Running On Empty: An LCR Elite Novel

by Christy Reece

“You’re awake.” The mechanically distorted voice exploded into the silence.

  Refusing to carry on a conversation with the disembodied voice while lying flat on her back, she sat up and put on the face she had perfected long ago. The one that said the instant she freed herself, heads would roll.

  Her surroundings were as harsh and austere as the bed had been. Her eyes roamed the small area, looking for the weakest point where she could make that escape happen.

  “Don’t bother looking around. There’s nothing for you to see.”

  Those words were true. She was in a square cinderblock room. Its contents: a cot, sink, and toilet. Nothing more.

  “And no way to escape,” the voice continued.

  She’d just see about that. “Why am I here?”

  “All in good time.”

  The voice was coming from the small speaker in the corner. She noted a camera as well. Everything she did, every move she made, could be seen. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Silence.

  She pushed herself to her feet, cursing softly when her knees buckled and she fell back to the bed. She was as weak as a day-old kitten. Even if the door in front of her had been wide open, she honestly didn’t know if she would have been able to walk through it.

  Whatever drug they’d given her, on top of the sleeping powder she had ingested, had temporarily disabled her. The instant she regained her strength, she would show them why her code name had once been Red Death.

  Teeth gritted with determination, she went to her feet again. With slow, halting steps, she shuffled to the sink. Ignoring the filth and grime, she turned the faucet on and was relieved to see clear water. Though it was only a trickle, it was enough. She cupped her hands to gather the liquid, drank her fill and then splashed her face and neck.

  Hydrated and much more alert, she turned back around and faced the room. With bullet-like speed, it hit her. She was in a cell. Locked up. No way out. Escape was impossible. Panic raced through her. Black spots appeared before her eyes.

  Cursing the weakness, she pushed the fear into a little box, just as she’d been taught. It didn’t exist outside that compartment. This was nothing like when she was a kid, unable to fight back. She could and would defend herself against anything…anyone. She was bigger, stronger than she had been back then. She had proved that she could survive anything.

  Breathing in and out slowly, she felt the fear wash away. Fury returned, and she welcomed it as an old friend. White-hot wrath had saved her life more than once. It would save her now.

  “You seem…upset.”

  The voice returned. And even though it was digitally altered to sound asexual and emotionless, she detected a hint of emotion. Amusement maybe? Damned if she’d let herself fall prey to this test. They wanted her to lose control. And once that happened, they’d try to extract information. Whoever it was didn’t know her well. She had been trained by the best. She would die before she gave anything up.

  Every facial expression and movement were being studied and analyzed. Sabrina faked a bored yawn and returned to her cot. She lay on her side, facing the camera. If she turned her back, it would make her look weak, as if she were hiding. They needed to see she had no weaknesses.

  Her eyes closed, she regulated her breathing. She had learned this relaxation technique when she first started at the Agency. By concentrating on an object or a pleasurable memory, non-threatening and soothing, she could lower her pulse and blood pressure. Many times she had willed herself to sleep this way. During those dark, horrible days after Declan’s death, when grief had almost destroyed her, this technique had saved her. Otherwise, she wasn’t sure she would have survived.

  She slipped into a peaceful sleep, her last conscious thought of the time she and Declan had been lying on the beach in Costa Rica and he had leaned over and whispered he loved her. It had been the first time he had confessed his feelings. The memory soothed her, and a smile tilted her lips as she fell into a soft, easy slumber.

  Declan backed away from the screen. He had been within seconds of going to her. When she’d turned from the sink and he’d seen the stark terror in her eyes, he’d almost walked to the door and into the cell. He had almost revealed everything.

  He shoved a trembling hand through his hair and turned away from the woman who was now lying peacefully on the bed, a slight smile curving her full, lush mouth. He told himself that his reaction to her fear meant nothing. It was merely a byproduct of his own experience in captivity. He would feel empathy for anyone who felt trapped and hopeless. It was nothing more than that. Their past life together was dead and buried—he had nothing but hatred for this woman.

