The Bellator Saga: The First Trilogy (Dissident, Conscience, and Sojourn)

by Cecilia London

  Gabe clearly didn’t care for the topic. “We had to wait until things were nearing the, uh, end before we got you out. That was February 28, I think.”

  Oh, she wasn’t concerned about actual dates. She just needed to regain her bearings. She must have been delirious for a long time if that many days had passed. “It’s March already?”

  “Cold and nasty as hell but yeah.”

  He was still giving her that look. She didn’t want to think about The Fed. Not now. Not ever. She wished the guys would stop mentioning it. Caroline had multiple reasons to change the subject and there was no sense in wasting time. She needed to make things clear.

  “Jonesie says you want to talk to me about secret squirrel stuff,” she said.

  He laughed shortly. “I guess so.”

  What did he know? Was he connected to anyone? Maybe he knew the same people she did, knew all the passageways and codes. Knew the most important person, the one who’d never broken a promise to her, ever. A small spark of hope rose out of the ash, one that hadn’t occurred to her in her earlier, muddled state.

  “Did my husband send you to rescue me?” Caroline asked.

  Gabe averted his gaze. He must have known she would ask him that. As soon as he broke eye contact she had her answer. Her momentary flash of faith crumbled away.

  “No,” he said.

  He’s dead. Let it go. The fire was gone. She had to throw some water on it and move on. “Are you part of the Underground?”

  “Marginally. I’ve heard rumblings about some people, some activities. But I haven’t, I mean, it sounds like no one’s heard from him, so no one knows if he-”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. Caroline didn’t want to talk about Jack. Not with Gabe. Not when it reminded her that he was gone. “How much do you know about…things?”

  “A little, from what I’ve heard online. Rumors in the wind. Stuff from The Fed.”

  In other words, not much. That was discouraging. “What is it you want from me?”

  He tripped over his next words, like he’d been practicing them in front of the mirror without success. “We want to help you get better. Then we want to get you someplace safe. We all want to get someplace safe.”

  A little illumination. He thought she had the answer to that question. “Where would that be?” she asked.

  “I was hoping you could tell me that.”

  She could tell from his demeanor that his information was severely limited. It wasn’t fair to judge him for that. Or maybe she could. Just a little. Because if he’d had the guts to get her out, she had hoped he was a little more plugged in. This was not a good development.

  “You want me to tell you where the rebels are,” she said.

  Gabe shifted in his chair. “I guess.”

  Caroline lifted up her bandaged arms, gesturing to her stomach. “I can tell you some of what I know, but we won’t be going there for a while.”

  “I know. You’re going to take a while to recover from all of your injuries, particularly the broken bones. I put the splints on your hands.”

  She’d never really looked at them, but when his eyes drifted to the bandages hers did as well. Two solid splints. Fresh dressings on her wrists. His handiwork was comparable to the care she’d received after she’d been shot in the arm. In other words, pretty damned impressive.

  “You did a decent job,” she said.

  “I’m a registered nurse. Don’t use my training much anymore, but I do all right.”

  No doctors, but they had a nurse. Good to know. “Do you think I’ll be able to use them again? My hands, I mean.”

  “Fingers usually heal pretty well.”

  A nice evasive answer. He hadn’t relaxed enough to be straight with her. That would have to change. “I wasn’t asking about generalities. What about my fingers?”

  “You might lose some mobility but as long as you can hold a gun-”

  Yeah yeah yeah. They wanted her armed. Partially disabled but armed. “I know. That’s all I need, right?”

  “We want you to be able to defend yourself.”

  “Crunch said he and Jonesie are going to teach me to fight.”

  “They will. And they’ll do a damn good job.”

  Caroline had to give him credit. He had an answer ready for everything, even if it wasn’t entirely truthful. “What about you?” she asked. “What’s your job? Aside from patching us up when we get hurt.”

  Gabe smiled again. “I’m your cruise director, planning all your activities and helping coordinate our travel routes. I just need a little input from you. But it can wait. We want you to get better first.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s work on that. And take a breath. Being around me isn’t that bad.”

  He hung his head a little. “Is that how I’ve been acting?”

  “You seem a little jumpy. Unless you’re that way all the time.”

  Gabe twisted his fingers together. “Do you know what the government would do if they found you in my house?”

  She shuddered. “I have a vague idea.”

  He took a deep breath. “Can I be honest with you?”

  About fucking time. “Please.”

  “I’ve always admired you,” he said. “This is a little nerve-racking for me.”

  “I’m just a person,” she said. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

  He laughed. “Easy for you to say. I’ve got a lot of competing emotions right now.”

  Okay, that was a little funny. “Pretend I’m one of your patients.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “You need anything?”

  I need my fucking life back. Caroline bit her tongue. She had to be careful not to say things like that out loud. “Go get something to eat. I bet you’re starving.”

  His stomach growled on cue and he chuckled. “It can wait a minute. I need to talk to you about one more thing first.”

  She didn’t like the way that sounded. “You don’t seem too pleased about it.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “But I’m starting to plan our trip and I can’t spend too much time online coordinating it. So I need your help.”

