Code Name: Sentinel

by Sawyer Bennett

  “Ouch,” Paul says with exaggerated empathy. “I know that one really hurt.”

  I’m panting through the agony, tears streaming down my face. My shoulders are cramping horribly because I’m hanging from the hook and my legs have given way. I’ve taken several jolts to my thighs. While they ache from the aftereffects, they are rubbery and stopped supporting my weight long ago. Every other spot on my body is throbbing from where he poked me with that damn electric prod.

  “Come on, Dr. Alexander,” Paul cajoles, putting his lips near my ear. “Just give it up and all this will stop.”

  I suck in a few deep breaths, wanting with all my being to just spill my guts. Instead, I say, “Oh, Paul… after all we’ve been through together, you can call me Barrett.”

  When he chuckles, I wonder if the fact I’ve amused him will give me any respite.

  It doesn’t come from Paul, though, but rather from the door creaking open behind me. I’ve spun around so many times on this damn hook I’ve gotten a good 360-degree view of this room. I push to my tiptoes, my feet barking in protest, and I swing myself toward the door.

  The old man I’d met upstairs in the study—God, how long ago was that?—stands there with his hands tucked into his pockets. He examines me shrewdly—dispassionately—before turning his gaze to Paul. “Have you made any progress?”

  “She’s a tough one,” Paul says with clear respect in his voice. “But soon… she won’t be able to hold out much longer.”

  “I need faster than ‘soon’,” the man says as he strides up to us, scanning my body. I’m drenched in sweat and my t-shirt is completely soaked, despite the chill temperatures down here. It’s been quite the workout to hold myself up or try to move away from the prod when he strikes out. “I suggest you try an alternative method.”

  “Understood,” Paul says, and a shiver runs up my spine from the joy in his tone. He’s just been given permission to move past this particular form of torture, and I don’t want to know what could be worse.

  The man nods, turns away, and starts to move to the door.

  My mind races, trying to figure out how to buy time. “Wait,” I call after him.

  He swivels around to stare at me impassively.

  “Tell me who you are and why you want my knowledge, and maybe I’ll tell you,” I say, hoping the promise of information will buy me a conversation, which, in turn, will buy me time.

  His ice blue eyes narrow, his lips pressing into a flat line. “You’re not in a position to bargain, Dr. Alexander.”

  “Maybe not,” I pant as I start to sag downward, the balls of my feet weakening. “But what do you have to lose? You’re going to kill me anyway after all of this, right? Maybe if I knew what you were going to use the knowledge for—if it’s for good—I’d give it up a lot faster.”

  He considers my proposal only briefly before exhaling a small sigh of capitulation. “My name is Richard Munford. My background is in aviation, not energy.”

  I frown in confusion.

  “But I am a passionate and dedicated American. I believe our country will be harmed if President Alexander shares it with others. You asked what my intentions are, and that’s my answer. They are pure and simple.”

  “You’re going to destroy it,” I say, knowing in my gut that it all boils down to that.

  He nods with a grim smile. “I want to know exactly how sound your theory is and the chances of someone else completing it any time soon, which I highly doubt, then yes… I’m going to bury it deep.”

  “Sharing free energy with the world will bring far more benefits to our country—”

  “You may continue,” Munford says, but not to me. His eyes are now locked on Paul, effectively cutting my explanation off because he doesn’t want to hear it.

  “Yes, sir,” Paul says, eagerly running the edge of the electric prod along my calf. I jerk in reflex, but he doesn’t zap me.

  Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be using it anymore anyway.

  Munford moves, but not back to the door. He takes the metal folding chair I’d been in originally, turns it to face me, then lowers himself into it. Casually, he crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands on his lap, watching Paul expectantly with an almost pleasant smile, as if he’s getting ready to watch an opera or something.

  Sick fuck.

  Lips near my ear again, Paul whispers, “Let’s have some fun, okay?”

  “Fuck off,” I growl, earning a zap from the prod to my hip. Another hoarse scream tears free as I jerk away, only to be stopped short the way I’m suspended from the hook.

