She looked at the camera. “What if I don’t?”
There was a few seconds’ pause. “Then you don’t get more.”
No reason to test her fate when it came to food and water. She peered in the hole. It ran deep enough she couldn’t see the other end. She was tempted to put her arm in and see what she could feel, but she’d experiment first.
She placed both bottles in but left one sticking out. Just the neck. Hopefully something the camera wouldn’t be able to see.
“Better?” she asked.
The motor whirred. The door slid down and sliced through the neck of the bottle without a pause. Reagan picked up the severed plastic from the ground, and swallowed hard at the clean, precise cut.
When the compartment opened again, there were two more bottles of water in there, but no food this time. She was glad she hadn’t eaten all of hers yet.
Time ticked away, measured in videos. Water came twice as often as food. She grabbed naps when she could. If she thought being stuck in a motel room was boring, this was going to drive her out of her fucking mind.
She couldn’t sit in here and rot. She’d do pushups, but her arms weren’t strong enough. Maybe it was time to learn. Whoever was watching could laugh at her wimpiness, and if they left her in here too long, she’d be Sara Conner. But from Terminator 2, not the first one.
She pushed off the wall rather than the floor, because she wasn’t Sara Conner yet. Ten. Then twenty. Sweat trickled down her back. She wasn’t exerting herself that much. She kept going. It’s hot in here. She had to stop before her arms were tired, because her palms were so slick with sweat.
Great. Not only was she stuck in the same clothes she had when she left Hare’s, she was also gross and sweaty on top of that. She sat again and sipped water until her body temperature returned to normal.
A new clip blared onto the screen. The date on it was recent. The day after she left Hare’s. The piece was about a condominium fire in downtown Seattle.
Her stomach dropped into her shoes. She was almost certain that was Hare’s building. “What the fuck is this?” she screamed.
Nothing.
Clips bled together. She fell asleep and woke up shivering. She tried to exercise, and the heat in the room rose probably twenty degrees. She crammed one of her meals down the toilet and tried to flood the room. Would someone come running?
The water spilled across the floor. They hadn’t shut off the source yet. Maybe they weren’t watching her that closely? The water level only reached a few millimeters in the room. She realized it was escaping through tiny vents at the bottom of the walls.
“Clear the clog yourself, or you won’t have a toilet,” the mechanical voice said.
“Are you kidding?”
The computerized voice repeated its message.
Reagan rolled her eyes, fished out the soaked food, and tossed it in the open slot in the wall. She returned to her futon. As the room dried, a musty smell greeted her. The only thing she’d accomplished was making her mattress damp and smelly. Or maybe the stench was her. She didn’t know anymore.
“Don’t flush this one,” the mechanical voice was back a few hours later, along with another MRE.
“Fine.” She’d do one better. She tore the heating packet from her meal packet, and poured in enough water to get it hot. Then dumped the scalding water over her arm.
She screamed as the burning agony seared through her body. This might not be her smartest move to date, but logic wasn’t doing her any good, so what the hell? They’d have to treat her if she was injured, right? She didn’t hold back her whimpers and screams, letting them drown out the TV.
When the pain was too much to bear, she shoved her arm in the toilet and let the chilly water chase away the heat. At least temporarily. Blisters were forming on her skin.
She looked at the camera. “Do I have to kill myself to get a person in here?”
Chapter Seventeen
“Your safety isn’t as important as mine.” The familiar voice and words taunted Reagan. It was what her would-be kidnapper said when he approached her at the restaurant. “The gun is loaded, and if you scream, if you run, if you try to walk away from me, I will shoot you in the back.”
The screen flickered to a news story she hadn’t seen yet, featuring the gunman’s body, lying in the parking lot where she and Hare left him. It was local Salt Lake News, and the scrolling headline says John Doe found dead in Murray parking lot. According to the anchorwoman, the police weren’t releasing a cause of death, but they were looking for any information.
Hare had lied to her again. The gunman was dead, and Hare was the one who killed him.
“There’s no scenario where you walk cleanly away from this.” The digital voice was back. “You can break, or you can take the coward’s way out.”
“Break for what? I don’t know what you fucking want!”
“The same thing you said you wanted.”
“The fuck out of here? That’s the only thing I want right now.”
There was no response. She didn’t know if it was worse that she argued with a computer, or that it was the one to end the conversation.
More time passed. Enough for another meal, and at least three-hundred more video and photo clips.
The door latch clicked, and her muscles tensed before her brain processed the sound. She looked around for a weapon, but of course, there was none. She’d kick someone if she had to. Even if they took her down, she’d feel a glimmer of satisfaction if she landed a nut shot.
Two men in full body armor burst into the room, shoulder to shoulder, assault rifles pointed at her. Their faces were hidden under helmets and black masks.
The guns made her hesitate. No. She didn’t care. She’d rush one of them anyway, and see if she could catch them off guard.
“Stop.” Blake stepped between them.
