Page 60 of The Truths that Deceive

But what water?

Where?

Not Central America.

I can’t have been out long enough to be transported by plane to any place too far away. We could be in Cuba. Maybe Jamaica or Mexico. I’m now just naming hot fucking places. What I’d really prefer is Florida. Or… maybe not. Because there are lots of places in the Everglades where you can get rid of bodies.

Shit. Same with Cuba.

My head throbs. The exact spot I got hit—fucking twice—with a gun and whatever else the Spanish and Portuguese-speaking Bolivian used.

The pain cripples me and my ability to think.

I let out a deep, quiet breath.

This isn’t going the way I’d planned.

We’re underground, me and my pretty cellmate who sighs and tells me everything I need to know about her safety. “How long have I been out?”

“A little longer than me.”

I nod, lean back against the cool brick wall, and cross my ankles without opening my eyes again.

Because yeah, it’s her. Knew it as I came to. But knowing she’s okay, that she’s here with me, in the same predicament.

It’s a fucking relief.

I can figure a way out of this.

Whatever the fuck “this” is.

Her being here tells me she’s not working with the people who took us. Not that I thought she was, but it’s good to know for sure.

“Smith, I thought you…”

“Takes more than a whack on the head and some knockout drugs to kill me. Though if you thought I was fucking dead, then you need to go back to spy school. And take some basic dead or alive classes. Forget the first-aid shit. Breathing’s usually an indication of life. Pulse is good too.”

“You’re such a dick.” Her hand settles on my thigh, a burning brand I can’t help but want to lean into.

“You know where we are?”

“They knocked me out, too. An injection. I…” She stops speaking and suddenly, a sharp smack explodes against my face.

I open my eyes and glare at her pretty, scared face.

“There’s food and bottled water, but I didn’t…”

She didn’t eat it. A good rule to follow. So many things could be slipped into food or water. And she knows from experience since I drugged her back at the mission in Belize.

I look around. We’re definitely underground, in a cellar with thick walls and no window to the outside world. I’m guessing we’re in a town or outskirts of a city, one of those places where people can operate unnoticed, but the buildings are close together. This place has that exact feel.

The place smells like earth and brick and the mustiness of being closed in. But it’s also not dirty or full of cobwebs. A clear sign that it’s used.

I look around again. It’s not storage, either. No chairs or boxes or marks on the floor or against the wall to indicate where things might have been kept.

A single bulb on the ceiling casts a pool of light and creeping shadows. I eye the heavy metal door. What I want is to get us the fuck out and lose myself in her.

But the getting out’s an important first step.

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