  “Don’t you have a firewall?” Caroline asked. How else could he have tapped into the Underground?

  “I do,” he said. “Now that you and Crunch are here, I’m trying to stay away from that stuff. I’ve got one contact and we speak in code, and that’s it.”

  “What do you need from me?” she asked warily.

  “You’ll need a new name,” he said. “A new identity. All of us do. We aren’t taking any chances.”

  She’d figured that much out. “What else?”

  “We’ll change your eye color, maybe bleach your hair. Even out the cut. Make it look neater.” He gave her the once over. “I think that’ll be enough.”

  Could he tell she was itching to get out of bed? She’d been doing some stretches, trying to regain some strength. Managed to walk to the bathroom a few times. The kind of insignificant action that now seemed a grand victory. She didn’t have nearly enough energy to think about moving around any more than that. Pain was her constant companion along with the fatigue she couldn’t shake. Bed to bathroom and back. That was the extent of what she could handle, and she needed help to do it. She hated feeling weak.

  She’d looked in the mirror in the bathroom earlier in the day. A grievous error. She was almost unrecognizable. Face gray and gaunt. Circles under her eyes. She looked old. Not giving a shit about the healing process, she wrenched the splint off her nose so quickly that she probably undid any good it had done. Aside from everything else that was wrong with her, she was stuck with an almost completely transformed face. Facial structure could change as a person aged, but these alterations had been brought on by more than time. They’d been rendered by fists and guns and walls and elbows.

  Contacts and lighter hair would be enough. With a crooked nose and sunken cheekbones along with blond hair and eyes that were anything but brown, she wouldn’t l
ook a damn thing like herself.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “Crunch and I can work on the hair. I need to cut it better anyway. He said he was going to help me shape it up.”

  Gabe stared at her again, in that way that made her feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t overly attentive or creepily attached to her; she just wasn’t accustomed to being looked at as if she were an actual woman. As if anyone would find her attractive. But he did.

  “We’ll need a photo, too,” he said. “For the IDs. The rest of us have ours but I didn’t have one of you.”

  Maybe that was why he’d been so hesitant. Maybe he knew how much she hated looking at herself. She’d tolerated campaign head shots and family photos but had never been a big fan of driver’s license and passport pictures. Getting in front of a camera and pretending to look happy was more than she could handle. But she’d do it if she had to. For the guys. They were counting on her to help them get out of this place, and she fucking owed them. Even if she had to suppress every urge to scream or cry or yell out in anger, she’d do it.

  “I can handle that,” she said.

  “We don’t need it yet,” Gabe said. “Once you’re up and moving we’ll formulate a plan. It’ll take a while for me to get things taken care of.”

  He didn’t need to specify. Black markets had always existed and they were likely more prevalent now. And more expensive. She didn’t want the details.

  So many things she didn’t want to know. So much oppression, so much greed, so many illegal acts that were necessary to get around a system that was equally corrupt. She’d already done so many things she never thought she’d do, and eventually she’d be asked to do even more. Skirting her ethics to maintain her values. Lying in order to get to the truth. Breaking the law to defend it.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “All right,” Gabe said. “Get some rest, and we’ll figure it out as we go along.”

  Caroline let her head sink into the pillow. The road ahead of her was long and rest seemed like a great idea. She closed her eyes. She could do this. She could overcome this shit. Even if it took the rest of her life. A glass half full thought. An unexpectedly optimistic determination from a woman stuck in a hospital bed in a poorly lit basement in a house on the edge of the nation’s capital, who was always one step away from being recaptured or killed. One single, solitary positive thought. But she’d focus on it anyway, because it was all she had.

  Chapter Eight

  The Safe House

  It took months for her to regain any sort of strength. Months of embarrassing setbacks, of needing to ask for help, of continuing to struggle with simple tasks like feeding herself or getting up to go to the bathroom. Crunch stepped in whenever she asked or whenever he thought she needed assistance, and never complained once. Their bond grew as time passed.

  Caroline learned not to let the details bother her. Not to focus on the whos and wheres and whys and hows. All her questions could eventually be answered. She’d always been the type of person who needed every bit of information in order to make a decision, whether it involved handling a case or voting on legislation or even deciding what to order for dinner. But she let that part of her go.

  She was starting to understand why there were more followers than leaders. Why people would go with the flow and not question the reasons why. It was easier to trust when you didn’t have the luxury to think about the drawbacks.

  She didn’t talk much, but Crunch did. He’d regale her with stories of growing up in Columbia Heights, an area of Washington that Caroline knew well but never spent much time in. He’d make her laugh or keep it serious depending on how he felt she was doing. He’d push her, but never too hard. She was continually strapped of energy but he’d help her walk around the basement day after day in an effort to regain her stamina.

  She slept almost all the time aside from that. Partly from fatigue and partly from what had to be depression. Crunch never asked her about The Fed and she didn’t volunteer information. Best to forget everything that had happened. There were times when she was so blinded by pain that she’d almost forget the reasons behind it. It was easier to clear her mind, try not to think about anything relating to her old life. She’d left that part of her behind and moved on to something else.

