Doc cut in: "Benzodiazepine family mixed with a mild stimulant. Interrogation special. Makes you suggestible, impairs motor control."
"But it metabolizes," Ronan added. "Three, maybe four hours."
"Sarah?" The word came out slurred, barely recognizable.
"She's unharmed," Zara said. "We're tracking both of you."
Alive. The relief hit him physically, followed immediately by rage. They had her because he hadn't been fast enough, strong enough.
The door opened. Two Stillwater contractors entered, not bothering to lower their voices.
"Senator wants him coherent enough to confess but not fight back."
"Tricky balance."
One produced a syringe. "Little more stimulant. Should do it."
The needle went into his arm.
Ronan's voice in his ear: "They're trying to hit the sweet spot. Functional but impaired."
"Like a very public drunk," Doc added. "Believable but controllable."
The new drug didn't clear his head—it made everything worse. They hauled him upright, and the room tilted wildly.
"Shower. Then clothes. Senator wants him presentable."
They cut the zip-ties, dragged him to a bathroom. Cold water, harsh soap, efficient handling. Griff tried to resist but his body wouldn't respond properly. Fine motor control gone. Speech slurred.
"Classic mistake," Ronan murmured in his ear. "Mixing uppers and downers. You'll start clearing in two hours."
Two hours. Could he protect Sarah if he couldn't even stand straight?
They dressed him in a suit—respectable but disheveled, the perfect image of a broken soldier. His shoulder screamed when they forced his arm through the jacket.
"Looking good, Hawkins.” Senator Buckley stood in the doorway, presidential and polished.
Griff tried to form words.
"Eloquent as always." Buckley smiled. "In ninety minutes, you'll confess to planning an assassination. The forensic accountant will be revealed as a Chinese intelligence recruit who seduced you. A grieving soldier manipulated by a greedy woman and foreign powers. The media will devour it."
Buckley turned to someone out of view. "Pemberton, you were right about White. She was getting too close."
David Pemberton stepped into view, immaculate in his Treasury Department suit. The same smug expression from the photos Sarah pulled up.
"Sarah always was too intense about the details," Pemberton said. "I tried to warn her, back when we were together. Some puzzles aren't meant to be solved."
Through the drugs, rage crystallized into something pure and sharp. This was the man who'd betrayed Sarah professionally and personally. Who'd built the financial architecture for mass murder.
"You're... dead," Griff managed to slur out.
Pemberton laughed. "Yeah. Not exactly, bro. I'm going to be a hero. The financial advisor who discovered the terrorist plot, who helped stop Knight Tactical's conspiracy. While you and Sarah..." He shrugged. "Yikes."
Buckley nodded approvingly. "David's been invaluable. Hisfinancial expertise helped us identify your team's funding sources."
"She'll... destroy you," Griff forced out.
"Sarah?" Pemberton's smile was condescending. "I don’t think so. She’s great with spreadsheets, I'll admit. But this is the real world. She never understood how things actually work."
