“We tried.” West pops the top off a Thermos, and the scent of coffee fills the van. “By the time we got there, the basement wasempty. Nothing but a busted zip tie, an empty can of Coke, and a small pool of blood on the floor.”
I drop the fry back into the bag. “Shitsicles. He was too sick to fight them.”
“Sick?” West straightens, his eyes narrowing on me. “Sick, how?”
“They injected him with insulin. On the plane. He said that’s how they separated him and Nat.”
“Fuck. They could have killed him. Ford? Call Joey. We need to know how long Doc’s going to be compromised. And what we might need to do for him when we get him back.” West pulls a tablet out of the bag at his feet and fixes his hard stare on me. “We need to know every single thing those fuckers said from the moment they took you.”
Natasha
Hastings stopped trying to hide his contempt hours ago—when I told him thatChris and Ikilled an entire family outside of Albaghdadi because the husband wouldn’t hand over a shipment of opium. Every time I have to implicate Chris, I want to throw up. Killing him wasn’t enough. Bastian is determined to ruin him, even in death.
Hastings hasn’t given me a break. Or any water. I’m dehydrated, exhausted, and terrified. For all I know, he’s working with Bastian. My testimony has to be perfect. But I only had five hours to memorize four pages of information. Ryker taught me some memory tricks that helped, but I’m sure I’m forgettingsomething.
He folds his hands on the desk and stares at me. “Let’s go over it all again.”
I sink my fingers into my hair, tugging at the strands until the pain helps me focus. “We’ve been over everything twice already. What else do you expect me to say? Nothing’s changed. If you give me that computer, I’ll access my bank account in the Maldives. There’s five hundred thousand dollars in it. All I have left. You can see the deposits I made when I was in Iraq.”
I want to scream at him.“It’s Bastain’s account. Bastian’s blood money.”But I can’t. It—like all his other crimes—officially belongs to me now.
Hastings arches his brows. “I’m not letting youtoucha computer.”
“Well, then we’re about to spend two more very boring hours going over the same exact information we’ve already covered. Twice.”
“If you have somewhere to be,” he says, “you won’t make it. At six, the D.C. police will arrive to take you to booking. From there, you’ll be processed and sent to the Correctional Treatment Facility until your arraignment on multiple counts of felony murder and war crimes. As those are capitol offenses, you won’t breathe free air for the rest of yourveryshort life. You don’t have a choice here, Winters. If I want you to go over it all again, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “Can I at least have some water?”
“No. Start from the beginning.”
I lick my lips. Or try to. This is my life now. Doing what I’m told. No freedom. Nothing of my own. Ofme. Someone will tell me when to eat, when to sleep, when to shower, when to take a piss. And when to die.
Before I can manage enough strength—mental or physical—to say a word, someone raps solidly on the door.
Hastings locks his laptop and stands as the door opens behind me. “Mr. Hastings, you’re needed in the Chief’s office.”
If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d weep at the man’s voice. As it is, when Hastings stalks out and Graham takes the seat across from me, I can barely stop myself from reaching for his hand. He passes me a bottle of water, and I down half of it before I lift my gaze to his.
“Winters, you’re in some serious shit.” He taps his tablet, turns it around, and slides it across the table to me. “This is the list of crimes you’re about to be charged with. Read it.”
“Wh-what?”
“Read. It.” Though his voice doesn’t soften, his eyes do, and I glance at the document on the screen. I have to squint; the text is fuzzy.
“This is Ripper. We don’t have a lot of time and we can’t hack the cameras here. But this font is unreadable at any distance greater than three feet. Each message will last twenty seconds.”
The words fade away, and another paragraph appears.
“Gladys is safe. Doc got her out. But he couldn’t escape with her. His GPS tracker died early this morning, so we have no idea where he is.”
Tears spill onto my cheeks. He could be anywhere by now. Or…nowhere.
The second message disappears. I glance up at Graham to find his gaze pinned on the door. Oh, shit. Hastings could come back at any time.
“We can get you out of there right now. Tell Graham you want a lawyer and refuse to sign the affidavit. But that’ll make it harder for us to find and get to Doc. If you stay, you’ll be arrested, processed, and sent to the CTV for violent offenders. We think that’s where they’re planning on getting to you.”
Shit. He doesn’t need me convicted. He just needs my confession.
