Page 85 of Embrace Me Forever

“It was found abandoned just a block from here.”

“Where was she taken then?” I press.

“We lost them.”

“Fuck!” I pivot, on the verge of lashing out at anything, anyone, within reach. Yet, even if there was something, my muscles fail to respond as I need them to. Turning to my last resort, I say, “Clay, take me to the spot where they found the car.”

By now, Clayton has no interest in opposing me. He drives me to where the nondescript car was found abandoned. The area is cordoned off, but my interest lies beyond the immediate perimeter. Despite my faltering steps and limp arms, my vision remains sharp.

I point out, “Look at this area. It’s secluded, but you can see disturbances in the dust, like someone was dragging their feet here.” The signs are subtle yet telling.

We trace the disturbances to a small dead-end street. Faint tire marks suggest a large vehicle had recently maneuvered here. And there, at the curb’s edge, I spot a strap from a gurney.

“Damn it, Clay. She’s been taken in an ambulance,” I conclude, mentally mapping that the emergency bay of the hospital is just around the block.

32

GEORGIA-MAY

As I’m waking up, I realize I’m being shunted onto yet another vehicle. Time is a blur, but they wouldn’t have drugged me for a mere jaunt. I’m forced into a seat. This time, I think it’s a van, given the extra space. The interior is grim and claustrophobic, with all windows blacked out. The same two men flank me, their grips firm, while the hooded man takes the wheel. The engine roars to life, and we accelerate hard.

When the van finally jerks to a stop, I’m herded out into the chilly air. The scent of salty sea and rust assaults my senses, confirming my suspicions of being at a port—abandoned by the looks of it. A vast stretch of dilapidation greets me. Crumbling buildings loom in the fading light.

We navigate a maze of debris and broken pavement, arriving at a particularly desolate building. It’s barely more than ruins: no roof, only windows and walls stubbornly standing as if defying time itself.

Yet, amidst this decay, an anomaly: a steel door embedded in the ground, its presence almost surreal. The hooded man treads around it with caution as if the ground itself might betray him.The door, obscured by a tangle of marine ropes and rusty chains, seems to lead into a basement. He produces a key.

The two men flanking either side pull me along a predetermined path toward the door as if navigating mine-infested ground. Desperation seeps into my bones as I scan the area, hunting for any clue to my whereabouts. Near the door, a code is scrawled on the wall—faded, indecipherable, but I commit it to memory nonetheless.

The hooded figure seems to sense my growing unease. “Feeling like you’re cut off from the outside world?” He scoffs. “Relax, we’re all about hospitality here. Down below, you’ll have everything you need. Think of this as your own rustic luxury retreat.”

With a firm push, the men guide me down stony steps that could belong in a World War II bunker. At the bottom, we step into a room. The walls here are as ancient as the steps, yet the setup is startlingly modern. Portable lights cast shadows across compact beds and chairs while several computer terminals buzz quietly, their power drawn from a hidden generator.

Without ceremony, they push me into a chair in front of the terminal with the largest monitor.

Once the hooded man logs in, the screen flickers to life with a remote conference interface. We wait in anticipation. The computers, despite their underground setting, connect to a network. Wirelessly, it seems. Considering the depth and age of this basement, which for sure lacks traditional network wiring, there must be a system aboveground facilitating this connection.

Abner Bertram’s image materializes on the screen. Despite being in his sixties, he appears even older, embodying the quintessential businessman with his unwavering single-tone voice and perpetually upbeat expression that starkly contrasts with the ominous nature of his words. “Greetings, Mary O’Connor,” he opens. “Welcome back to Project Mock.”

His voice and digital presence make me feel as though I’m right back in London, on the fourteenth floor of Bertram Tower.

I manage a half-smirk. “Abner Bertram, I can’t believe a man of your…distinction actually missed me.”

“You were one of the most beautiful and talented assets I ever had. No, that I now have again. I’m absolutely delighted you’ve rejoined the team,” he says with a veneer of warmth.

“Where is my daughter?”

Bertram tuts, shaking his head. “Always so methodical, Miss O’Connor. Cutting to the chase? That’s desperation, not diligence.”

I clench my jaw. “What do you want, Bertram?”

“First,” he begins, leaning closer to the camera, his eyes narrowing, “I want you to reverse the actions of your dead boyfriend. You know what I mean.” He pauses, masking a sneer, then studies me. When I say nothing, he adds, “I heard Mr. Sebastian Langford screamed like a child when the first bullet hit his leg.”

I mask my pain with defiance, staring at him without a blink.

Bertram continues, relishing his cruel narrative. “He had a weak heart, didn’t he?”

I take short breaths, suppressing the rage bubbling up under my throat.

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