the second guard in tow. I get excited because that only leaves one guard to monitor me and he’s already pulling out his cell phone and sticking in his ear buds. I plan to take full advantage of his distraction if I can and start looking around for ways to escape the room.
I immediately notice the ceiling tile above the table I’m sitting at has a thin line of dust along its edge. It is out of alignment by a hair. Someone must have opened it recently for maintenance. It only takes me a second to realize I can stand on the table and maybe get into the ceiling and hide or make my escape into another part of the building.
I slide the chair back a few inches with my foot. The guard left behind glances up, then immediately returns to his phone. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t see me slowly get to my feet.
While he’s otherwise occupied, I choose that moment to snatch up all my courage and put one foot on the chair, then my opposite foot on the table and brace my weight as I reach for the ceiling tile. My fingertips hook the edge and the panel lifts, making a whisper soft sound.
The guard laughs at something on his phone, but he still doesn’t look up. I hear tinny sounding music and glance over at him. I can see a topless woman dancing on his screen. Thankful that the guard is more interested in porn than doing his actual job, I quickly push the tile aside and pull myself upward. I haulmyself through the square opening to find the crawlspace is dark, cramped, filled with cables and metal braces. I pull myself inside and slide the tile back into place with a barely audible swishing noise. It lands almost flush.
Within seconds, shouts rise from the room below.
“What the fuck! Where is she?”