  Jones and Gabe went to that horrible place night after night, coming home in the wee morning hours. They hadn’t decided when they would quit; there was too much heat to do it without waiting until closer to the holiday season. Gabe hadn’t asked her about the trip or the rebellion again, mumbling something about how she needed to get into better shape first. Caroline wanted to get the fuck out of Washington and get some goddamn answers. That meant eating better, building muscle, and making herself moderately presentable.

  It was September before she had the ability to start recapturing her previous form. Six arduous months of anger and pain. She thought she’d be happier about reaching a turning point, but she wasn’t. Every step forward was another reminder that she was starting miles behind the life she used to have.

  Her fingers had healed. Maybe that wasn’t the most appropriate word. They were almost as crooked as her nose. She could move them just fine but they ached at inopportune times and didn’t lay flat when she placed her palms against a hard surface. Her stomach bore no ill effects from the knife wound, though the scar remained.

  She kept rubbing her wrists in the useless hope that she could make those wounds disappear. They seemed like the sort of thing that she could force into nonexistence. Put some healing lotion on them and forget about it. The rope burn. The handcuff scars. The number tattooed on her forearm. Unnerving remnants of her captivity.

  The slightly raised welts on her back brushed against her shirt with the tiniest movement. She hated to look at them. She’d catch glimpses as she got out of the shower. Buckle marks and deep red scratches that might have faded with proper treatment lingered as a permanent reminder that she’d been whipped both literally and figuratively.

  Caroline didn’t have a choice when it came to her face. Or most of her body. Her time at The Fed and weeks of fever had strapped her not only of energy but of muscle mass and weight. She was skinny for the first time in her life. Too skinny. And generally unhealthy. That would have to change.

  But today was a big day. Her first day upstairs. She finally had enough chutzpah and strength to climb the basement stairs into the living room. She and Crunch would be taking it easy – watching TV, reading, and doing whatever they could to keep themselves occupied, since she wasn’t quite ready to start her training. And she’d been promised an upstairs bedroom. Caroline had protested at first. Crunch had been there longer. He deserved whatever space was up there. But he disagreed, saying he’d enjoy having some privacy in the basement. Then he laughed and she knew he was being sincere.

  She’d have to take steps to protect herself. Wouldn’t spend much time near the windows, wouldn’t answer the door, wouldn’t step out into the backyard. The blinds and curtains were always shut, in keeping with the other houses on the block. She wouldn’t be throwing them open to greet the day. Wouldn’t sit in the sun relaxing. Wouldn’t do anything to let the neighbors know there was a mysterious woman in the house.

  But to have privacy again. The thought was almost enough to make her giddy. To get rid of that hospital bed and be able to curl up with a book or anything else and just exist. She was desperate to regain the sense that she had something that belonged only to her.

  At Gabe’s insistence, there was a lock on the inside of the bedroom door. And a nightlight inside. Caroline had already decided to leave the lamp on the nightstand lit whenever she slept. Even if she wanted to be alone, darkness was a step she wasn’t willing to take.

  The prospect of moving on to a new and different part of her recovery was enough to get her up those stairs, ever so slowly. Crunch gave her a short tour. There wasn’t much to the house. Three small bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Pretty
standard for a home of its age.

  He grinned at her when they settled onto the couch in the living room. “Feels pretty good, huh?”

  It was amazing how something as simple as climbing a flight of stairs could be so empowering. “Yeah,” she said. “You come up here much?”

  “Not really. I fix our meals here and stuff but I’m much more comfortable downstairs.”

  She didn’t want to tell him that she’d already picked up on that. “Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. It’s not my house but downstairs feels like it’s mine. My parents’ apartment was tiny and the spaces I rented in D.C. before I moved here were nothing special.” He let out a little laugh. “Even tucked next to the laundry room, my place is fucking huge.”

  She’d seen his bedroom. It was pretty damn small. Yet another reminder that perspective was everything. “Now the entire basement is yours.”

  He patted her shoulder. “You’ve done good so far. Gonna keep improving. It’s better for you to be up here.”

  She’d have to wait and see about that last part. “Every day is a winding road,” she said.

  “I kept all the books I read to you,” he said. “If you’d like to put them in your room.”

  She only remembered bits and pieces of The Order of the Phoenix. “How many are there?” she asked.

  Crunch’s expression brightened. He enjoyed literature. “Oh, I breezed through Harry Potter once I started. I read you the first four and was in the middle of the fifth when you woke up but we’ve got copies of all of them.” He laughed. “And I read to you from The Decameron. Jesus Christ, that was boring as fuck but Gabe said he read somewhere that you liked it.”

  Caroline bit her lip. She remembered dreaming about a piano playing. Now she realized it had been much, much more. “I do,” she whispered, praying that he would switch topics.

  Crunch leaned back on the couch. “You know, I’ve done almost all the talking since we’ve been hanging out together. You feel comfortable changing that?”