That brings out another hit from the big man. Same spot. The pain is worse this time, layered on top of the first blow, and I feel my eye starting to swell shut.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I have to push through it, I must. Put the pain in that box and wrap it the fuck up.
Of course, Julia doesn’t even blink. She’s impenetrable.
“Your mission parameters,” she says in a clipped voice. “I want them. Every directive London gave you, every piece of intelligence you’ve gathered, every communication channel you’ve used.”
I say nothing.
The next blow catches me in the ribs, right where I’m already bruised. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp and I double over as much as the restraints allow, fighting not to vomit all over myself.
“The names of your handlers in London. Your reporting structure. Any other operatives you’ve been in contact with.”
Silence.
Another hit. This one splits my lip open wider and I feel blood dripping down my chin, warm and copper-tasting.
Take the pain, shove it down, take the pain, shove it down.
Clear head, clear head, clear head.
Julia sighs like I’m being tedious.
“I admire your resolve, I really do. It’s so rare to find someone properly trained these days. And especially a woman at that, you know it fills me with a sense of misplaced pride. Tothink how good you could have been for our side.” She smiles stiffly. “But surely you understand that this ends only one way. You tell me what I want to know, or Keller keeps hitting you until there’s nothing left to hit.”
Keller. So the heavy has a name. Probably former ICE before it split from the DHS into its own band ofCall of Duty-cosplay hooligans. At least, judging by those tattoos and the mix of hatred and plain old stupidity in his eyes. The kind of man who hurts people because he’s good at it and because it’s the only thing that makes him feel powerful.
“Bet you like to be called Keller the Killer, huh?” I manage through swollen lips. “Does hurting women half your size make you feel better about your tiny dick?”
Keller’s face goes red. His fist drives into my stomach and I retch, bile burning up my throat, my vision going grey at the edges. When I can breathe again, Julia is crouched in front of me, her face level with mine.
“You’re wondering about your team,” she says after a moment. “You’re wondering why Adebayo Babatunde can’t hear you through your earrings. Why Yekaterina Alexeevna Morozova hasn’t come running.”
I go still, my heart lodged in my throat. Their names. She knows their full real names.
“Your friend Cal was careless. So eager to check on you that he didn’t notice the tail.” She stands, smoothing her trousers, and something cold settles in my stomach. “He led us straight to them. A safehouse in Hell’s Kitchen. Cramped little apartment. Terrible security.”
No. No, no, no.
“Bayo put up quite a fight, I’m told. Professional to the end.” She examines her nails, casual, like she’s discussing the weather. “Kat tried to run. She didn’t get far.”
“You’re lying.”
God, please, let her be lying. Kat never runs.
“Am I?” Julia pulls out her phone, taps the screen a few times, and holds it up for me to see.
Two bodies. A cramped kitchen. Blood on the linoleum.
I recognize Bayo’s jacket, Kat’s recently highlighted hair, now dark with…
The photo is grainy, taken from something like the body cam of the one who did it, but it’s enough.
The world starts to spin and all I want it to do is spin backwards.
Cal is dead. Bayo and Kat are dead. Everyone I came here with, everyone who trusted me, everyone who had my back, are gone.
