She’d been focused on what Bishop would do to her when she should have been focused on what the Black Knights could do.
24
Graham wasn’t a fan of confined spaces. And the damn tunnel dug down beneath the Chicago River always seemed to close in on him when he set foot inside it.
Too much weight pressed against the walls. Not enough sky showed above his head.
A tomb.
The hairs on his neck rose, but he refused to shudder. Instead, he kept his stare hard and mean and locked on the woman tied to the metal chair.
He might not be a fan of confined spaces. But he absolutely hated interrogation.
The entire process was antithetical to anyone who valued their humanity.
It took all that was good and sacred inside a man and stomped on it, leaving him wondering if what he’d pulled out of his interrogee’s mouth was worth the pieces of himself he’d lost in the process.
He’d only done it once before. Back in Syria. Back when he’d been a wet-behind-the-ears baby SEAL. Cocksure and cavalier. Still convinced his trident pin made him ten feet tall and bombproof.
His prisoner had been some mid-level terrorist with info Graham’s unit needed yesterday. And Graham…well…he’d followed orders. Played the hard-ass just like he’d been trained to do.
He’d gotten the intel.
But he still sometimes saw that man’s eyes at night. That broken look. That hollowness that said that prisoner’s soul had fallen through the cracks in his flesh while Graham had used his fists on him and…whatever else it took.
The thought of having to do the same to this woman, this…Black Widow, or Vivian Drake, or whatever she wanted to call herself, made his stomach heave until he regretted that fourth cream Danish. And the three that had preceded it.
Eight hours in the Bat Cave had left the blonde’s hair limp and clinging to her face. There was a smudge of dirt on her jaw. And, despite the coolness of the cavern, sweat dotted her brow.
But her chin was up like a queen sitting on her throne. And he’d swear her nostrils flared like she was breathing in hellfire.
Not that he was surprised by her bravado.
Ozzie had used his hacker magic to conjure up the intel on her and her team. Which meant they now knew the woman wasn’t your average, everyday hired gun.
Vivian Drake, aka Black Widow, had spent ten years with the CIA working as a swallow, a female agent trained to seduce information out of foreign marks. But somewhere along the line, seducing had turned to killing. And she hadn’t stopped, even when the agency had ordered her to.
Which is when they’d given her the boot.
Now…she was Graham’s problem.
Boss’s problem too.
They needed to drag Bishop’s identity out of her. Unfortunately, she’d been through the same course on advanced interrogation techniques that they had. And that meant this would be more difficult than it might have been otherwise.
Unless they could find the right button to push. The right leverage to use.
“So,” Boss finally drawled after they’d exhausted their intimidation technique of looming and glowering. “How would you like us to proceed, Miss Drake?”
Graham saw it. A flicker. Just the barest tick of her lashes when Boss used her real name.
“Oh, yes.” Boss stepped closer, deep voice thick and edgy, like honey dripping over a sharpened blade. “We know all about you. Recruited straight out of college. Top marks at Camp Peary. Worked in Moscow, Kyiv, Damascus, and D.C.”
Graham saw her jaw tighten behind the duct tape. But that was the only indication she gave that Boss’s words hit a nerve.
“Struck out on your own after the spooks cut you loose,” Boss continued. “Been doing wet work for anyone willing to pay your fee for the last six years. And now, here you are, because Bishop promised you a paycheck.”
Bishop.
