Page 34 of Sanctuary

He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “What I’ve always wanted. For you to complete your mission.”

“I resigned,” I said through gritted teeth.

Matheson laughed, a cold sound that echoed in the cabin. “You know better than that. Our organization doesn’t accept resignations. You’re an asset, Mia. Our best. And assets don’t get to simply walk away.”

His words hung in the air between us. As if he were letting them sink in.

“The MacGallan contract is still open,” Matheson continued, pulling a manila folder from his coat and placing it on his lap. “Tomas MacGallan was only the start. It’s fortunate for the old fucker that he’s no longer alive.”

I shook my head. “I won’t do it,” I said, my voice stronger than I felt. “Find someone else to do your dirty work.”

His expression hardened. “This isn’t a negotiation. You were assigned this mission because of your unique skill set. Your ability to gain trust, to get close to difficult targets.” He opened the folder, revealing photos of Connor, Declan, and Rory. Thank God Wren and Kat’s pictures weren’t there. “And look how successful you’ve been. Married to the new clan captain in less than two weeks. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

I pulled against my restraints, anger flaring. “I didn’t infiltrate them for you. I ran from you.”

“And yet, here we are.” He closed the folder with a snap. “You have a choice, Mia. Return to your husband, complete your mission, or...” His voice trailed off, the threat implicit.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” I laughed bitterly. “Go ahead. I won’t help you destroy them.”

Matheson sighed, as if disappointed by a child’s poor test score. “Kill you? No, no. That would be wasteful. You’re far too valuable.” He stood, walking slowly around my chair, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. “But there are worse things than death, as you well know.”

He stopped behind me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. I suppressed a shudder as his fingers dug painfully into my flesh.

“You see, the man who’s going to be watching over you during your... reconsideration period,” Matheson continued, his breath hot against my ear, “isn’t known for his gentle nature. In fact, I specifically selected Agent Craven because of his particular talents.”

My blood ran cold at the name. Everyone in the agency knew Craven—his reputation for breaking everyone was legendary. The things he’d done to extract information... I swallowed hard, trying to keep the fear from showing on my face.

“He’s quite looking forward to spending time with you,” he said, circling back to face me. “I’ve given him specific instructions to keep you alive and functional, of course. But beyond that...” He shrugged, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve told him that if your husband doesn’t find you within a week—which he won’t, as this location is completely off the grid—Craven will have free rein to do whatever he wishes with you.”

The implications hung in the air between us like a toxic cloud. I knew what Craven was capable of, the sadistic pleasure he took in his work. A week under his “care” would seem like an eternity.

“You’re bluffing,” I said, forcing confidence into my voice despite the terror threatening to choke me. “The agency has protocols. Even you can’t authorize torture of your own agents.”

Matheson laughed, the sound echoing off the cabin walls. “Protocols? For an agent who’s gone rogue? Who’s compromised operations and potentially exposed agency assets?” He leaned in close, his eyes shining with malice. “As far as official records are concerned, Mia Andrews ceased to exist the moment you walked away from your assignment. You’re a ghost now. No rights, no protection, no one coming to save you except that husband of yours—who doesn’t even know who you really are.”

He straightened, adjusting the cuffs on his coat. “So, I suggest you reconsider your position. Complete the MacGallan contract and you can return to your life with all the benefits and protection of the agency behind you.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Then I leave you to Craven’s tender mercies until you change your mind.” Matheson checked his watch. “And I should warn you, he’s particularly creative with female subjects. Something about the way they scream, he says.”

My stomach lurched, but I kept my expression neutral. I’d been trained to withstand interrogation, to compartmentalize fear and pain. But Craven... stories of his methods had reduced hardened field agents to trembling wrecks.

“You have one week to decide,” Matheson continued, moving toward the door. “After that...” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air. “Think about it, Mia. Think about what you stand to lose. I’ll be back in one week to get your decision.”

As the door closed behind him, I let out a shaky breath. The cabin fell silent except for the crackling of the fire and my own thundering heartbeat. I tugged at the zip ties binding my wrists, testing their strength. Industrial grade, no give. My ankles were similarly secured to the chair legs.

Minutes stretched into hours as I sat alone, my mind racing through scenarios, each more desperate than the last. I knew Matheson wasn’t bluffing about Craven. I’d seen the aftermath of his work once – a traitor who’d been recovered after three days under Craven’s “questioning.” Physically the man was fine, but mentally he was shattered, reduced to a hollow shell who flinched at shadows.

The door creaked open again, and a burly man with a shaved head and cold eyes stepped in. Recognition sent ice through my veins – it was Craven himself, earlier than expected. He carried a black duffel bag that he set on the table with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal contents making my skin crawl.

“Hello, Mia,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and cultured, at odds with his brutish appearance. “The Director tells me you’re being uncooperative.”

I said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

“Silent treatment?” He smiled, unzipping his bag with agonizing slowness. “That’s fine. Most people start that way. They all end up talking eventually.”

He began removing items from the bag, arranging them meticulously on the table. Pliers. Scalpels. A small blowtorch. Various syringes filled with clear liquids. Each placement was precise, theatrical – part of his psychological game.

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