Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (41 page)
Read Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) Online
Authors: Lisa Hughey
Tags: #General Fiction
Ha. My life would never be normal.
I tracked back to my last memory. I’d hooked up with a guy. Had relatively indiscriminate sex with him.
I inhaled shallowly, carefully, not wanting to give away anything. I still smelled like sex. Really great sex.
I wanted to smile but kept my expression lax.
I’d longed to stay in that bed. Sleep with him. Just sleep with the comforting warmth of another human being. The ache had been so intense that as soon as he dozed off--I left.
That
was my last memory.
“You can stop pretending.”
I continued to fake sleep. I didn’t know that male voice. It was bland, not angry, but with a slight smirk, as if he knew something I didn’t.
“You should be awake by now. We calibrate our doses very carefully.”
That statement raised so many questions, I decided to comply with his unspoken request and let my eyes drift open. I calculated we were moving at a speed of about thirty miles per hour. Suburban, blacked out windows, bulletproof glass. The blue light came from the interior dome in the big SUV.
“The light is to protect your eyes. The drug affects your pupil’s ability to dilate and contract.”
What drug?
I kept silent.
“Not very curious, are you?”
My last conscious memory was from the motel off of 295 near Alexandria around nine in the evening. It was pitch dark out now, so I’d been out for awhile.
Lucas. Could the guy have been a plant? Possible. Since he was my last clear memory, it made sense.
I sifted through the spaghetti of my brain. For the past two days, I’d been undercover, shadowing Staci Grant’s life. Last night, I’d encountered Lucas Goodman, who’d been looking for Staci and thought he’d found her when he found me. The sexual heat between us had been instantaneous and mutual. A few sweaty hours later, I’d left, confident my movements as Staci had been tracked. My cover had been working.
They’d kidnapped Staci.
Excellent.
I was right where I needed to be.
Now I needed answers. My task was to discover why CIA, DIA, and NSA agents were being kidnapped, the method of interrogation, and who was doing the kidnapping. The answers would be coming. I just had to be ready.
I settled into the backseat of the car to wait, taking in details. Mistake number one. They hadn’t taken my ring, so the satellite audio transmitter should work. I twisted the unusual ring with my thumb and pressed the citrine stone twice. I was now sending voice-activated recordings back to Carson.
Mistake number two. They’d cuffed my hands, in front, but left my legs unshackled.
They’d taken my government firearm but missed the knife in the sheath at my waist. Mistake number three. Always, always check everywhere for hidden weapons.
Although my mind was the most powerful weapon I had.
My watch was gone and my government-issue GPS with it. Slouching to the side, I got a better view of the dashboard panel. My kidnapper had conveniently supplied me with another GPS system, live and tracking.
Coordinates. Latitude–47. Longitude–122. I was in the Pacific Northwest. I looked out the misted window to see a reflection of the Space Needle and pinpointed my location as Seattle. I was a long way from Virginia.
I returned my gaze to the kidnapper. Subject was male, small head, blond hair gelled into little spikes, crescent-shaped birthmark below his right ear.
The car rolled to a stop. The rocking intensified my queasy stomach. I ignored it.
“We’re here.”
Here
was a warehouse near the water. The guy wasn’t rough but the sudden motion as he lugged me out of the SUV caused my stomach to roil.
I breathed in the cold, damp air through my nose, trying to quell the nausea. As he led me toward a semi-truck trailer, I noted the parking lot was empty except for one other truck and a car, too far away and too dark to make out details. The warehouse, constructed with long cinder block walls interrupted by doors at twenty foot intervals, was to my left and behind me.
The trailer was modified from a regular shipping container, doors locked up tight in the back, with another entrance on the side. It looked as if the stairs were all one solid block which could fold up into the interior of the trailer.
The recessed entrance looked exactly like an old-fashioned front door complete with screen door. A porch light flicked on. The screen door wheezed open as a dark-haired woman in a white coat stepped out onto the platform.
The light behind her filled the doorway with shadows. I couldn’t make out her features but I caught a furtive movement, the light illuminating her hand as she tucked a syringe into her pocket.
“Thank you. You can go now.” She nodded regally to the man holding me. Her melodic voice held a hint of Asia, probably second-generation American.
He promptly let go of my arm and walked away. They must believe that the plastic restraint cuffs would be a big deterrent to resistance. The click of his heels echoed in the silence as she stared at me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, so tightly her knuckles showed white.
There was something in her stance--tension, stress? I eased back a step.
“Welcome.” She put a hand on the railing and took a step down. Then she hesitated and glanced back at the open doorway. “We won’t hurt you.”
I thought about the syringe in her pocket.
No thank you.
I’d had drug resistance training but honestly I didn’t want to put it to the test. At least, not yet. Although if that scenario became unavoidable and they pumped me full of drugs, the transmitter in my ring guaranteed I would get the information Carson and the NSA needed.
All of the kidnapped agents had an unidentified drug in their bloodstream and unknown consequences from those drugs. We had no idea what national secrets they’d given away or what kind of long-term effects were possible from the drug cocktail most likely in that syringe. My job was to get myself kidnapped, acquire the drugs, identify the perpetrators, and get out before they could accomplish their objective.
I wobbled as if unsteady on my feet and eased back two steps, assessing my position.
As the Suburban left, the beam from the head lamps shone on her. The shape of her face and the tilt of her eyes marked her as Chinese. Lines of strain curled around her mouth, the expression was supposed to be a smile but came off as more of a grimace. “Come with me.”
