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

by Cecilia London

  His cheeks reddened. “Hardly. And I’d advise you to stay put.”

  Caroline wasn’t in any position to be getting into a battle of wills with an armed man but her common sense had left her. This asshole expected her to cave and cower at the sight of a firearm. Little lady afraid of the man with the big bad gun. And she refused to do it. She folded her arms, unintimidated, filled to the brim with a confidence she hadn’t tasted in years.

  “I didn’t drag myself and my men all the way here so that we could be derailed by a wannabe mall cop with halitosis and a tiny dick complex,” she said. “My name is Caroline Gerard McIntyre, I am the former First Lady of Pennsylvania, and I demand to speak with your commander.”

  He laughed. “And I’m the King of fucking England. I’ve seen pictures of the commander’s wife. And let me tell you, you look nothing like her.”

  It took her a minute to process what he said. Her swagger faded. Caroline stepped away from him and staggered backwards into the table.

  “Excuse me?” she whispered. “The commander’s wife?”

  He moved closer to her, sweat beads visible on his forehead. “Yeah. Our dear leader is the former Governor of Pennsylvania. There’s no way in hell you’re his wife. She’s dead. And way more attractive than you anyway,” he sneered. “Think of a better story. We don’t need untrustworthy strays.”

  Caroline’s head was spinning. “My husband is dead.”

  Potbelly smiled. “Whoever your husband is, he may indeed be dead, but Commander McIntyre is very much alive.” His arm was steady as he kept the gun trained at her head. “Looks like you picked the wrong identity to assume. Twice,” he added.

  There was no way that what this man was saying was true, but he sounded so sure of himself. This trip to California had been doomed from the start. Her arrival had been a terrible mistake, an awful, no good, very bad idea, and she had uncovered a trap sprung by The Fed in hostile territory to uncover less than loyal citizens. She had to find Gabe, Crunch, Jones, and Gig and get them out of there, though the odds of them escaping seemed dim at best. Her throat was dry and she tried to find the wherewithal to speak.

  “This has all been a misunderstanding,” she said, attempting to sound contrite. “We’ll seek sanctuary elsewhere.”

  The potbellied rebel strode toward her until the gun was inches away from her nose. Evidently a firearm burnished his sense of self-importance. “Too late, sweetheart.”

  It wasn’t his voice she heard but those of the agents who had held her at the Fed, who had used the same tone as they whispered unspeakable things while they were beating the living shit out of her. A cacophony of dirty words and sadistic laughter echoed through her mind, twisting its way into her psyche. She had to get away from him, away from whatever might be waiting for her if she remained in the room, even if it meant risking her life.

  She did the only thing that seemed to make any sense. Caroline slammed her right fist into Potbelly’s jaw as hard as she could. His face was fleshy but she still felt the unwelcome sting of bone against bone. The move surprised him and he reeled, momentarily stunned. She hurriedly grabbed for his gun hand but in the split second in which she made her maneuver, he somehow recovered and jabbed her in the nose with his left fist. It was a glancing blow but she fell back against the table. The blood started to flow. She’d been punched so many times that it wouldn’t take much to do it anymore.

  “You hit like a girl,” she said weakly.

  He started to bring the gun down toward her head. Her training kicked in and she ducked away from him, kicking him in the crotch as forcefully as she could. He doubled over.

  “You fucking cunt!” he screeched, holding his jaw shut. She wondered if she’d actually managed to break it.

  “I hate that word,” Caroline said, her rage fueled by a rush of adrenaline. “I really fucking hate that word.”

  She grabbed two fistfuls of the rebel’s hair in her hands and brought her knee up to his face as hard as she could. She heard a satisfying crunch and knew that even if she hadn’t broken his jaw she’d definitely broken his nose. “Now we’re even.” She wrestled the gun out of his hand. It was a much higher caliber than she was comfortable handling, but it would have to do. Caroline jumped up, pushed him to the floor with the sole of her boot, and pointed the gun at his head. “Let’s start this conversation over,” she said. “Take me to see your commander. Now.”