  He went out the door and stalked up the path to the house. This location was perfect for his plans. In the middle of the woods, deep in a valley between two mountains with no other house within fifty miles. Plenty of privacy. In a way, the land reminded him of his boyhood in Scotland where some of his happiest moments were spent.

  Built more than fifty years ago, the main house had needed work. In between regaining his health and his strength, he’d concentrated on making it livable. Though small, with only a kitchen/living room/bedroom combo and a bathroom, it was fifty times more spacious than his prison cell and a helluva lot cleaner.

  He went through the front door just as a chime from the cell phone in his shirt pocket alerted him to a text message. Withdrawing the phone, he clicked on the message icon: Any luck?

  He had refused Jackson’s assistance in finding Sabrina. It had been impossible to say that he wasn’t looking for her. No one would have bought that lie. But that didn’t mean anyone needed to know what would happen once he found her location. Telling anyone his plans, even one of the few people he still trusted, was out of the question. His plans for Sabrina were between him and her, no one else. Jackson would most definitely not approve.

  He gave a quick reply: Not yet.

  Another chime sounded. How are you feeling? How’re the nightmares?

  Declan shrugged off the irritation. It’d been a long time since he’d had someone care about his welfare, and while he knew Jackson’s concern was well meant, he didn’t like the questions. He had been questioned daily for months. He hadn’t answered his interrogators under severe torture, so he wasn’t about to let a polite request for information sway him.

  The terse reply of I’m good was the best he could do.

  Switching the phone off, he dropped it into a kitchen drawer and walked away. Contact with the outside world still felt strange. In his previous life, before everything had gone to shit, he’d been less of an introvert than he was now but still not much of a social animal. In the small amount of free time he’d been able to carve out, he had preferred quiet evenings at home. How many nights had he sat in front of a fire, sipping a good bourbon and reading? Probably sounded boring to most people, but it had been his way to decompress.

  While imprisoned, he’d had no rights and little privacy. Showers had been infrequent and medical care even less so. Food had been scarce and tasteless. The daily inquisitions and frequent beatings almost more than he could bear. However, it had been the lack of reading material that had almost driven him insane. From the time he could read, he had devoured books like an alcoholic devours booze. Out of everything that had been done to him, it had been lack of words that had almost made him crazy.

  He stood in the middle of the room and waited for peace to settle over him. This was his new sanctuary. The one place where he could surround himself with everything he had missed. In one corner he had placed two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In front of the shelves were boxes filled with some of his favorite classics—their number only a fraction of his once extensive library. But it was a beginning.

  He didn’t wonder what Sabrina had done with his belongings. Made sense that she would have sold everything. His book collection alone would have brought a small fortune, which she would have pocketed, along with the money she made from her betrayal. It was just one more reason t
o hate her.

  The room’s remaining contents were simplistic, basic. A king-size bed, perfect for his large frame, was covered in bedding that smelled clean and fresh. In the corner, some free weights, a weight bench, and a boxing bag. After several months of intensive training, he was stronger and fitter than ever.

  His gaze moved to the kitchen area, which housed a small fridge, a microwave, a two-eyed stove, and a toaster. Gallons of spring water sat on the countertop. And in the bathroom, he had a running toilet, a sink, and an enclosed shower with clean, plentiful water.

  Instead of the peace he expected, bitterness, like a dark, evil entity, swirled within him. This was what he had been reduced to? A box of books, a toilet that flushed, and clean water? This was supposed to make him happy? After what she had done to him? After she had taken everything from him? He was supposed to settle for this?

  He turned his back on his small oasis and walked out the door. He had planned to give her some time to worry about why she had been taken. Suddenly, he didn’t give a damn about the psychological torture he had planned. He wanted answers, he wanted an explanation, and then he wanted vengeance. Her death was the only thing that would give him peace.