Rage and hurt flooded Reagan’s limbs. She screamed and lunged. One of the guards sidestepped, tripped her, and landed a knee in the small of her back. He twisted her arm behind her back. A agony shot from the burns on her forearm all the way to her shoulder. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of crying out in pain.
“I said stop,” Blake shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Sir?” the man pinning her down said.
Hearing human voices for the first time since she arrived set her brain off balance.
“She’s a fucking guest”—anger dripped from Blake’s words—“and you have her locked up like a terrorist.”
“But we were told—”
“I don’t care.” Blake cut the other guard off. “Take her to a real room, get her a change of clothes, and let her shower.”
Reagan let a bitter laugh slip out, as she was hauled to her feet. This was something else Alex taught her—how psychological torture worked. It was rarely about direct pain.
“Something funny, Alice?” Blake studied her.
“That’s not my fucking name. But it’s nice to know we’re all mad here.”
He raised his brows.
“This isn’t going to work any better than anything else you’ve done to me.”
“What won’t?”
“This good-cop, bad-cop bullshit. Leave me in here if you’re going to keep playing this psychological-warfare game.”
Blake frowned and turned to the guard still at the door. “Real room. Now. Then I want you back in the vault.”
He nodded, handed Blake his rifle, and stepped toward Reagan. Both guards were large enough that they kept her immobile while they put shackles on her legs and arms and connected the two sets behind her back.
“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner.” She let the sarcasm drip from her voice.
“You’re not allowed to walk out of here, regardless of your status. And I’m not going to lie to you about it, the way Jabberwock’s people did—”
“You’re one of those people.”
“—but yo
u’re upper crust, not bottom rung.” He kept talking as if she hadn’t. “Besides, we need to relocate you with as few casualties as possible, to you or them.”
She gave him a thin smile. “Swell.”
He stepped aside, and she was led down a long hallway. When she stumbled, she was dragged until she caught her footing again. They stepped into an elevator and rode up to a floor labeled P. The new hallway was as nondescript as the old one. Another man waited at one of the doors. He kept his gun trained on her, while her shackles were removed.
The door was opened, and she was pushed inside.
It was almost identical to the motel room she’d spent several days locked in. She dropped to her knees, struggling to contain her frustration. The broken blisters on her arm throbbed in time with the ache in her skull.
When the door creaked open behind her, she couldn’t find the desire to move.
“You were in there for a week.” It was Blake. His voice, once friendly and familiar, grated against her nerves. “If they were going to torture you, they would have dragged it out a lot longer. And I wouldn’t be a part of it.”
She rolled her eyes. Lying fucking bastard. Hare was right; Hatter did have a second employer. She dragged herself to her feet and turned to face him. “The non-stop abuse doesn’t work in psychological torture, unless there’s some nice sprinkled in. The hope of kindness. That taste of relief, before it’s yanked away again. And according to the exchange downstairs, you weren’t a part of it this time either. So... I’m not reassured.”
“I don’t blame you. I had no idea that was going on. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm. I feel all better now. Thanks.” She studied him. Slacks. A button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. No tie. No shoulder- or hip-holster. Did he have a hidden one? No lump near his ankle.
He held his arms straight out and turned in a slow circle. “They didn’t let me come in here armed. Pat me down if you’d like.”
“I really wouldn’t. I’m not sure why you came in here at all. And who are they?”
Blake raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Do you want to sit?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. They are Homeland Security. I’m with the National Security Agency, and helping them on this case.”
Well, shit. She didn’t see that coming. “Hare was right. You do have a second job.” If she told these people who Jabberwock really was, they’d probably be pretty thrilled. And if they’d approached her politely, she might have considered it. After the past week, she needed something for collateral.
“Had,” Blake corrected her. “They pulled me out, because somehow, Hare figured it out. I kind of hoped you and I had a rapport. An understanding. I didn’t expect you to sell him my identity.”
She snort-laughed. “Your people locked me in a cell for a week without any explanation, and I’m the one who broke the bonds of trust? I never told him anything, except that you and I were together the night Wayne died. I assumed Jabberwock sent you.”
Pieces clicked in her head. If she told Hare, she told Jabberwock. If he didn’t assign Hatter... Hare knew from the night in the country club that Hatter wasn’t one of his after all. Technically she was the one who sold him out. She might feel worse about it if almost everything about this situation was different. “Wait. Is this place wired with cameras, like my other cell?”
“Yes.”
“Do your employers know you fucked me that night in Las Vegas?” She let satisfaction glimmer inside when he winced.
“Yes.”
“Was that part of the job?” she asked.
“Keeping you safe was. Wayne was our contact, so he tipped us off to your location, and watching you was for both him and the job. The sex only had to do with you and me.”
“Ooh, I feel special now.” She closed the distance between them. “Do you want to join me in the shower? Help me get clean? Show your colleagues what they missed out on, letting you keep an eye on me alone?” She asked in her sweetest voice.
Blake stepped back and scrubbed his face. “No.”
