I have no idea how long Declan will be on the phone. I can’t tell what he’s saying, either, because it’s all in Gaelic. So I decide I need some fresh air and get dressed.
When I walk out the bedroom door, he’s still in the bathroom, talking.
Ignoring my rumbling stomach as I pass through the kitchen, I pull open the glass door of the breakfast room and step outside. The air is brisk and fresh. Cold on my face, but not cold enough to send me back in. Wrapping my arms around myself, I walk over the patio and across the wide expanse of lawn until it gives way to sand.
At the end of the yard by the tall hedge of privets, Spider stands sentry.
Our eyes meet.
I raise a hand in greeting, then look away.
I haven’t spoken to him since the incident in the kitchen. I haven’t spoken to any of the men who prowl the grounds, not even when Declan was gone. I’ve stayed inside, locked out of sight, feeling foolish and angry with myself for what happened. That I risked their jobs and their pinkies like that. That I made them disobey orders because I was bored.
I wish it wasn’t in my nature to play with fire. I know the only thing that happens is that someone gets burned.
The sun is a distant ball on the horizon, shimmering pale as it rises above a restless sea. The ocean is choppy this morning. Dark and white-capped from the stiff onshore breeze.
I head straight toward the water.
I want to feel it on my toes. Feel how different it might be from the crystalline water of Lake Tahoe, the water I spent all my summers in from the time I learned how to swim at five years old. Water so pure, I could see all the way down to the bottom as I peered over the side of my dad’s little fishing boat.
Hopefully, the sea air will blow through my head and erase all these memories that are rising like ghosts from their graves since I told Declan my story.
The origin story of a warrior who doesn’t feel so strong anymore.
Is this what love is? Weakness? I felt so much more powerful before I ever set eyes on Declan’s face. Now I feel as raw and unsteady as a newborn foal.
Like I used to, all those years ago before I remade myself into something harder.
There’s a yacht moored far offshore. A sleek white thing, glinting in the sun like a newly minted coin. Several other smaller craft bob on the water down the coastline. A trio of sailboats flit over the waves to the south. North? I’m not sure which direction I’m facing. Now that I think of it, how do I know I’m really on Martha’s Vineyard at all?
My entire reality is based on what Declan has told me since he ripped me away from safe moorings in New York.
You could be anywhere. He drugged you, remember? You could be hallucinating all of this. You could be on the moon.
Exhausted, my heart as heavy as my legs, I walk over the rolling dunes down to where the sand is damp and firm underfoot. The sneakers I plucked from the closet are too nice to get wet, so I take them off and hold them as I meander down the beach. I dodge incoming waves as they crash and reach frothy fingers toward my feet.
I don’t know how long I meander, picking up shells, but suddenly, a cold prickle raises the hair on the back of my neck.
It isn’t the wind, of that I’m sure.
Frowning, I stop and look around.
The beach is deserted in both directions. Aside from the house I just left, there are no other structures within sight. The only thing I see that could be considered out of place is Spider, sprinting toward me from his post at the hedge of privet.
He’s waving his rifle in the air. Hollering words that are swallowed by the wind.
Four more armed men in black suits appear behind him, running toward me.
On instinct, I whirl around.
My brain registers eight of them, sleek black figures rising from the sea with scuba tanks strapped to their backs and weapons in their gloved hands, before the one closest to me grabs me and drags me into the water.
“She’s awake.”
“You sure those handcuffs are enough? I think we should put the leg chains on, too.”
“I bet you do. How’s the nose feeling, Cliff?”
“Fuck you.”
The voices are male, coming from somewhere nearby. They are the first thing I’m aware of. Next, the headache makes itself known, throbbing steadily behind my eyes to the beat of my heart. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, my head weighs a thousand pounds, and my right hand feels like I’ve been smashing it against a wall for hours.
I’m also wet. My clothes, my hair, all of me. I lick my lips and taste salt. Seawater.
A door opens and closes. I open my eyes and look around.
I’m in a square gray room. A single fluorescent bulb flickers on the ceiling. The floor is bare cement, and the only furniture is the metal chair I’m sitting in and a dented metal table pushed against the wall to my left.
On the wall directly in front of me looms a large panel of sleek black glass.