  He looked up at her, blood covering his face. He was holding his jaw shut but managed to speak. “I doubt Commander McIntyre wants to see you. You’re playing a goddamn game.”

  When he glanced up at the mirrored wall she scowled. He was fucking with her. Whoever was watching them was up there laughing at her. Laughing at them both.

  “Don’t say his name!” she yelled, her gun hand shaking. Jack was dead and this man dared to toy with her emotions. “Don’t lie to me!”

  “You’re nuts, lady. You want to shoot me? You don’t have the guts.”

  If only he knew. She could do something else to get his attention. “Try me,” she said, and pointed the gun at the two-way mirror, aimed carefully at the top of it, and fired. The recoil was strong enough that the gun almost flew out of her hands, but she managed to hold on to it.

  Just as she expected, the glass was bulletproof. That didn’t keep her from sending glass shards flying and doing a hell of a lot of damage in the meantime. It had to have shocked the piss out of whoever was sitting behind it.

  He looked at her in disbelief. “You’re crazy. You’ve got a fucking death wish.”

  “According to you I’m already dead, so what does it matter?” Caroline wiped her bloody nose on her sleeve. She needed proof. Proof that he was lying. Then she wanted this asshole to pay, because she wasn’t going to listen to him spin a tale meant only to shatter her emotions. “I want to see the commander.”

  She heard a large number of angry voices outside the room and swerved quickly to face the door. The potbellied rebel let out a contemptuous hoot as he struggled to his feet. “You’re gonna get a lot more than that, you dumb bitch.”

  The door burst open and half a dozen men in fatigues stormed inside the tiny room. She brought the gun back to Potbelly’s head, which didn’t stop the other men from aiming their rifles simultaneously at her.

  She’d gone through so much to get to this point, had managed to skirt out of so many tight spots, had been beaten and bloodied and bruised and psychologically abused to the point of near death, and here she was, about to die at the hands of a bunch of Neanderthals with AR-15s who were supposedly the saving grace of the nation. Her highly questionable judgment had sent her miles off track from any possible favorable outcome. It seemed so anticlimactic, so unnecessary, and so incredibly stupid that all she could do was let out a strangled laugh.

  Potbelly, hunching slightly, leaned on the table for support. His smug expression was too much. “Best put down the gun, sweetheart.”

  Caroline swallowed back her unease. There was no conceivable way out of this that didn’t involve her going out in a blaze of glory, a hail of gunfire, or both. Since all the men had their rifles pointed directly at her head, she assumed it would involve plenty of gunfire. She didn’t exactly have the greatest track record when it came to dodging bullets. And there was no way to ensure that her companions were okay. Her palms started to sweat and she tightened her grip on the handgun.

  She heard loud footsteps coming down the hall. They were self-assured, confident, cocky. The kind of walk you’d expect from a professional. The familiar stride of a man who knew damn well that he was in charge.

  And she knew who those footsteps belonged to before he entered the room. Potbelly hadn’t been bluffing. His silver hair shone under the fluorescent lights. He wasn’t wearing the uniform of the other soldiers, but around him was a distinctive air of authority. He stood tall and strong and although he was now in his mid-fifties he was indisputably in much better physical shape than the last time she’d seen him. There were
a few more lines on his face, and his blue eyes were dark and weary. But it was very obviously Jack.

  The soldiers stepped forward, but he held up his hand, waving them back. He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers for what seemed like forever. A probing analysis from a man annoyed at the prospect of dealing with an unexpected interloper. His impassive gaze broke her heart.

  Her husband didn’t recognize her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Rebel Base

  He doesn’t know it’s me.

