Code Name Page 15

  In surprised annoyance, Kynan barks, “For fuck’s sake,” while lunging at me.

  President Alexander shouts, “Cruce!”

  And two different doors leading into the Oval Office fly open, Secret Service agents pouring in with weapons drawn.

  I don’t move a muscle, merely hold Carnes in place with my face right in his, glaring harshly.

  “It’s okay,” the president exclaims, presumably to the agents. “It’s fine. I want everyone out of here right now.”

  I can hear footsteps receding and doors closing. Kynan stands at my back, not saying a word. The fact Alexander just chased everyone out of his office implied I had permission to move forward with intimidation tactics.

  At least that’s the way I’m taking it.

  “Now,” I murmur, as if I’m having a nice, private conversation with Carnes. “Tell me who you work for and why you want Barrett Alexander.”

  “I-I-I-don’t know what you mean,” he stutters in response, but all I hear is lies.

  I’m all for efficiency. I need him to clearly understand I’m not going to take my time working up to the point where I’m tired of asking questions.

  I haul my right hand back, then cock it at my hip. With a hard twist of my hips, I deliver a vicious upper cut to his stomach. I catch him just below the breastbone, driving upward.

  Carnes doubles over, gasping for breath and moaning. I grab him by the hair, forcing his head back. He looks at me with tears leaking out of his eyes. “I am not going to stop hitting you. Not until you break and tell me what I need to know. I’m going to get the truth from you, and no one in this office is going to stop me or save you. And once my knuckles get sore, I’m going to start cutting you. And if you make me work hard for it, the president is going to make sure you get absolutely no leniency from the federal prosecutors. It means you’re facing decades, if not life, behind bars for whatever your involvement is. But if you make this easy on us, because we’re all very worried about Barrett, then we will let the prosecutors know you cooperated. If your cooperation helps us get Barrett back unharmed, I’m sure the president will be incredibly grateful.”

  Carnes wheezes, his eyes wide and bulging as they cut over to Alexander and then back to me.

  “Now,” I say very calmly. “Those are your choices. What’s it going to be?”

  “It’s Clarence Scavino,” he blurts out.

  I jerk in surprise, honestly figuring it would have taken a few more punches to get him softened enough to spill his guts. Maybe something is finally fucking going right.

  I glance over my shoulder at the president. He appears perplexed. “He’s the deputy director of the National Economic Council.”

  I whip around to Carnes, giving him a tiny shake by the lapels. “What’s his interest in Barrett?”

  Carnes doesn’t hesitate in his reply now that he’s given up who he takes orders from. “Everyone knows it’s the president’s agenda to share free energy breakthroughs with other countries.”

  “So?” Kynan replies, stepping up beside me. Carnes’ attention shifts to him.

  “So,” Carnes drawls, tone implying we’re stupid. “It’s not in our country’s best interests to alleviate the dependency of other countries upon us. Making others stronger weakens our power.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” the president sputters.

  “Is it?” Carnes asks, focusing on Alexander. “We are the most powerful country in the world because we own everything, including the allegiance of others since they depend on us.”

  “I don’t buy it.” Alexander sneers, marching up to Carnes. He studies the traitor, who is still held in my clutches, then shakes his head at Kynan. “Scavino doesn’t have the money to pull something like this off.”

  “Then he’s not the head of the snake,” I surmise, studying Carnes. “Who is it? Who do you and Scavino answer to?”

  “I don’t know,” Carnes replies quickly, holding his arms up. “I swear. I just know he has big money backing him.”

  “To commit treason,” President Alexander growls. To my utter surprise, he throws a punch at Carnes, hitting him square in the bridge of his nose.

  Blood spurts out, splattering my chest, and Carnes squeals like a pig. Once again, the doors burst open as agents rush in.

  This time, Alexander doesn’t wave them off. Instead, he nods toward Carnes. “Take him into custody, then call the FBI to place him under arrest for treason. And I’m sure a host of other charges, too.”