“Then you’d better hurry to the camera room if you want to enjoy the show.” She turned away, stripping off her shirt. She didn’t care who saw her doing what, and if they had some sort of sick twist planned by letting her bathe, she’d experience it clean.
She heard Blake sigh, and a second later, her door opened and then latched shut.
AN HOUR LATER—AT LEAST this room had a clock and a TV with a working remote—she lay on the bed, damp hair spread out around her as she stared at the ceiling. Her brain still felt like it had been forced through a cheese grater, but she smelled like flowers and cheap soap instead of like she’d been locked in a cell for a week in the same outfit. The clothes they left for her were hers, from her apartment. Which was another new kind of creepy. At least she got to explore a variety of flavors of disturbing.
Someone knocked.
“Now you bother with propriety?” she called. “Like I can stop you from coming in?”
Blake stepped into the room. “You’re being held, but we’re reasonable.” He sounded tired.
She didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him. “Reasonable. Right. Filming me while I shower and shit is completely rational.” She sat up. At the same moment she saw the paper bag in his hand, grease staining one side, the smell of fast-food hamburgers and fries hit her. Her stomach churned in protest. “I’m not eating anything that’s not pre-packaged.”
“I don’t blame you.” He put the paper bag on the edge of the dresser but still held two plastic bags. He set the first in front of her on the mattress. The sack held an MRE and a bottle of Gatorade.
He sat next to her on the mattress and unpacked the second bag. “We need to take care of that burn. How the hell did you do that, anyway?” He pulled out gauze, tape, and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“Your watchdog friends didn’t tell you?”
“Did they do it?” He reached for her arm.
She jerked away. “I did it. I wanted them to stop ignoring me.”
“Fuck. I’m so sorry.” He held out the ointment. “You can apply this yourself, but it’s going to be easier if you let me help.” His tone was sympathetic without the slightest edge.
She was too tired to argue. She shifted enough to give him better access to her arm. His touch, soft and tentative, dragged memories to the front of her mind. Of Las Vegas. Of the first night in the motel, after being shot at, when Hare washed off the scrapes on her legs. Her stomach churned at the thoughts
Her brain skipped over random events, treating her to an image of a man lying motionless in a parking lot, then patching in several stills from the videos she’d been shown downstairs. She shuddered.
“Are you all right?” Blake asked.
“Really? You think it’s okay to ask me that? You don’t know the answer?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He covered the sores on her arm with salve, easing up each time she winced and waiting until she relaxed before resuming his doctoring. A few minutes later, he finished and scooted back on the mattress.
Decorum said she should thank him. Fuck decorum.
“Why am I here?” she finally asked. “Someone tried to shoot me. The same guy tried to take me. I’m guessing he’s one of yours. And now I’m in your custody, because... Why?”
Blake drummed his fingers on his leg. “He was one of ours. That’s part of the reason you got the treatment you did. Some of these guys blame you.”
“Hare told me he was unconscious. I didn’t know he was dead until I saw the news clip.”
“I figured. You don’t radiate killer. I’m still furious they did that to you. You’re here because I’ve been inside Jabberwock’s organization for seven years, and at the top for three. You—not the circumstances around you, but you personally—are the first time I’ve ever seen him uproot entire branches of his organization. He pulled half his people from their posts around the world to guard
you, and has delayed dozens of deals since you stepped into the picture. He only stopped short of moving the world for you. We want to know why.”
That didn’t make any sense, even given what Hare told her about Alex. But if he had been using her as bait, turning things on their head was the perfect way to make a mole ask why, and throw them off their game. The way things crumbled for Hatter. “I don’t know. I’m a college student who wanted to find out what happened to my brother. That’s it. I’m nothing special,” she said.
Blake looked up and caught her gaze. Something in his eyes made her breath catch, but she didn’t know what or why. “You’re obviously someone special.” Did his voice just crack?
No.
He stood and moved the remaining first-aid supplies to the nightstand. “Get some sleep. If you can. I need to find out what happens next.”
“Will you share that information with me?”
He turned away.
She wasn’t surprised by the lack of an answer.
Sleep wasn’t happening. As minutes ticked into hours, a new plan formed. It was probably lunacy. It had a million points for failure. But she played it safe while Hare—that was still his name in her mind, regardless of what she knew—had her, and now she was here.
Blake returned at eight thirty the next morning, knocking again. Breakfast was a can of iced coffee and a pre-sealed container with grapes, cheese, and almonds. “I thought you might want something a little lighter,” he said. “If you reach the point where you want specific food, let me know.”
“Thanks. But I won’t be here long enough for it to matter.”
“Oh?” His hand flew to his hip, but there was no holster.
At least she knew where he kept his gun. And that he didn’t trust her. Good to know that went both ways. “You’re going to release me.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth. “Hear me out. You told me yesterday that Jabberwock upended his entire organization for me. You want to know why. Let me go.”
“We can’t do that.”
Reagan Through the Looking Glass (Hacking Wonderland, #1) Page 12