  A disheartening thought, but it wasn’t enough to discourage her. Caroline’s grip on the gun slackened. She was transfixed by him, unable to focus on anything else. Her husband’s eyes were devoid of emotion but they were searching her, and she could not see any suggestion that he recognized who he was looking at. She brought her hands up in surrender before reaching out to him, convinced she was seeing a mirage. She needed to touch him. To know that he was real. To make sure this wasn’t a dream.

  Potbelly snatched the gun out of her right hand and backhanded her with it. The butt of the handle cracked somewhere between her cheek and temple, and the force of his anger was strong enough to throw her backward into the wall, where she slid to the floor. She brought her hands up to her head in case he wasn’t finished.

  “Stand down, Buchanan,” Jack said. “That isn’t how we treat our guests. Particularly the female ones.”

  “But, sir,” Potbelly protested. He sounded whiny. A strange way to react when the most important man on the base was in the room. “She was spouting nonsense. She took my gun.”

  “She sure did.” Jack’s voice was firm, but mildly amused. “Better get to the infirmary to get checked out. Give me your service weapon.”

  Caroline could hear the large man grumbling as he left the room. All the other men, however, seemed content to stay where they were. Jack crossed to the back of the room and knelt down in front of her, discarding the gun on the table. He grabbed her hands and yanked her up until she was sitting against the wall.

  “Look at me,” he said. His voice was cold. Had he always been that cold?

  The pain in Caroline’s head was excruciating, and she moaned. She tried to get her brain to come into focus, to try to distract herself from what was a seriously bruised if not fractured cheekbone.

  “Look at me,” he repeated, and roughly grabbed her chin and forced her head against the wall.

  You’re safe, he won’t kill you, she thought to herself, even as his fingers squeezed tighter. But the voice in her subconscious wasn’t all that convincing, and she wasn’t entirely sure she could count on him to keep her crew out of harm’s way.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  He loosened his grip on her chin, just a little. “I wasn’t aware that you were in any position to be asking questions.”

  Was that the standard line when people in this rebellion were confronted? She plodded ahead anyway. “Where are the men I came here with?” she asked, her eyes closed. Bright lights flashed behind her eyelids. The throbbing in her head was blinding.

  “They’re fine,” he said quietly. “That might change if they decide to pull a stunt like you just did.” Jack deliberately pressed a thumb to her injured cheekbone and she cried out in pain. He slid a handkerchief into her hands. “Open your eyes. You’re bleeding.”

  She did as he said, and his blurry features came into focus. He withdrew his hand from her face as she used the cloth to dab at her nose. Jack was looking at her with suspicion, and she had a hard time maintaining eye contact.

  “You have blue eyes,” he said coolly.

  Did he think she’d waltz in looking like herself? “I’m wearing contacts.”

  “And blond hair.”

  “Peroxide.”

  “Your nose is crooked.”

  “Even more so now, thanks to your interrogator.”

  “What made you think you could steal Buchanan’s weapon without repercussions?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she mumbled.

  “You certainly scared the shit out of him.” Jack smiled wryly. “Maybe literally.”

  Some of the soldiers who remained in the room grinned. Maybe Buchanan wasn’t all that popular.

  Caroline gingerly touched her cheek. “I think he might have made up for it.”

  “I apologize for his behavior. We don’t tolerate that kind of violence toward our female visitors.”

  “Even the unruly ones?”

  His light tone vanished. “Especially the unruly ones.”

  Some things never changed. Caroline’s latent feminist popped out. “Your misplaced chivalry perpetuates the myth that women are delicate creatures incapable of taking care of themselves.”

  She saw what she hoped was a flash of recognition in his eyes, but it quickly faded.

  “Why did you shoot at the glass?” he asked.

  In hindsight, that piece of her plan seemed exceedingly ill-advised and irrational, to say nothing of extremely dangerous. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said lamely.

  “I know. I was listening. You aimed a little too close to my head, by the way.”

  Despite her fuzzy brain and precarious situation, she couldn’t help but feel irritated. If she’d had the strength, she would have put her hands on her hips. “Then why the fuck didn’t you come in here when I said who I was?”