  Chapter Six

  Washington, DC

  “Hello, Mr. McCall,” a cheerful, male voice said.

  The man who stood before Noah looked about as dangerous as the rescued black Lab puppy he and Samara had picked out for their kids last week. With iron-gray hair, a wrinkled, craggy face and twinkling, light blue eyes, he was the picture of non-threatening. In fact, if he put on about fifty pounds, he might make a convincing Santa Claus. No way was he involved in the dangerous world of covert ops.

  “And you are?” Noah asked.

  “Albert Marks.” He held out his hand. “You can call me Al.”

  The friendly, low-key demeanor made Noah more wary than ever. As he shook the older man’s hand, Noah noted the firm, solid grip along with the calluses on his trigger finger.

  “And I assume you are Sabrina’s former employer?”

  “Something like that.” He gazed around as he spoke. To a casual observer, it looked as though he was taking in the view, but the keen alertness in that sharp gaze made Noah reevaluate his first impression. This wasn’t a man who did anything without a reason.

  “Why don’t we walk and talk?” Albert said.

  Setting his gait to the slower pace of the older man, Noah waited for him to start. He had come to this meeting with almost no knowledge of what he would learn. When he hired Sabrina, it had been on the recommendation of Jordan Montgomery, who had, at one time, worked for the same agency.

  Noah knew enough about Sabrina to trust her implicitly, but some things he had taken on faith. Though he usually liked to know as much about his operatives as possible in order to assess their strengths and weaknesses, he had accepted not knowing everything about Sabrina. Recommendations from one of his most trusted operatives, along with the knowledge that she had worked for the ultrasecretive EDJE had gone a long way in his hiring decision. He had never regretted his decision. For the years she had been an LCR operative, her job performance had been exemplary.

  “Sabrina was once our most valued female agent,” Marks said. “I oversaw her training. Watched her grow from a wary, damaged young woman to a mature, finely tuned, lethal agent. There’s not a finer or more dedicated professional alive. Working for you, Mr. McCall, may have saved her sanity.”

  “I didn’t come here to be convinced of my operative’s professionalism or strength. I’m aware of that. I came here because you seemed to have a means to find her. If that’s not the case, then you’re no help to me or her.”

  A dry chuckle emerged. “Forgive me, son. I have a tendency to go down memory lane a little too often these days.” He nodded. “Yes, I do have the means to find Sabrina. In fact, I’m waiting on a call about her location any moment.”

  “You know who took her?”

  “There are numerous people who would like to get their hands on her, so the suspect list is quite long. However, I don’t know who has her or why.”

  “Then how can you pinpoint her location?”

  “She has a locating device in her arm.”

  “You tagged her?”

  “With her permission, of course. We tag all EDJE employees for their protection. When she left, I offered to remove it, as we always do for departing agents. However, Sabrina knew she would always be a high-value target. She trusted me enough to keep the locator device active. I’m the only person who knows that she still has hers. Official records indicate that it was removed.”

  “That’s why she gave me your phone number and code.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “We’ve always had a good relationship. Most Agency employees called me Albert, but Sabrina always called me Uncle Al.

  “I retired last year, but Sabrina and I still chat from time to time. Even though it pained me to no end when she left us, I understood her reasoning. Taking lives can destroy a person’s soul, no matter how rotten that life might have been. Of course, Declan saw the damage long before I did.” He shook his head. “Never seen anything like those two. They could read each other better than most people can read books.”

  Albert’s gaze went unfocused as he reminisced. “Sabrina was twenty, but in many ways still just a child when she came to us. And though we have numerous female agents, Sabrina was like a daughter to me. And, of course, Declan was as dear to me as my own children. When they fell in love…it just seemed like it was a perfect match.

  “Did you ever meet Declan, Mr. McCall?”

  “No,” Noah said. “Never had the privilege.”

