Page 16 of The Wrecked One

“You’re bleeding again. Do you have a death wish?” He stood and went over to the desk, quickly peeled open a new bandage and returned with it.

They must have been keeping me alive for answers. At least I could try and buy myself time until Falcon showed up. If Mya had successfully reached out to them, they’d come for us. My tracker was no longer online, but that wouldn’t stop the team.

I kept quiet while he patched up my wound, refraining from fighting the cuffs so I didn’t actually bleed out and die.

When he finished, he tossed the bloody gauze on the floor and went over to the door and knocked twice.

I rolled my head to the side when I heard the door open, a little confused by who was there.

It wasn’t Mya, but it was someone I did recognize. One of the valets from our hotel. The one with kind eyes and a friendly smile. He’d witnessed Mya and me going at it (arguing, not sex) from time to time.

Why in God’s name had they brought him here?

Another masked man forced the valet into the room. With his ankles secured by rope, the valet shuffled in slowly before the man nudged him to his knees. His hands were cuffed, and sweat stained his white shirt. He pointed his terrified eyes at me in recognition, trembling while speaking in Thai, as the second masked man left as quickly as he’d come.

I tried to draw up a past memory of him to recall his name. Zeroing in on his ID tag from his uniform when I last saw him outside the hotel, I finally remembered.

“Anurak,” I said under my breath, and he nodded.

He had to be in his thirties. A gold ring on his finger. Married. Probably kids at home. A family waiting for him. And now, because he’d crossed paths with me, he was screwed.

“You see,” the masked Brit said in an even-tempered tone, taking a knee by Anurak, “in my experience, I’ve found the best way to get information from hero types like yourself isn’t to torture them.”

I read between the lines. Pretty fucking easily.

He was also right.

I wouldn’t say shit to save myself, but . . .

I looked away from Anurak, my eyes moving to the ceiling as physical pain was replaced by mental anguish.

“Fine,” I began, my voice strained, “I’ll tell you who I work for, just let him go.”

“Tell me first,” he ordered.

“Homeland Security,” I lied, probably too quickly. “My boss is the U.S. government. Is it that shocking?” I looked back over at them.

“Try again.” His gloved hand circled Anurak’s throat, and Anurak lifted his cuffed wrists in a failed attempt to break the hold.

“The CIA,” I tossed out next.

“Again.” He released Anurak, stood, and unholstered a Glock from his side.

“FBI.” I was running out of the alphabet soup of agencies to give him, and I doubted he’d believe me if I said the SSA. “Let him go. I won’t talk with him here.”

“You won’t talk anyway. Unless you’re highly motivated.” He went over to the door and knocked twice again. “I have plans to motivate you even more, don’t worry.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” On instinct, I fought against the cuffs. A useless effort in my current state.

When the door opened, the same masked man, or a new guy for all I could tell, was there. He was standing sideways, and when he pulled a woman around in front of him from the hall, my heart momentarily stopped and bile rose in my throat.

Duct tape was over Mya’s mouth, and a blindfold covered her eyes. Her blouse was partially undone, revealing her bra beneath, and her wrists and ankles were bound by rope.

I fought against the cuffs as I let her know, “I’m here.”

“Ermmm . . .” Broken murmurs and jerky movements accompanied her efforts as she tried to get free, the sight and the sounds killing me.

The asshole in the hall forcefully shoved her to her knees next to Anurak. Like before, he left the room without a word.

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