  “My wife is dead. I don’t have time for fairy tales.”

  Caroline tried to sit up straighter but her body groaned in protest. “I assure you that I am not dead. At least, in theory.”

  Jack reached out to steady her and began to study her intently. “Every bit of intelligence we’ve received indicates that Caroline was killed in a federal holding facility.”

  She flinched at the sound of her name, for he spoke with a finality that indicated he was disinclined to believe anything she had to say. She gazed into his eyes again, seeing nothing but detached curiosity and maybe a little anger. She tried to concentrate and tell him the truth but everything seemed to be running together in her mind. Was he real? Was this even happening? She didn’t know. But she had to keep talking. It was the only way out of this.

  “Your intelligence is bad. I was left to die after I refused to talk. They were sloppy. The men I came here with rescued me. They were part of an underground movement. Two of them worked at the prison.” Her thoughts were jumbled and she wondered if what she was saying was coming out properly. “They manipulated things so that it appeared to The Fed that I was dead. Their ruse was successful. I don’t know how they did it and I didn’t ask.”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t believe you. It’s not possible.”

  Had he always been this much of an asshole? Maybe she’d romanticized him in her mind. “I feel like I should be insulted that you don’t recognize me.”

  He smiled faintly. “You don’t look much like the Caroline I knew. But you sound a little like her.”

  She wasn’t sure if his response was cause for optimism or not. Her brain drifted toward fogginess again and she fought to stay conscious. His hands came around her arms to keep her from sliding to the floor.

  “No, you don’t.” He cuffed her face. It was surprisingly gentle. “Don’t pass out. You need to give me some answers.”

  Caroline struggled to open her eyes again and failed. She rested her pounding head against the wall, which was nice and cool. “What do you want to know?” she asked thickly.

  “What is your name?”

  “Caroline Joan Gerard McIntyre.”

  “You’re sticking to that, huh?”

  “It’s the truth. Do you want to know my confirmation name too?”

  “You’re sure that’s your name? Your legal name?”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. He was going to choose now of all times to nitpick about the fact that she hadn’t taken his name? “The McIntyre is used socially. I’m starting to regret that decision. My husband is a jerk.”

  His tone remained firm. “What
was your first job?”

  Really? That was his transition? “I loaded boxes at a warehouse during high school.”

  Jack sighed. “Your first real job.”

  Apparently he was the only one who got to be capricious. “I was in the honors program at the Department of Justice. I hated it.”

  “Why?”

  Her head felt like she was being knocked around by about fifty jackhammers and he wanted her to recite her résumé. To call him a jerk would be far too kind. “All the other new law school grads were assholes. When I got offered a job with the Baltimore City State’s Attorney, I took it.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I prosecuted gang members and drug dealers. And domestic violence cases.”

  “How long did you stay in Baltimore?”

  Where was he going with this? “I was there for a few years, but then I got married and moved to Rockville. I took a job as an Assistant U.S. Attorney and worked in Greenbelt before I ran for office.”

  “What’s the name of your first husband?”

  Jack had gone full asshole, poking at old wounds. Her desire to touch him had long since disappeared. “Nicholas Baumann. He was killed in a car accident during my second term in Congress.”

  “What are the names of your children?”

  Caroline shivered. He was getting mean, dredging up topics she very much wanted to avoid. He also didn’t appear to find her answers to be sincere. Whatever temporary hope she’d felt at seeing him was rapidly eroding. “Marguerite and Sophie,” she whispered.

  “What are your nicknames for them?”

  She blinked back tears and glared at him. He knew better. He fucking knew better. “Don’t make me talk about them,” she said softly.

  “Answer my questions,” he ordered.

  Caroline closed her eyes again and curled up in a ball against the wall, shrinking away from him. She relived those last despairing moments at the Governor’s Mansion, saw their faces in her mind, remembered the last time she’d seen them, touched them, kissed them goodbye. Grief cascaded upon her. Fuck him.