Page 17 of Outside the Room
The arms around her loosened enough for her to break free. She stumbled forward, gasping for air, her vision swimming. The exit was just twenty feet away. If she could reach it, trigger the emergency alarm...
She managed three lurching steps before a hand grasped her ankle, yanking her off balance. Diana crashed to the floor, her chin striking the hard linoleum. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as she struggled to crawl forward.
"You're just making this harder on yourself," the voice said, closer now.
Diana rolled onto her back, determined to see her attacker's face. The dim emergency lighting revealed only a silhouette, features obscured by shadow, but the build and movement were unmistakably familiar.
"You," she gasped, recognition dawning with horrifying clarity. "It was you all along."
"Should have kept your head down, Diana." The figure loomed closer. "Just like you always did before."
Diana's hand closed around one of the scattered papers, a poor weapon but her only option. As her attacker lunged forward, she struck out wildly, aiming for the eyes.
It was futile. A heavy weight pressed down on her chest, pinning her to the floor. Hands encircled her throat once more, cutting off her air with methodical precision.
Diana's struggles weakened as oxygen deprivation took its toll. Her last conscious thought was of the folder contents scattered across the floor—evidence that might never reach Agent Rivers. Evidence that could have solved Marcus's murder and prevented her own.
Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. Her limbs felt leaden, no longer responding to her desperate commands to fight.
The last thing Diana Pearce saw was her attacker reaching for the papers, meticulously gathering the evidence she'd worked so hard to compile. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room cast harsh shadows across Thomas Bradley's weathered face. Isla watched from behind the two-way mirror as Sullivan entered the room, carrying a thin folder that she knew contained only a fraction of the evidence they'd gathered. The rest was still being processed, but Bradley didn't need to know that.
After barely three hours of sleep, Isla felt fatigue settling into her bones, but the adrenaline of pursuit kept her alert. She'd returned to her apartment after midnight, her mind racing with theories about Bradley's connection to Whitman's murder. Now, watching Sullivan take a seat across from the smuggler, she hoped their strategy would yield answers.
Bradley sat with the false relaxation of someone trying to appear unconcerned. His lawyer, a sharp-featured woman in an expensive suit, sat beside him, whispering something in his ear. Bradley nodded almost imperceptibly, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
Sullivan didn't speak immediately. Instead, he methodically arranged the papers from his folder, a deliberate psychological tactic that Isla recognized from her own interrogation playbook. The silence stretched until Bradley shifted uncomfortably.
"You know why you're here," Sullivan finally said, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers. It wasn't a question.
"My client has been cooperative thus far," the lawyer interjected. "But he maintains his innocence regarding any smuggling allegations."
Sullivan's lips curved in what might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes. "I haven't made any allegations yet, counselor." He turned his attention back to Bradley. "Let's talk about what we found on your boat."
Bradley's expression remained neutral, but Isla noticed his fingers tightening slightly on his forearm. "I run a fishing operation. You found fish."
Sullivan slid a photograph across the table—a close-up of a false bottom in one of the Northern Star’s fish storage compartments. "Fish don't need specialized compartments with pressure seals and moisture barriers."
A muscle twitched in Bradley's jaw. "That's for preserving the catch. High-end restaurants pay premium prices for certain fish maintained in specific conditions."
"Is that right?" Sullivan's tone remained casual, but Isla could see the shift in his posture—like a predator preparing to strike. "Then you won't mind explaining these."
He placed another photograph on the table. This one showed what the search team had discovered beneath those false compartments: automatic weapons, carefully wrapped in protective coverings, nestled in spaces designed to hide them from casual inspection.
Bradley's face drained of color. His lawyer leaned forward, whispering urgently in his ear, but he shook his head slightly.
"Those aren't mine," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "I don't know how they got there."
Sullivan laughed, the sound entirely devoid of humor. "Three years for prescription drug smuggling wasn't enough for you? Had to move up to firearms?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper that still carried through the speakers. "You know what we call people who smuggle weapons across international borders? Terrorists."
"That's absurd," the lawyer protested. "My client is not—"
"I'm not a terrorist!" Bradley's composure cracked, his fist slamming onto the table. "I move product. That's it. I don't ask questions."
Isla smiled grimly. There it was—the admission they needed to start unraveling the operation. She made a note to have the tech team trace the weapons' origins. If they could identify the source, it might lead them to Bradley's contacts.