Looking at my reflection in the two-way mirror, I realize I’m chained to the chair.
My wrists are bound behind my back by handcuffs. The handcuffs must be attached to the chair, and the chair must be bolted to the floor, because despite several vigorous attempts, nothing budges.
“Don’t bother. You’re not going anywhere.”
I look over my right shoulder.
A man leans casually against the wall in the corner, his arms folded over his chest, one leg kicked up against the wall. He’s about thirty-five. He’s wearing an untucked red-and-black flannel shirt, faded jeans that are molded to his muscular thighs, and a pair of work boots. His hair is thick, wavy, brown, and looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in ages. His eyes are brown, too. So is his beard.
He looks like the Marlboro Man, big and outdoorsy. There’s a pale circle of skin on his tanned left ring finger where a wedding band used to be.
In a deep voice with a Boston accent, he says, “Good morning, Sloane.”
“You need a haircut. Was your ex the one who made the appointments for you?”
Surprise registers in his eyes for a split second, then recedes as he draws a curtain of practiced blankness over his gaze. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.”
He pushes off the wall and comes to stand in front of me, his back to the panel of black glass. Crossing his arms again, he looks down his nose at me, projecting power and danger from every pore.
Dear god, how many times am I going to be kidnapped by alpha males this month? It’s getting ridiculous.
Looking at his muscular forearms, I say, “I like your tats. Very Celtic. Did you know those spiral knots near your wrist represent a person’s journey through life and into the spirit world, or did you just think they looked pretty?”
He tilts his head to one side.
I smile at him. “I’ve done a lot of reading about spiritual journeys.”
Nothing happens for a while, until he says, “I’d like to talk about your boyfriend.”
At least he’s getting straight to it. I thought we might be here forever.
“Let me just stop you right there. I don’t keep boyfriends. They’re way too high-maintenance. Too much of a commitment. May I please have a glass of water? Even better, orange juice. Fresh squeezed if you have it.”
He frowns. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, dude, don’t let the D cups fool you. I know exactly what’s happening.”
I can’t tell by his expression if he’s amused or annoyed, but I know he’s intrigued, because he says, “Which is?”
“You want that five hundred bucks I owe from last year.”
He blinks. I don’t think he means to. It makes me smile again, this time wider.
“Honestly, I’m impressed. You guys must’ve gotten a sweet budget increase from the new administration. I’d love to hear how you’re going after the corporations who owe lots of back taxes. The big fish must get an entire squadron of Navy seals coming after them, am I right?”
He leans down into my face, planting his hands on his massive thighs. When we’re eye to eye, he says softly, “I’m not with the IRS, sweetheart. And this isn’t a fucking joke. You’re in big trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t the be last. Do you like blondes? I know a girl who works at my yoga studio who’d go crazy for your whole Grizzly Adams vibe. Though she’s got one of those annoyingly high baby-talk voices, but if you can look past that, she’s really sweet. You look like you could use someone to look after you.”
When he only stares at me with thinned lips and flared nostrils, I add, “Was it ketamine you gave me? Because I know how that messes up my memory, and I can’t remember anything between when the creatures from the black lagoon pulled me into the water and now. I’d love to know how I didn’t drown. By the way, props for ingenuity. James Bond would be proud.”
After a beat, Mountain Man straightens. He throws a look over his shoulder toward the glass, then slowly walks behind my chair and stops there.
His voice carrying an overt warning, he says, “Declan O’Donnell.”
“Nice to meet you, Declan.”
I look directly at the glass when I say that, smiling my shit-eating smile.
I hope whoever’s watching me behind that two-way mirror is having a meltdown. People hate it when you’re not terrified like they’re trying to make you be.
Mountain Man rests his hands on the back of my chair and leans close to my ear. In a low voice, he says, “Don’t play me for a fucking fool, Sloane.”
“Me? Play you for a fool? I would never. You seem much too intelligent. The plaid shirt’s a dead giveaway.”
I can almost hear his blood pressure rising.
“You think you’re very smart, don’t you?”
“I’m demonstrably smart. Would you like to give me an IQ test? Ten bucks says I’ll beat yours by at least thirty points.”