I don’t think so.
I’d expected the kidnapping, the intel suggested that Staci Grant would be next. I’d planned to resist at first. I didn’t want to make it too easy for them to subdue me. Carson was supposed to have a team on standby waiting to capture the kidnappers after I completed my objectives. But since we hadn’t planned for a cross country abduction–all of the other kidnappings had been local and accomplished within a matter of several hours–it would most likely take a little time before the extraction team got here.
If they got here.
I pivoted and ran for the warehouse door nearest me. Her footsteps rang on the metal steps as she followed.
“She’s getting away.” A man’s shout, older, deeper, slightly frantic, registered as I reached the door. Two against one. More difficult, but not impossible. Woman, older man. Until I saw his physique, I couldn’t judge who was more dangerous.
“I’ve got it,” the woman replied and sprinted toward me.
I yanked on the handle, flung the door open, and slid inside. The heavy metal swung shut with an ominous clang.
Obviously, the drugs were making me melodramatic.
The warehouse was dimly lit. Industrial metal lights hung from the ceiling, their muted pink glow making the surroundings blurry. Metal shelving separated the concrete floor into long, wide aisles. Three tiers of jumbo shelves housed wooden pallets of goods. I stood at the end of one aisle.
I hustled over two aisles, pulling the knife from the sheath at my waist as I went. The restraint cuffs at my wrists took a few swipes before slicing clean through.
I grabbed some small ceramic rice bowls and shoved them into my jacket pockets. Mistake number four. They’d let me keep my jacket.
The door banged open.
“Don’t let her escape.” I could hear the man huffing, and a rhythmic thumping noise as they pursued.
“She won’t escape,” the woman replied grimly from somewhere behind me.
I stalked down the industrial cement aisle, my footsteps silent. Glancing around, I searched for another way out.
“Please don’t try to escape, Agent Hunt.” The man’s plea had a desperate edge to it.
My legs faltered. I wanted to stop, stand rooted to the floor. Only training kept me moving.
He’d spoken my real name. My
real
name, not the cover I was using for this assignment. So who did they really want?
Me, Jamie Hunt, NSA agent? Or Staci Grant, CIA officer?
Thank you for reading BETRAYALS! 386
Family Stone #1 Jess
In the early evening dusk, Jess Stone lay on her stomach in the twenty foot high rubble of a demolished church, underneath a black and gray city-scape tarp intended to camouflage her position. A sharp-edged chunk of debris dug into her lower rib cage, the scope of the Remington M24 cool and familiar against her face.
Her standard uniform of jeans, running shoes, and plain black t-shirt rendered her just another anonymous and transient relief worker...which she was actually. A black baseball cap hid her distinctive multi-hued blonde hair. The paper mask kept out the contaminated dust from the destroyed buildings but did little to stem the overwhelming stench of decaying bodies.
Tanks rumbled through the destroyed coastal town, their public address system blasting warnings for citizens to stay in their homes, curfew was in effect. The threat was a joke. Ninety percent of the people in the town didn't have homes left. Those who did were terrified to go back inside. In the fetid, humidity choked air, the tent cities erected in the parks and on the beach were seething masses of the injured and shock struck.
The substandard construction in the small country had never been enough to withstand the angry might of Mother Nature. Buildings had toppled like a stack of Tinkertoys, and left crumbling cement walls with twisted rebar poking out of the jagged ruins like a skeletal hand.
Trapped in the concrete pieces that littered the ground, the heat from the tropical day seared through her thin sturdy clothing. The stank of the raw sewage that ran in rivulets through the streets overpowered the salt-laden breeze off the ocean. People, covered with the grit of pulverized buildings and humans, shuffled along with blank vacant stares. Two weeks after the quake, still in shock, their lives decimated first by nature and then kicked and beaten by the ineffectiveness of a flawed relief system. Hundreds of humanitarian agencies had descended on the population duplicating efforts and yet completely missing the need in other areas. The government was ostensibly trying to coordinate the effort, however the mass chaos was undeniable.
Through the Leupold Ultra M3 fixed power sight, she tracked the movements of Henri LeRoy, leader of this tiny island nation, violator of human rights and dignity, and all around poor excuse for a human being.
Sickness roiled in her stomach. The power bar she’d eaten for breakfast threatened to add to the rubble pile as she tried to figure out how in the hell she'd ended up here. Back behind a sniper rifle with the power over life and death trembling in the muscles of her right trigger finger.
Dammit. When she'd decided to take control of her life and quit the FBI, she hadn't wanted to do this any more.
She'd wanted to be a simple relief worker. She'd wanted to connect with her family, brothers and mother.
But that bitch, fate, had slapped her upside the head and now here she was, where she'd sworn she never wanted to be again. Looking through the scope of a high-powered rifle, with a crystal clear head shot and a murky sense of right and wrong.
With little fanfare, she could blast LeRoy's brain matter all over the silk-covered walls and the antique Louis the XIV scrolled chairs in the receiving room of his ridiculously elegant weekend mansion which, since built properly, had sustained minimal damage. Her muscles twitched with the knowledge and acceptance that with one slow slide of her finger, the despotic, amoral leader would be history.
Jess didn't want to kill him, didn't want to be directly responsible for another death. She didn't want this choice. She’d given up this kind of life. She'd left the FBI after a series of high stress cases to get away from the doubt and guilt that had crippled her. To make her own decisions about right and wrong rather than carry out the commands of her bosses.