  The agents move in as Carnes screams. “You promised if I helped, I’d get recognition of that.”

  “And you will,” the president replies as they start to pull Carnes away. “As long as what you’ve provided leads to us finding Barrett quickly and safely.”

  “Malcolm,” Alexander says to one of the agents who steps forward. He and I shared protective detail when Alexander was vice president and he chose to stay on. He’s a good man. “I want you to go to Clarence Scavino’s office. Take him into custody. We’ll turn him over to the FBI but for right now, I want him isolated from all people and access to phones or computers.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies without asking for any other details. He sharply pivots, then heads out of the office.

  When we’re alone, Alexander turns to Kynan and me. “Not much we can do right now except wait for federal prosecutors and the FBI to step in and interview Scavino.”

  “You should have let us take a crack at him,” I gripe.

  Alexander shakes his head. “This is high treason, Cruce. It goes beyond just Barrett now. It’s about contravening presidential policy as well as the law. I have to go by the books.”

  “When will they talk to him?” I ask.

  His expression is grim. “Soon. Probably within the hour. But he’ll lawyer up.”

  “Fuck,” I grunt, wanting to ram my fist through the wall.

  “Bebe,” Kynan says, but him saying her name doesn’t make sense to me.

  “Huh?”

  “Bebe,” he says again. “Let’s get Bebe to start digging digitally. Let her hack Scavino’s computer, phone records, and bank accounts. It might take her a few hours, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “No, wait,” I say with a sudden burst of inspiration. “Call back your men on Scavino. Let’s set him up to force him to call his money benefactor.”

  “How’s that?” Alexander asks, but Kynan nods his agreement without me needing to explain.

  “We spook him,” I reply. “Get Carnes to tell him that we were nosing around asking questions about Barrett’s kidnapping. He can tell Scavino he’s scared, but then assure him that he kept his mouth shut. That could make him reach out to warn whoever is actually running this show.”

  Alexander doesn’t hesitate. He exits the Oval Office, and I get an image of him sprinting down the hall to catch up with the agents he’d just dispatched to grab Scavino.

  To Kynan, I say, “You need to assemble a strike team ASAP. We could be ready to move on this guy to find Barrett very soon.”

  He pulls his phone out to make the call. “I already had them come to D.C. They’re on standby. I’ll get them here.”

  I move over to look out the set of three tall windows behind the president’s desk, staring blankly at the Rose Garden that borders the exterior of the Oval Office. There’s a chance I’d see Barrett shortly.

  Hold her in my arms.

  This should alleviate my worry, but it doesn’t. They’ve had her for over twelve hours, which is a hell of a long time to implement torture techniques to make someone talk. I can only hope and pray the grit and determination she has within her is enough to fortify her resolve to hold onto her secrets.

  Because once she tells them what they want to know, they will have no further use for her.

  CHAPTER 21

  Barrett

  My teeth chatter ceaselessly.

  So damn cold down here.

  It’s a regular basement as best I can tell, but the room they put me in must be
soundproofed because it’s deadly quiet when the door is closed. I can’t hear any noises whatsoever.

  They’ve also left me in absolute darkness. Not even a thin line of light under the door from the outside can be seen.

  It’s almost like a sensory-deprivation chamber given I can’t see or hear anything, but I sure as hell can feel the cold, so not quite.

  No clue how long I’ve been in here. Feels like hours, but I’m so uncomfortable it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s only been minutes. That oaf Paul put me in a folding metal chair, then tied my hands behind my back and my ankles to the metal legs. I tested the strength of the rope bonds, but there was no wiggle room. When he left, the resounding sound of metal sliding against metal told me there was more than just a standard lock on the door. I would not be leaving from this side on my own, so I stopped struggling with the ropes to conserve my energy.

  But then the cold seeped in, my arms and legs alternating between cramping pain and absolute numbness. My mind starts playing tricks on me because it’s so silent in the inky black darkness.