He gives up trying to intimidate me from behind and stalks around to stand in front of me again. He pronounces, “Laugh it up if you like, but if you don’t cooperate with me, you’re gonna stay in this room for the rest of your life with no contact with the outside world and nothing but a bucket to shit in.”
“I see. So much for the Bill of Rights and those pesky sixth and eighth amendments.”
He narrows his eyes at my tone of contempt. He grinds his jaw for a while. It reminds me of Declan. I miss him with a sharp, sudden ache.
“Declan O’Donnell,” says Mountain Man again. “Tell me about him.”
“Never heard of him. So how long have you been in the FBI? Or is it the CIA? I bet they have really good health benefits. Looks like their dress code has gotten a little lax, but I really only know anything about the federal government from the movies. Have you seen the Jason Bourne franchise? Love that guy. So intense.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Who? Oh, the Declan guy again? I already told you, I have no idea who that is.”
Mountain Man snaps, “We’ve been watching you. We know you’re involved with him. We picked you up on his property.”
“Listen, I’m just on vacation. I took a drive into the ritzy part of town and decided to take a walk on somebody’s beach. Is that against the law here? We do it all the time in California. Then again, it is a very progressive state.”
“We have pictures of you together,” he says hotly, trying not to lose his patience.
I shrug. “Wasn’t me.”
There follows a long, stony silence. I take the opportunity to examine his forearm tattoos more closely.
“What is that, a Druid? Kind of looks like Gandalf from Lord of the Rings.”
The door opens. Another man walks in.
This one is in a dark suit, a striped tie, and cuff links. He’s got a full head of pewter hair and a face like a slab of granite. His Oxfords could blind me with their shine.
“Oh, look, Mountain Man, senior management has arrived. Guess you weren’t doing such a stellar job interrogating your prisoner.”
Closing the door behind him with brisk efficiency, the new guy takes a moment to assess me. Then he presents me with a smile as friendly as a rabid dog baring its teeth.
“Hello, Miss Keller.”
He has no discernable accent, but he does have the strangest way of drawing out the syllables so that it seems like he’s testing a new language. As if he’s a copy of a human, not a real one, an alien trying to fit in.
“Oh wow, I totally just got a flashback from the scene in the Matrix where Agent Smith questions Neo about his involvement with Morpheus. You sound exactly like him. Look like him, too. Except you’re a lot older. And we need to get you a pair of dark sunglasses to cover those beady eyes.”
Mountain Man and the suit share a look. The suit says, “I’ll take over from here, Grayson.”
“Grayson? Wow, that’s a very cool name. I bet you were super popular in high school.”
Grayson does something strange with his mouth. I think he’s trying not to smile, but I could be imagining things.
He exits the room, leaving me alone with the suit.
“Miss Keller, my name is Thomas Aquinas.”
“Bullshit. Like the Italian philosopher?”
“Yes.”
“How random. Please, continue.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and strolls over to the metal desk, which he perches on, swinging a leg back and forth. It’s a very unmanly posture, and does nothing to raise my nonexistent level of fear.
“Miss Keller, we’re aware of your involvement with the Russian Bratva. We’re also aware of your involvement with the Irish Mob. These are indisputable facts, and well-documented, so please do me the kindness of dispensing with your ploy of innocence.”
I admire his vocabulary. That rabid-dog smile, however, I could do without.
He continues like he’s a pompous university professor giving a lecture that all his students are sleeping through. “According to the Patriot Act, I have the authority to keep you here indefinitely. As a terrorist operative and enemy combatant, you have no rights. Your entire future rests solely in my hands. Please consider all that carefully before you respond to my questions.”
He pauses to give me some time to decide if I’d like to start crying and begging.
I yawn instead.
“How did you become involved with Declan O’Donnell?”
“I have no idea who that is.”
His expression sours. It’s a feat, considering he’s got a face like a toilet bowl. He snaps his fingers, and two enormous men enter the room.
They’re both dressed in military fatigues and combat boots. They’re both the size of mountains. One of them carries a manila folder in his meaty hand, which he gives to the suit. Then they flank the mirrored glass, spread their legs, clasp their hands over their crotches, and look at me.
The one on the right licks his lips.
I bet he’s the one who does the waterboarding.
From the manila folder, the suit removes an eight-by-ten photograph. He holds it up for me to see. It’s a black-and-white shot of me and Declan getting into his giant helicopter.
