Swallowing my sob, I push through the door.
Nothing’s changed in eight years except the photo of the Special Agent-in-Charge. The same beige walls, the same polished floors, the same armored door separating the reception area from the offices and interrogation rooms.
“Can I help you?” A man in his mid-forties dressed in a rumpled suit steps up behind the counter to peer at me. CID employees all wear civilian clothes, though they’re far from civilians. Warrant officers, mostly.
Help? I’m beyond help now.
I clear my throat and place my hands, palms down, on the tall desk between us. “My name is Sergeant First Class Natasha Winters. Second Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. Retired. Eight years ago, I accused five members of my squad of killing a civilian family in the Al Anbar Province of Iraq. I testified against them and was instrumental in their conviction and prison sentences. I’m here to recant my testimony and confess to those killings, as well as numerous war crimes over the course of almost fifteen years.”
The man’s eyes widened with every word. He reaches for his service weapon. “Don’t move.”
“I won’t. I’m unarmed.” Can he see my terror? How badly I want to run?
A buzzer sounds. I flinch as two other men—also in suits—rush into the lobby, weapons drawn.
“Turn around,” one of them snaps. “Hands behind your head. Interlace your fingers.”
I obey, then shiver as the cuffs tighten around my wrists. I pray West and his team know where Doc and Gladys are. My fate is sealed, but they still have a chance.
The full body search is humiliating, but it’s the loss of that single piece of heart-shaped glass that hits me the hardest.
One of the officers brings me into a windowless room with a single table and three chairs. “Wait here. Someone will be with you. Eventually.”
“No! I need to give you my confession now. Please!” His stare warns me that my time to make demands is over. Whatever happens now, the Army controls.
Doc
Gladys cried for ten minutes after Natasha said her goodbyes, then fell asleep against me. My hands and arms are almost completely numb, and my heart rate has been ticking up steadily.
The shot of glucagon they gave me to counteract the blood sugar crash is wearing off, but the insulin will stay in my system for another few hours. If I don’t get some sugar in my system, I won’t last long enough for them to kill me.
“Gladys?” I elbow her gently.
“Wha…?” She flinches, then shoves at me. I’m so dizzy, I go down. “Oh, shit. Hot Doc.”
I don’t bother trying to sit up again. It won’t go well.
“What’s wrong?” Narrowing her eyes at me, she leans closer. “You don’t look so good.”
“I need sugar. Or juice.” My strength is fading, fast. “Will they hear you if you bang on the door?”
Worry and fear deepen the lines across her forehead. “You want those assholes to come back in here?”
“Not much choice…if they don’t, I’ll slip into a coma. Please, Gladys. Try.”
“All those muscles and you can’t do it yourself?” She huffs, but wobbles to her feet. Her steps aren’t even, and her path to the door is anything but a straight line. Shit. She’s in bad shape too. Have they fed her? Given her any water?
Her fists don’t make much impact on the metal, but she’s got a set of lungs on her. “Get your asses down here right thisminute! Your mothers would be ashamed of you! Treating an old lady like this!”
“Thought you weren’t old?” I ask with a wink.
“I can be old when I want to be.” After a beat, she backs up quickly. “They’re comin’.”
The door bangs open, and Doherty glares at us. “Make that much noise again, bitch, and you’ll regret it.”
“Hey, asshole.” I roll onto my side. “If you don’t want to tell your Sergeant…that I died on your watch, get me…some fucking sugar.”
“Huh?”