  The worst part of being down here in the freezing solitude is it gives me plenty of time to think about Cruce. About him taking that crazy jump from the dock onto the side of the boat—knowing they had guns and he’d be shot. But it never even slowed him down. He didn’t hesitate to expend all his zeal to save me, despite the fact it would cost him his own life.

  So I think about how brave he was and how I’ll never know what we could have had together. It makes me cry, and I can’t seem to stop. My tears feel frozen on my cold cheeks, but of all my discomforts, nothing compares to the searing pain in the center of my chest from losing Cruce.

  He was my chance at happiness.

  I had always thought I was a happy person before meeting him because I loved my work and career. Cruce made me realize how much I’ve been missing in life, but it disappeared in a heartbeat when his stopped beating.

  The screech of metal sliding against metal—so ominous sounding that my heart thuds like a giant drum—pierces the silence, and I jerk against my bonds. My sadness over Cruce vanishes as fear takes root deep in my gut.

  I strain to see toward the area I believe the door to be in, then a flood of light blinds me as it opens. My eyes involuntarily snap shut against the pain of it, yet my fear won’t let me sit here in continued darkness. I wince, opening my eyes up a fraction to see who’s coming through that door.

  I see nothing but a large outline of a man with wide shoulders and powerful legs. I’m assuming it’s Paul, although it could be anyone. Whoever has kidnapped me has the money and means to hire a small mercenary army to do his bidding as evidenced by how quickly and effectively they struck. It could be any one of those murderers, which is what they all are. Maybe only one pulled the trigger and shot Cruce, but they’re all responsible for his death.

  A light comes on overhead. As I start to become accustomed to it, my vision focuses. It’s Paul, and I don’t like the look in his eyes.

  Way too much determination.

  He’s here for the information I hold in my head.

  Cruce had warned me about this if I were to be captured. Our second night on the island, over dinner, he had a terrifying conversation with me about what would happen if I were caught.

  Paramount, he’d said, would be to get the information from me at all costs. He’d informed me in a cold, flat tone that they would hurt me to get it.

  He also told me to resist the impulse to give in because once they had the information, chances were they would kill me. They were never going to let a witness who could identify them live to do so.

  I try to straighten my spine to show my defiance, but Paul just smirks. Apparently, I amuse him.

  “They say you are a brilliant scientist,” he murmurs as he approaches. My eyes stay locked on his. When he reaches my chair, he squats so we are eye to eye. “So you are surely smart enough to know what I want.”

  “I won’t give you anything,” I say. It takes everything within me to keep my voice calm and confident.

  Paul’s glare bores deep into mine, perhaps trying to glean just how much I mean that.

  He merely inclines his head. “We shall see.”

  And so, it begins.

  Paul stands, then moves over to a metal table against one wall. He pulls it toward me, the legs scraping along the concrete floor. The sound is excruciating to my ears after having been left in silence so long.

  When he drops it beside me, I twist to see, fearing the horrible instruments of torture that might rest there. Instead, I’m surprised to find the top bare.

  Paul pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, then sets it beside me on the table. He explains, “I’m recording our little session. Can’t cause you pain and take notes on what you’re going to tell me at the same time, you know.”

  I flash a faux smile. “Let the record reflect I think you’re an asshole, and you probably have a little dick, too.”

  Paul may be big and appear to be an oaf, but he’s surprisingly quick. I don’t even see his hand coming at me, but I sure feel the crack of his palm against my cheek. My head snaps to the right, and my face explodes with pain. It’s the second time in mere hours I’ve been hit. The other strike was a backhand from a righty, so it was to my right cheek. This one was also from a righty, but he wound up like he was taking a swing for the fences and hit me with an open palm on my left cheek. I had thought nothing could hurt worse than knuckles, but I was wrong. Paul’s youth and size over the older man makes a world of difference in the pain scale.