  Rather than cowed, his continual little tortures seem to empower me. I twist my neck to glare over my shoulder. “Keep it coming, asshole. I can take whatever you hand out because you’ll get yours one day. Karma is a bitch, and I know she can’t wait to take a big fucking bite out of you.”

  Paul tilts his head back and gives a raucous laugh, once again completely amused by my brass. I’m fairly sure I’m going to die, most likely by being tortured to death. At this point in my life, my greatest regret is I won’t get to see it when Karma comes calling on him.

  “Last chance,” Paul whispers in an almost lover-like tone.

  I shudder and try to pull away, but one of his hands comes to my hip to hold me in place. His chin goes to my shoulder—a congenial, friendly type of move—and his tone is conversational. “I know how much pain you can take, Dr. Alexander, and I’ve been extremely impressed. But I’m curious if you’ll perhaps respond better to something different?”

  I don’t speak because I don’t know what he’s thinking or has planned. The last thing I want is to spur him into something too quickly.

  I study Munford, sitting across from me in his chair with that fucking bland smile as he watches.

  Paul’s hand moves upward, pulling the edge of my t-shirt along the way. His hand slides over my stomach—fingers spreading to touch as much of my skin as possible. It’s an intimate touch—there’s no denying that—and my skin crawls as if under attack by a million spiders.

  “Maybe,” Paul croons softly, turning his head slightly so I can feel his breath on my ear, “I can fuck your secrets out of you.”

  “No,” I whisper in denial. While rape had crossed my mind initially when I’d been kidnapped, I’d later dismissed it when I realized they were working for someone powerful. This was further validated by the fact Paul took immense pleasure in torturing me with pain.

  But rape… having a man force himself on me… into me… is something I’m not sure I could bear.

  Cruce’s words seem to ring clear and true within my ears, cutting off Paul and his evil intentions. You can’t give in, Barrett. They will kill you once you give up your knowledge. You hang tough. Stay strong. Believe we will come get you.

  Except I can’t.

  I saw Cruce get shot, then I never saw him after that. He was stuck in a watery grave, and no one was coming to get me.

  Still, I maintain my silence.

  “Let’s make this a little easier on me,” Paul growls. The next thing I know, I’m being lifted with his arm around my belly so he can free my bound wrists from the hook.

  “No,” I scream. This time, I produce real sound from my shredded vocal chords. Apparently, I still have some fight in me. I start kicking and trying to wrench myself out of his arms, but he easily carries me over to the metal table as if I weighed no more than a feather or was putting up no more effort than a slug.

  He slams me down across the top, trapping my arms beneath me. My breath falls short, having been forced from my lungs by the impact of the table, but I still manage to plant my bare feet onto the concrete and push back against him.

  Then the cattle prod is slammed down onto the table, inches from my face, and his tone of voice is so cold and filled with evil that I go absolutely still. “I suggest you calm down, Dr. Alexander, or I’m going to fuck you with this instead, and trust me when I say… you won’t like it.”

  Big, salty tears l
eak out of my eyes as absolute terror and helplessness quell all of my struggling. I suck in a breath and squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself I can bear this torture. That at least if he rapes me with his body rather than the cattle prod, it won’t be as painful.

  Still humiliating, but it’s something I can get through.

  In fact, if I just lay there and take it, it will hopefully be over with soon. And it’s my struggles that he likes. If I just keep still and quiet, he won’t get as much pleasure from it because he likes domination and control. He likes exerting effort to get there, too.

  His hands feel cold and slimy as they work at the elastic band of my sweats, his breathing turns heavy as he pushes them down over my hips. Chilly air hits my ass, then the backs of my thighs, and I’m humiliated I’m exposed to not only Paul, but also to Munford as well.

  “This might hurt a little,” Paul says with what I’d call joyful anticipation, and I hear the zipper on his jeans being lowered.

  I swallow hard, grit my teeth, and resolve to survive this.