  “Finest man I knew. Losing him was like losing a part of my family. In fact, he—”

  Hoping to divert Albert’s journey down memory lane again, Noah opened his mouth to suggest that the man call his people again to see if they had a location on Sabrina. A cell phone chimed in Albert’s pocket, stopping him.

  The friendly, charming smile disappeared, and a cold, deadly look entered Albert’s eyes. As he answered the phone with a clipped “Yes,” the older man’s expression went rock hard. This was the man who had trained assassins and been in charge of deadly operations.

  Albert listened for a full minute before speaking. Noah was transfixed by the incredible transformation in the man’s demeanor. No doubt about it, in his younger years, Albert Marks would have been a helluva an agent.

  The older man pocketed his phone. “We have her location. Now, let me ask you, Mr. McCall, do your people have what it takes to rescue Sabrina?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “And the people who took her…can you capture them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. I’d like to have them brought to me. I’ll text you a location.” The affable, charming smile reappeared. “I’ll handle it from there.”

  Having seen both sides of Albert Marks, Noah realized every expression he had revealed and each word he had uttered had all been chosen for a reason. This man, whoever the hell he was, was both impressive as all get-out and scary as hell.

  Coley Spring, Idaho

  Strong, hard hands bit into her shoulders and shook her awake. Sabrina blinked her heavy eyelids and gazed blearily up at the tall figure above her. A black ski mask covered his face, and even his eyes stayed hidden behind reflective sunglasses. All she saw was her reflection—ratty hair, pale face, hideous bruise on her cheek and tired, glazed eyes.

  Whoever the man was, he wanted his identity to stay hidden, which meant she knew him. And by hiding his face, she assumed he didn’t intend to kill her. At least not yet.

  He pulled her to her feet, and she realized that he had bound her hands behind her. The thought that she hadn’t wakened when that happened infuriated her. Allowing that fury to envelop her, she managed to jerk away from his hands and stand on her own. Though she swayed like a drunk, she was pleased that her legs held.

  Shoulders straight, she ignored the
knowledge that she looked like three-day-old roadkill and glared up at her abductor.

  The man took several steps back and just looked at her through those damn glasses. While he looked, she took the time to assess him. He was tall. Maybe about six-foot-five and muscular. Not just muscular—strong, hard, seemingly indestructible. The hands that shook her had been large, unyielding. His strength didn’t intimidate her. She had taken down men just as large and brutal. Every man had his weakness…she would find his.

  As she regarded him unblinkingly, he backed away further. Her heart lightened. He had to know what she could do to him. A worldwide reputation of lethal legwork commanded respect.

  Still, he continued his silence. Would taunting him bring him closer? It was worth a try. She smiled up at him, challenge in her eyes. “What are you so afraid of? I’m all tied up, barely able to move.”

  Silence.

  Fine, she would wait him out. They continued to stare at each other for what felt like an eternity. At last, when she was to the point of screaming at him, he huffed out a long, heavy breath and said, “Do you have any idea how very much I want to…kill you?”

  Every sense went on alert. She knew that voice…didn’t she? Though it was raspy, gravelly, it was a voice she’d heard before. Or was it? Years ago she had been able to not only identify voices within a sea of chatter but also accents and dialects. And once she had even ID’d a man on a recording from an explosive sigh he had given just before he’d shot an EDJE agent.

  This man’s voice was familiar and not. It sounded damaged or not right, as if his vocal cords had been strained beyond endurance. Yet the timbre or tone called to her. An outbreak of chills swept through, and goose bumps covered her entire body. That was damn strange. The voice didn’t incite fear or even anger. Instead, it was causing some sort of odd excitement in her bloodstream.

  Holy hell, was she getting turned on by a stranger who had brutally abducted her? That was freaking sick. Not only was it too early to consider Stockholm syndrome, her reaction didn’t compute to that kind of feeling. She actually felt a rush of arousal zooming through her.