The four of them work quickly, cutting the zip ties around my ankles, stripping off my boots and jeans, then replacing them with gray uniform pants and scuffed black shoes.
My arms are so stiff, when they free my wrists, I can only watch as they cut off my Henley and force me into a gray, button down shirt. Fucking hell. It’s a prison guard uniform.
So that’s the play. Get me into the prison and…what? Make it look like Natasha killed me? Then this Colonel can kill her and no one will think twice about it.
The zip ties are replaced by thick, heavy flexi-cuffs. They’re not taking any chances. These, I’m not sure even McCabe could break.
But this time, when they shove me back into the tub, I have a purpose. I don’t need to get free. With four of them in the next room, even if I could, there’s nowhere to go. They’d just tie me up again. All I have to do is keep my muscles loose. When they get me to the prison—when I see Natasha again—I need to be able to fight.
Natasha
The constanttick, tick, tickof the clock is now my least favorite sound. It counts down the minutes until Bastian and some nameless, faceless Colonel try to kill me and the man I love. It’s almost six. The police will be here any minute.
Hastings moves to the door and presses the intercom button. “We’re done here. Bring in the affidavit.”
I fiddle with the hem of my tank top. My life is over. Everything that wasmineis gone. Soon, I’ll have to give up these clothes too.
Someone bangs twice. Hastings opens the door, accepts a thick, brown envelope, and shuts it again.
He makes a big show of pulling out the stack of paper. “Your crimes. Sign and initial where indicated.”
My hand shakes as I pick up the pen. “What happens next?”
I know…most of it. But I need to hear him say it. If only to give my panicked mind something to focus on as I sign my name to so many of Bastian’s heinous acts.
“The D.C. police are waiting to take you into custody. Given the time of day, you won’t be arraigned until tomorrow—at the earliest.” Hastings jabs his finger at the first little yellow flag where I’m supposed to sign. “Hurry up. They won’t be happy if they have to work overtime, and their shift ends in an hour.”
My tears spill over, dotting the paper. Will I even be alive by this time tomorrow? And what about Doc? If Hidden Agenda can’t get into the correctional facility, is there any way we survive this?
Ten minutes later, I’ve signed and initialed every page of that damn document. All of Bastian’s crimes…they’re mine now.
Hastings calls another warrant officer to join him, and they escort me back through the secured metal door to the reception area.
“Natasha Winters.” A uniformed D.C. police officer approaches with a set of cuffs in his hand. “We have a warrant for your arrest. Turn around.”
The metal snaps around my wrists. I’m unprepared for how helpless I suddenly feel.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to be present during questioning. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”
A tear trails down my cheek. I can’t even wipe it away. “Y-yes. I do.”
A dull roar fills my ears. The officers exchange a few words with Hastings, then the younger one—his name tag says Hill—takes my arm.
The squad car smells like stale coffee and sweat. I can’t brace myself when I sit down. Can’t put on my own seatbelt. Can’t rub my eyes. I’m so hungry. The last thing I ate was a protein bar while Doc and I were waiting to board the plane.
Outside the dirty window, the city passes by in a blur. People stroll along the sidewalks, oblivious to how precious their freedom should be. I squeeze my eyes shut.
There’s a plan. Graham got into CID. He wasn’t even in the Army. They’ll find a way.
At the station, another officer enters my passport and the heart-shaped piece of sea glass into inventory before I’m fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell with four other women. Two are obviously here for solicitation. Theother is high as a kite. My hands are cuffed—in front of me this time—and I sit on a well-worn bench, not making eye contact with anyone. Five minutes turns into ten. Then twenty. I’m starting to wonder if they plan on keeping me here all night. But they can’t get to me here. It’s too public.
Finally, two officers amble up to the cell.
“Winters! Your ride is here. Stand and approach the door.”
I do as I’m told, but flinch when they snap a pair of leg irons around my ankles, then add a belly chain and lock the handcuffs to my waist. I wasn’t planning on running. Beingunableto…it’s enough to send me into a full-blown panic.
“I won’t make any trouble,” I say quietly, keeping my head down.
