Page 87 of Winterveil

“They were able to escape the raid on the lodge,” replied Deckard, and Nadiya had no idea if he was telling the truth. The last she remembered seeing of Giselle was her throwing off her covers and screaming. Had she and Klaudia really managed to get away? Or was this another layer of manipulation?

“Unfortunately,” Deckard went on, “you two were captured, and you didn’t have a chance to grab your L-pills.”

“You pulled us out of the bed in the middle of the night, asshole,” Julian snapped.

Deckard ignored the invective. “If you’d kept your L-pills on your person, you would be able to die honorably for your country without divulging national secrets. And you would be able to avoid the unpleasant part that comes next.”

Nadiya’s stomach hollowed. “You’re not serious.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Deckard’s face.

“I am,” he said. “But because I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll offer you a bargain. If one of you gives up your information without protest, you will walk free, while the other remains imprisoned.”

“So you want us to sell the other out,” Nadiya said angrily.

“It’s a common negotiating tactic.”

Nadiya looked over at Julian, noticing the way his throat pulsed when he swallowed. He met her gaze and then glanced away, almost shamefully. Was he considering it? Admittedly, she was considering it. Deckard had clearly done this on purpose—taken the two members of their foursome who had the least sympathy between them. The ones who would be the most likely to give the other up.

It was a classic prisoner’s dilemma. Defection was the dominant strategy.

Klaudia’s words echoed. No matter what they offer you, never defect. Trying to pit us against each other is only to their benefit. And then: But that’s assuming the police are truthful about their intentions. In this circumstance, it’s never safe to assume that.

Deckard could be lying. He had certainly misled them before. Nadiya bit down hard on her lower lip, thoughts jumbled.

Beside her, Julian lifted his head. He met Deckard’s gaze unflinchingly and said, “Fuck you.”

Nadiya was so surprised to hear the words she almost laughed. Julian Joyce-Young III, a martyr for the cause? It seemed impossible, and it made her feel ashamed to not have spoken first. She was surely more principled than Julian.

“Very well,” Deckard said. He gestured to the black-clad men. “Then the next phase begins.”

The men descended on them, hauling Nadiya to her feet. They took her by the arms again, pressing her between them, and marched her out of the room. She was rushed down a metal corridor. Behind her, she heard Julian cursing, struggling against his captors.

They came to a pair of adjoining rooms, all four walls made of glass. Nadiya’s wrists were uncuffed, and she felt a brief flicker of relief before she was shoved inside the room on the left. She fell to her knees, catching herself on her hands before her face could hit the floor.

Julian was thrust into the room next door. He was perfectly visible through the shared wall of glass, but the rooms must have been soundproofed, because she could only see his mouth moving noiselessly.

Static crackled from the speaker on the ceiling, followed by the deafening whine of microphone feedback. Deckard’s voice cut through.

“My offer still stands,” he said. “Any time you want to walk free, just say the word.”

Nadiya watched Deckard through the glass, taking in the hard lines of his frame, the unyielding set of his jaw, the face that held no emotion at all. He was the perfect gray man, the perfect clandestine officer. Hardly human at all, just an extension of the CIA’s will.

Hatred made her blood run hot in her veins. Deckard turned and vanished down the corridor without even a glance over his shoulder.

Nadiya turned to Julian. Defiance flashed in his green eyes. It almost satisfied her to see it.

How long would Deckard keep them here? Would he starve them of food, of water, of sunlight, until they were broken enough to defect? For all his bravado now, Nadiya couldn’t imagine Julian Joyce-Young III, privileged golden boy that he was, enduring that kind of indignity for very long.

The speakers crackled again. Both she and Julian looked up.

A desperate, panicked sobbing filled the glass cell. Nadiya stiffened, bewildered. It took her a moment to recognize the sound, distorted as it was by static. It was only when the weeping turned to a high-pitched wail that Nadiya understood.

Giselle. It was Giselle’s voice, crying, screaming.

Nadiya rushed to the door and pounded on it. Her fists seemed to bounce off the glass. Deckard had lied—he had lied—and he’d captured Giselle and Klaudia, too. Maybe he was torturing them in some other room. And maybe he’d offered them the same deal.

Her skin was electric as she beat the door, again and again. The sound of Giselle’s screams rained down on her. She had to get out. She had to get to her, somehow—