“I hear it speeds the healing process. So, stop worrying, and let’s go get your girl back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Brett was coming for her. Ellis knew it. Felt it on a cellular level. Something hot-wired into her psyche. A quiet confidence that settled inside her with the soul-deep knowledge that he was close. No questions, no doubts. It was a simple fact.
Just like she realized something was wrong. That McCormick wasn’t playing the game the way she’d anticipated. Ellis wasn’t sure how she knew. If it was the muffled sounds in the background. Voices. More than there should be if he was planning on interrogating her for information about the files then killing her. McCormick didn’t do witnesses. Didn’t subscribe to having extra manpower. A few well-trained, loyal men. That’s all. So hearing over a dozen different voices was off.
Or maybe it was the fact she was sprawled across a mattress on the floor, hands bound in front of her instead of behind. She should be tied to a chair, the asshole who’d drugged her looming over her. Making threats. Maybe working her over a bit, first, so she’d be more likely to talk. True, even if they had tied her to a chair, she wouldn’t have been coordinated enough to do more than slump against the restraints. She wasn’t sure what they’d given her, but it felt a hundred times stronger than whatshe’d had previously. When they’d wanted her conscious, yet complacent. Now…
It was like attempting to swim upstream. White water crushing her backwards. Pushing against her every attempt to gain ground. Just keeping her eyes open for more than five seconds took all her strength. All her focus. Forget moving her arms or legs. They simply twitched whenever she tried. Sent shooting pain up her spine to explode in her head. Not that looking around would have helped. All she could distinguish were extreme contrasts—black versus white. Everything else was just gray. Nondescript. Even time was a distant concept. She existed as either awake or not. In pain or not.
Ellis faded, resurfaced seconds, minutes, maybe days later. Still on the mattress. Still surrounded by a field of gray. Shouldn’t Brett be here by now? Had they discovered she had a second tracking device on her—in her, actually? Were they jamming the signal? Completely isolating her? Was it even functioning? Her only other backup plan had been infecting McCormick’s computer with a virus when she accessed the files. One that would send his IP address to Brett’s phone. Give them one last way to pinpoint her location. But so far, she hadn’t moved off the mat. Hadn’t even seen McCormick since the exchange.
Her instincts were right. This was bad. Some of the fuzzy feeling had lifted—allowed her to listen more closely. Scraping sounds. Like men moving boxes. A low horn signaled in the distance—three times.
A boat. Leaving the harbor. The answer manifested more than her puzzling it out. Just appeared out of the fog inside her head. They were at a pier. Brine. She smelled it, now. Heavy in the air. Infused on the mattress beneath her head. Definitely close to the water.
Was McCormick going to dump her in the ocean? Without grilling her? Even barely conscious that sounded wrong. The man wouldn’t leave evidence around that could crucify him. He wasn’t stupid. Excelled at executing strategic moves. Simply killing her was a tactical mistake. Unless…
This was part of a larger plan—one she hadn’t even considered. Like moving his base of operations. That would explain the extra men. The noise. Why they were at the harbor. What if he was loading everything onto a boat and bugging out? Going somewhere the accusations against him wouldn’t matter? Would go unchecked? It made a weird kind of sense. Avoiding airports or other means of travel. Just sail off into the darkness. And once he reached international waters, he’d be free.
Ellis needed to get the hell out of there.
She tried to move her fingers—gasped against the surge of pain behind her eyes. The sense of shattering inside her head. It sent bolts of blinding white light flashing behind her eyelids, searing everything from her thoughts but breathing. Air in. Air out. Until it eased—allowed her to open her eyes, again.
More shapes, now. Four walls and a door—small square window near the top. Some kind of mesh inside the glass. There was a ratty blanket down by her feet. A bucket in the far corner. For a moment, she flashed back five years—black ops site. Waking up just like this. Spending every day and night chained to the damn wall until she’d caved. Broken.
It hadn’t seemed like that at the time. More like a choice to keep living. But she knew that wasn’t the case, here. There were no second chances with McCormick. She’d burned the only bridge she’d had. It was either escape, or die.
She tried, again. More pain. More white streaks. Not quite as blinding. As debilitating. A few more attempts, and she succeeded in pushing onto her elbow long enough to scoot back—brace her shoulders against the wall. It wasn’t much. Wouldn’t save her ass, but damn it felt like a massive victory.
Were those footsteps? Coming toward the door? They stopped outside. A shadow passed in front of the window. Large. Obviously tall based on the positioning. There was a metallic scraping sound, then the handle rattled. Turned.
She held her breath, wondering if she could find the strength to push to her feet. Defend herself. Or if pretending she was still out would give her an edge.
The tumbler disengaged, then the door cracked open.
Stand? Sleep?
She couldn’t make up her mind. Couldn’t follow one train of thought long enough to take a course of action. As if the messages got interrupted. Erased before her limbs could process the instructions. Just like in Brett’s bedroom that first night. Frozen in place.
A creak, more space, then it stopped. Just stopped several inches open. The door remained like that, more voices shouting in the background—English. They were definitely speaking English even if her brain couldn’t quite understand the words—before it slammed shut. The sharp tap of boots rushing away.
She had to move. Now. It was her only chance. Get up and out the door before someone else came to check on her. All she had to do was stand.
More pain. Burning through her legs as she dragged them out in front of her. Took her three tries just to bend her knees—scrape her heels back. She managed to scoot her butt toward the wall, actually sit straight.
The room swam a few times. Left, then right. Tilting on a forty-five before finally leveling out. She let it settle, palming both hands on the floor once it had stabilized—pressing against the concrete as she leaned forward. Her balance shifted, nearlytipping her onto her face, but she managed to slide her arms forward—catch herself.
Her hands levering on the concrete got her fully upright. Swaying, but upright. True to form, they’d left her in only her underwear. No shoes. No socks. The mattress cold beneath her feet. In fact, everything was cold. The air, the wall, her skin. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed it before, but it was impossible to ignore, now.
Just more motivation to get moving instead of standing there, shivering. Waiting for her core temperature to drop. Incapacitate her further.
Ellis took a step, teetered then slammed backwards into the wall. Sent shooting pain through her shoulders and back. She rested for a moment, tried to square her hips more, then tried, again. She got off the mattress before her knees buckled, this time. Dropped her in a heap on the floor.
This fall drew blood. Cut a line down her arm. At least the cold helped numb it. Stopped the bleeding fairly quickly. Only left a smear on the floor when she dragged herself across it to the far wall by the door. Not how she’d planned on getting there, but the end result was all that mattered.
Another few minutes of levering off her bound hands, using the wall as a brace, and she was standing, again. Gathering her strength to try the door. She didn’t know if it was locked. She hadn’t heard one engage after the guy had suddenly left, but that didn’t mean much. She hadn’t been able to process what was being shouted in the background, so not hearing a lock tumble wouldn’t be surprising.