  Except the door to the room flies open with a shrieking groan from the metal hinges. It’s done with such force it bangs against the wall. I shift, popping my eyes open, absolutely stunned to see Cruce standing there with a pistol trained right on Paul.

  His eyes are hard, unrelenting, and his jaw is locked. For just a brief moment, I figure I must be dreaming.

  Or wait… maybe I’m even dead already. Perhaps Paul killed me, and this is some weird type of Heaven that doesn’t have bright lights and fluffy white clouds. However, it does have Cruce so I’m okay with that.

  And then Cruce’s gaze moves to me for a brief instant—to my exposed body bent over a table—and rage fills his expression.

  His eyes snap back toward Paul. Without an ounce of hesitation, he fires his gun once.

  Paul doesn’t make a sound, but I feel something warm splatter across my backside. By the time I twist the other way to see better, I’m able to catch Paul falling to the ground in my peripheral vision.

  I turn back quickly to Cruce, who now has his gun pointed in Munford’s direction. He advances on him. I bolt away from the table, jerk my pants up, and pivot to face Cruce so I can watch what he’s doing.

  “You fucking son of a bitch,” Cruce growls as he storms toward Munford, who leans back in his chair and raises both hands in surrender.

  I focus on Paul, who is sprawled lifelessly on the floor with open, vacant eyes and a round hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Told you Karma was a bitch.

  Returning my gaze to Cruce, I see he has reached Munford and now has the gun pressed to his forehead.

  “Please, don’t,” Munford whines, and I can’t believe how pathetic and weak he sounds. Just moments ago, he’d been casually watching a woman about to be torture-raped and now he’s practically crying like a baby.

  “Cruce… don’t,” someone says from the doorway, and I whirl to see men swarming in. I recognize Saint, but not the others. All wearing black utility pants, black t-shirts, and armed with weapons.

  It’s my rescue team from Jameson, along with others proclaiming FBI in bright yellow letters on their black jackets.

  Saint had called out to Cruce, who is ignoring him. He glares down at Munford. “You don’t deserve to live after what you’ve done. In fact, treason is punishable by death. I’m sure I’d be doing the taxpayers a favor by taking you out, you piece of scum-sucking shit.”

  “Cruce,” Saint says again, softly this time, but it seems to carry more authority. “Can’t kill a man in cold blood.”

  Too bad Saint wasn’t in here just a few moments ago. Otherwise, he’d eat those words.

  Still, I won’t lose a moment’s sleep about Paul dying.

  I hope Cruce doesn’t either.

  CHAPTER 24

  Cruce

  One bullet into his brain and Barrett will be avenged. I ended the sick fuck who was getting ready to rape her and probably worse. She looks rough, and there’s no telling what he did to her before I got here. Maybe he’d already raped her, and it was done at this sick fuck’s behest.

  I start to squeeze the trigger and Munford flinches, clamping his eyes shut tightly so as to blot out his executioner’s face.

  “Cruce… Barrett needs you,” Saint’s voice manages to penetrate the haze of red fury and vengeance swirling in and around me.

  Barrett needs you.

  I ease my finger off the trigger to glance over my shoulder. Christ, she looks just fucking awful. Hair sweaty and matted to her head, dried tears on her face, and eyes red with exhaustion and pain. Her wrists are tied in front of her. I didn’t miss the hook suspended from the ceiling, nor the cattle prod on the table.

  She’d probably been tortured for hours, and I start to put pressure on the trigger again.

  “Go to her, brother,” Saint urges me. “Take her out of here, and we’ll clean up this mess.”

  I hesitate.

  “She needs you,” Saint once again says, and those proves to be the words that work. I pull the gun away from Munford, engage the safety, and place it back in my holster.

  In three strides, I’m across the room, my hands on Barrett’s face so I can try to determine from the depths of her eyes just how bad it was before we rescued her.

  “You’re alive,” she says in awe as her eyes roam over my face. Tears spill from her eyes. “I mean… it’s really you. You’re alive.”