“This is you.”
“Are you kidding? I’d never wear those jeans. Totally last season.”
He holds out another picture, this one of Declan and me in the kitchen the night of the ill-conceived poker party. Declan is holding my face in his hands. It looks like he’s shouting, which he was.
How creepy that they’ve been watching us. Photographing us together. It gives me chills.
Oh god. Did we have the drapes open when we had sex?
“This is you.”
“No. But whoever that poor girl is, I feel sorry for her. That guy is screaming right into her face. Looks like a lunatic, if you ask me.”
“Oh, he’s undoubtedly a lunatic,” agrees the suit, nodding. “To the best of our knowledge, he’s killed more than thirty-five men. And those are the ones we know about.”
He looks at me expectantly.
I say, “Sounds like he’s got a lot of unresolved issues. I suggest anger management classes.”
He sets the folder and photographs aside. He folds his hands in his lap. He says calmly, “Your father is a patriot. Exceptional man. Exceptional military career. It would be such a pity if he were stripped of all his honors and thrown into prison for aiding and abetting a terrorist.”
My dislike for this guy takes an elevator down to pure hatred, where it disembarks and settles in. I stare at him, all traces of humor vanished.
“Threatening my family isn’t going to work.”
“No? So you’d like your little sister, Riley, to spend some quality time with my associate here, Lance Corporal McAllister?” He gestures to the lip licker, who produces a lascivious grin.
Lance. Of course he had to be a lance corporal, the fucking asshole.
When I don’t respond, the suit says, “Or how about your older brother, Drew? Perhaps his law practice needs a review from the state bar. I understand his ethics are what you’d call lacking. Something about sex with clients? Embezzling money? Bribing jurors?”
“Nice try. My brother’s ethics are pristine.”
He smiles his rabid-dog smile. “I’m sure we can manufacture something convincing.”
“I’m sure you could. Government workers are always manufacturing some kind of bullshit to cover up their incompetence.”
His smile grows wider. He knows I’m angry now. He smells blood in the air.
“And what about your friend, Natalie?” he says softly, eyes glittering. “How do you think she’d enjoy celebrating the rest of her birthdays inside a prison cell, thanks to you?”
I want to kill him. I want to kill him so much, I can almost hear his pathetic screams as he drowns in his own blood from the stab wound in his neck that I’ll give him.
Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.
I close my eyes, count to four, then decide I don’t have time for the rest of the breathing exercise. I need to tell this guy to go fuck himself sooner than that.
Opening my eyes, I say calmly, “If you tried to put my friend in prison, her man would burn you alive. Then he’d burn Moose and Rocco here.” I shoot a dismissive glance at the two burly, uniformed Marines. “Then he’d find your mothers and burn them alive, too. Your siblings, also. And your pets. And your houses, your cars, and the towns you grew up in. So I won’t worry about her. She’s covered.
“As for my sister, brother, and Dad? Well, I can’t control what happens to them. Life’s a gamble, and I guess they rolled unlucky dice for being related to me. Besides, it really wouldn’t be my fault. You’re the douchebags who have the control. Whatever nasty thing happened would be on your conscience, not mine. So do what you have to do. Leave me chained to this chair forever. Lock me up and throw away the key.”
After a calculated pause, the suit says, “There are worse things we could do to you than imprison you, Miss Keller. I’m sure you can imagine what they are.”
Lance Corporal McAllister steps forward. He gazes down at me with a small, evil smile.
I almost laugh. Instead I heave a heavy sigh and nod my head. “I actually don’t have to imagine. I’m very familiar with the particular brand of savagery that useless, worthless, dickless males enjoy. Go ahead, guys. Do your worst. I still don’t know who Declan fucking O’Donnell is.”
Nothing happens for several moments. Then a tinny male voice crackles over a hidden speaker in the ceiling.
“Put her in C-9.”
The suit stands. Lance Corporal Fuckface walks behind me and unfastens my handcuffs from the chair. He hauls me to my feet with fingers like steel claws that dig into my biceps.
The suit says, “Have it your way, Miss Keller. The worst it is.”
They drag me from the room.
I manage to kick the suit in the kneecap on the way out. He falls to the floor, howling.
What a sissy.