  My eyes immediately water, and I’m sufficiently cowed for a moment. In fact, I keep my face averted and stare at the floor, too afraid to look at him.

  I’ve never been struck in my life. My parents were averse to any physical forms of punishment. I’ve never had a man lay a hand on me or been in a fight with another woman. In fact, I’ve led a relatively uninjured and healthy life unless you count the time in fourth grade when I broke my ring finger on my right hand after falling off the monkey bars. I think it was then I realized I was better suited to academia rather than outdoor activities.

  “Let’s try this again,” Paul says pleasantly, his hand comes to the top of my head. His fingers flex, dig in, and grab a hunk of my hair. He forces my head around to make me look at him. Bending at the waist, he puts his face near mine and murmurs, “Tell me about the formula you finished. I’ll need all the details, of course.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything,” I tell him and then cringe in anticipation of another blow, squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Hesitantly, I open my eyes to find that Paul had straightened his body. He shakes his head, smiling almost devilishly. “Not going to hit you again, Dr. Alexander. It hurts me as much as it hurts you, and I mean that literally. Oh, no… I’ve got something a little easier on me and a lot harder on you if you don’t start talking.”

  Oh, God. Him hitting me was bad enough, but knowing he has something worse planned he’s apparently going to relish ratchets up my terror level. Still, I keep my mouth clamped shut.

  “Suit yourself,” Paul says, then squats once again. He starts untying my legs from the chair and for a moment, I consider kicking him in the face and running. I even go as far as rolling my ankles once they’re loose, but the immediate onset of pins and needles has me changing course. Gritting my teeth, I wait through the pain as Paul moves to the back of the chair to remove the bindings from my wrists.

  I’m not given a chance to work out any kinks or stiff muscles. Immediately, Paul’s hand is back in my hair and he’s physically pulling me out of the chair by it. In his other hand, he holds the rope that was around my wrists. I can’t help but cry out in pain, and it’s all too clear Paul has no qualms about hurting a woman.

  In fact, I’d say he’s very much enjoying this.

  My legs are numb and weak, but Paul refuses to let me sag. If I want to prevent my hai
r from being torn out of my head, I have to stay upright and follow along behind him.

  In the middle of the room, I notice a thick chain with a rusted hook on the end as big as a salad plate hanging from the ceiling. I have no clue what he has planned for me, but I know whatever it is, I need to be moving away from that chain and hook. Pulling away, I ignore the pain in my scalp. Digging my bare feet down into the concrete, I try to jerk myself loose.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Paul says nonchalantly, merely tightening his grip and exerting a bit more force. I’m not strong enough to break free. In no time, I’m standing right under the chain.

  He lets go of my hair while ordering, “Hands together.”

  I glare, unwilling to help him torture me.

  “Look down at my hip,” Paul says conversationally, a light smile on his face.

  I lower my eyes and see what he wants me to see. A knife in a hip holster.

  “Now, put your hands together or I’m going to put a few carvings into your face.”

  The threat is said so softly, and without any real malice, that it makes it even more terrifying and believable. I slam my hands together so hard they make a resounding clap.

  Paul grins as he wraps the rope tightly around my wrists, finishing with a triple knot.

  “Up you go,” he says. Before I can comprehend what that means, he’s jerking my arms up, pulling me right up to my tiptoes, and slipping my bound wrists over the edge of the hook. I try to go flat-footed, but the ropes are too tight and there’s no give in them. As such, I’m stuck not quite on the very tips of my toes, but most of my weight is on the balls of my feet. If I try to lower myself, it pulls horribly on my shoulders.

  Once I’m secure, Paul doesn’t say another word. He merely pivots away from me and leaves the room. From the balls of my feet, I manage to swing myself around to look at the door. He’d left it open, and I immediately try to get my wrists over the hook so I can free myself. I can’t quite extend far enough, though, and I growl in frustration.