  Christ… she’d thought I was dead.

  Of course.

  Why wouldn’t she?

  And she’d had that hanging over her heart and her conscience as she took the torture these people bestowed upon her.

  “I’m alive,” I say, then dip my head to put a grateful kiss on her lips. “We’re both alive.”

  When I pull back, she’s freely crying. While I just want to pull her into my embrace and hug all her trauma away, I need those ropes off her more.

  “Let me get those off your wrists,” I say, letting my fingers work at the knots while I periodically glance at her face.

  Eyes shining and filled with tears—with a mixture of anxiety and relief—yet… she has a dopey smile of wonder as well, and I think it’s because I’m very much alive and standing before her. Talk about emotional overload.

  As soon as the ropes loosen, I can see her skin has been rubbed raw, bleeding in some areas.

  “Where else are you hurt?” I ask, vaguely aware that as I check her out, Saint and crew have pulled Munford out of here while a few FBI agents stand off to the side of the man I’d shot, presumably waiting for the crime scene folks to get here to process stuff.

  “I kind of hurt all over,” she murmurs, and I snap my gaze to hers.

  “Did he… um…”

  “Rape me?” she inquires bitterly. When I nod, she shakes her head, and I want to cry in relief. “No… you couldn’t have timed your arrival any better.”

  “What did he do before?” I ask.

  Barrett grimaces, her brow furrowing deeply. “Let’s just say as an energy scientist, I have a deep aversion to electricity right now, which could be problematic in my career.”

  God, I want to fucking laugh—bringing humor into such a dark situation—but I can’t. Knowing he tortured her with that cattle prod has me wanting to pump a few more bullets into his lifeless body.

  “Come on,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder to turn her toward the door. “I need to get you to a hospital—”

  “No hospital,” she says as she pulls away from me. “I just want to go home.”

  “Hospital,” I reply adamantly. “You need those wounds on your wrists treated, and we need to check out if that prod did any damage. You probably could use some hydration, too.”

  “No hospital,” she replies adamantly. “I’ve got the betadine, bandages, and Gatorade at home. I just want my own bed, and… I want…”

  Her words trail off.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You,” she replies,
her eyes locking on mine. “I want you beside me so I can be assured you’re real and I’m not hallucinating all of this. And I want a big fat burger and some onion rings. I’ll be fine if I can have those things.”

  I stare a moment before giving a capitulated nod and a short smile. “Okay… I’ll take you home.”

  I lead Barrett up the staircase and out of the basement. Our team had stormed Munford’s house not fifteen minutes after we’d arrived, the Marine One helo having landed about a half a mile east. We watched from a copse of trees about fifty yards away, but we really couldn’t be sure about anything. We saw two armed men patrolling the grounds, but beyond that, we couldn’t tell much else.

  With the possibility Barrett was inside and being tortured, we simply couldn’t wait. Kynan made a command decision to breach someone’s private property without any factual evidence we’d find Barrett there. If he’d been wrong, we’d all face criminal prosecution.

  As it stands, we still might. We’re a private agency not authorized by law to do what we just did, despite the fact we had FBI backup, but I’ll worry about those repercussions later.

  Luckily, the two outside guards were easily subdued. There hadn’t been anyone in the house when we entered. Bebe had managed to provide the specs on the layout, so when we went in, I chose to go down to the basement, knowing that was the most likely place to find Barrett.

  And I walked into a fucking nightmare.

  I’ve never felt such rage before as when I saw Barrett bent over a table, her pants pushed crudely to her knees while a brute of a man unzipped his pants as he stood behind her. The feeling had overwhelmed me for a moment.

  And then…

  It focused me.

  My eyes narrowed, my gun aimed, and there was a tiny imaginary bull’s-eye painted on the man’s forehead as he had whirled in stunned surprise when I kicked the door open.

  I didn’t have a moment’s hesitation in pulling the trigger, my intention one hundred percent meant to kill.