Page 68 of Reclaiming Izabel

I sat in a chair in a poorly lit room, the bulb of an ancient lamp flickering faultily in one corner. Restraints bit into my skin, arms pulled back painfully, that each fraction of movement became agony. The muscles of my neck screamed with tension and tightness.

And yet I refused to give the lanky man before me any satisfaction.

Lawrence Mitchell wore slacks and a dress shirt. He had a head of white hair with a distinct widow’s peak. He had the sort of tan that wasn’t from long hours under the sun but from abottle or a tanning bed. Unkempt black brows slashed over his eyes. He reminded me every bit of a James Bond villain. He flashed me an even white smile. I thought all he needed was gold teeth.

“Let’s do this again, Mrs. Maddox, and my men will ease your restraints.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Such language from a beautiful woman like you.”

He was sitting in an opposite chair with no table between us. His legs were crossed nonchalantly, with hands linked in front of a knee. “Your husband. Where was he for the past three years? Who was he working for and who financed it?”

“He hasn’t told me anything.”

“And yet, you were not surprised to see me.”

I could have kicked myself for making that mistake. I had Googled Lawrence Mitchell after I’d heard Drake and the guys talk about him. I wanted to know everything about the person responsible for the death of so many brave men. I thinned my lips, refusing to speak.

“What does your husband have on me?” Mitchell repeated the very first question he asked when they’d woken me up. “He must have given you a damn good excuse…why he didn’t choose you?—”

“Your tactics aren’t going to work?—”

“He made you a widow for three years and you’ve been faithful to his memory, haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re a woman who loves deeply,” he continued. “But a man like Drake Maddox—do you think he’s been faithful?”

I burst out laughing, ignoring the chagrin and waves of anger coming from Mitchell. Admittedly, my amusement was tinged with a bit of hysteria, because I was close to losing my freaking mind. It helped that I’d built up some hate against Mitchelland Tierney ever since I found out about their involvement. Imagining ways I would cut them down with my bottled hatred.

“You don’t know a man like Drake. If you did, you wouldn’t have abducted me. Hewillcome for me and youwillbe sorry.”

He snorted derisively. “What a cliché statement.”

He stood and looked at the burly shadow in the corner. “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for. I admire that in a woman, but not in someone from whom I need information.” The pitying look he gave me sent a wave of terror that threatened to overwhelm my flagging bravado. Coop emerged from the darkness and dragged a desk beside me. He opened a small black case, revealing columns of syringes. “I abhor torture, but I’m all about incentive. I truly believe you don’t have anything useful to give me, but I know who does.”

“Wait,” I whispered, panic choking me. “What are you doing?”

“There are different interrogation methods,” Mitchell said casually. “I don’t like blood and I’d hate to mar your perfect skin, so we’ll stick to the pharmaceutical kind.”

Coop held up a big syringe.

“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

chapter

eighteen

Drake

Viktorand the Guardians tracked Izabel to Providence Forge. After receiving instructions from the AGS boss, I drove my Escalade, headlights off, onto an unpaved road and parked behind two black SUVs.

“Gear in the back,” I told Marcus. We met behind the vehicle’s tailgate. I opened a custom-built compartment and handed him a vest and put on my own.

Marcus gave a low whistle. “Whoa, this is pretty badass.” He picked up the special edition H&K submachine gun.

“Sorry, bro, that’s my baby,” I muttered. “Here…” I handed him two handguns and a rifle. If circumstances were different, I would have laughed at Harrelson’s disappointed expression, but levity was nowhere to be found in the situation.

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