“You shot me up with insulin, idiot.” A tremor wracks my body. The single bulb overhead takes on a halo. Shit. I’m losing focus. “Glucagon doesn’t last…long enough. Sugar. Now.”
For a moment, he actually looks scared. But he turns on his heel and races up the stairs. “Allan! Get me a can of pop! And a candy bar! The doctor’s crashing again!”
They didn’t shut the door. Gladys looks at me, questions in her eyes.
“Don’t risk it. Not…yet.”
After almost a minute, two sets of heavy footsteps come back down. Doherty has a can of Coke in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. Collins is right behind him. No Sutton this time. Is he still in the building?
“Stop,” Collins barks, stopping Doherty in his tracks. “Give the shit to granny. He could be fucking with us.”
“Do I look…like I’m fucking with you?” It’s getting harder to force my tongue to work, but I add a little extra slur to the words for good measure. If they underestimate me, I might find an opening. Later. When I’m not minutes away from hypoglycemic shock.
Gladys takes the soda and eases herself down next to me with a symphony of pops and groans. “Next time you kidnap a senior citizen, take their arthritis medicine with you,” she mutters.
The first sip of the sugary drink makes me want to gag, but I force half of it down before I close my eyes. “Gonna need more in a couple of hours, assholes.”
Collins whispers, “Is he serious?”
“Do your fucking research next time. Insulin…is serious shit.”
The two men leave, slamming the door hard enough to make Gladys flinch. She scoots closer, and the candy bar wrapper rustles. “Eat some of this, Doc.”
With my hands still bound, she has to feed it to me, and the longing look she gives the chocolate is too much after a couple of bites. “You need to eat too.”
“I won’t die without sugar. You will.” Her voice cracks, and she licks her dry lips.
“Gladys, finish the damn candy bar. I’ll be okay.”
More than okay, I hope. Because now, I know these guys don’t want me to die before their boss is good and ready. And I can use that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Natasha
The clockon the wall ticks loudly. They’ve let me stew here for more than two hours. No water, no coffee, nothing but four beige walls, a dark wood table, and hard metal chairs.
At least they took the cuffs off. But my butt aches from sitting for so long. I’m not willing to risk pacing. Someone might decide I need to be restrained.
The door lock buzzes, and I stifle my yelp. Shit.
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
“Natasha Winters. I’m Warrant Officer Hastings.”
“Sir.” I know better than to stand and salute, though the urge is still there.
Hastings sets a laptop down on the table, pulls out his chair, and unbuttons his suit jacket. “I’ve been reviewing your testimony from eight years ago. Sergeant First Class Chris Bowers corroborated your story back then. Some reason he would do that?”
“He…he was in on the whole thing. His wife had cancer. He needed the money.” My eyes burn. Marisol made a full recovery.If the Army wanted to, they could cut off his death benefits now. She needs them. But no one would believe I did everything alone. Bastian is going to ruin Chris’s memory along with my life.
“You disappeared after the verdict against Montgomery Bastian, Allan Collins, Dylan Sutton, Ethan Doherty, and Robert Bowen. You haven’t renewed your driver’s license or passport since. You haven’t collected a single pension check. No parking tickets, credit cards, or student loans. So…why come in at all? Why not stay gone?”
I fiddle with the hem of my tank top. Bastian’sinstructionsdidn’t cover this.
“I couldn’t live with myself any longer. The nightmares. What I did to Sarge and the others. They didn’t deserve any of it.” A single tear slips down my cheek.
No, they deserved all of it. And more.
