Page 15 of Ravens
“I’m just following orders, and orders are if you’re still breathing by the morning to pick you up.” I can feel him shift closer. “Want to know why?” I can hear the sneer on his lips. “Because only the leak would have the leverage to call off the Brits’ dog.” A noisy pause fills the air. “So, really, he did the wet work for us and chased you right out into the open.”
“I haven’t made any deals!”
“Now that we have you . . . I wonder if he’ll finish out the contract on the others . . .” He trails off, ignoring my plea.
I may not know York at all, but he seemed pretty invested in absconding with me . . . There is no way this was all a ruse to chase me out into the open. And for what? I’ve not done anything.
“Tell me where it is,” he bargains with an air of boredom, “and we can skip the whole face-to-face interrogation with the Director.”
“And just kill me?”
“Maybe,” he sighs. “Though a trial is likely too . . . Still, it would be nice to be the one to bring the data in, so where is it, Tripoli? Can’t be in Maine. You haven’t been home in so long.”
There would never be a trial. They’d burn me at the stake in full view of the public before they ever put me on a stand or in a room with a lawyer. Besides, with what I know, I could probably buy the fucking judge.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
The dark cloth disappears from my eyes, and an anvil-like slap rolls me onto my side. “The attitude won’t get you anywhere.”
He stands over me, and I try to glare back as the fluorescent light burns my retinas, but my cheek stings, and it feels like my lip is already swelling as I squint into the harsh light.
“This misguided experiment of the Director’s is over.” He looks me over. “No more dealing with you wannabe operatives who don’t have the slightest fucking clue . . . It’s embarrassing to have an entire unit of prostitutes on the payroll, although from what I hear about the Director, it’s not that surprising.”
I roll onto my back, crushing my wrists so I can survey my surroundings. Every word out of his mouth just proves how low down the totem pole he is. If he knew a fucking thing about the Raven program, he wouldn’t threaten such things. If he knew that I know where his family lives . . . but now’s not the time, not when I’m vulnerable.
There are two other suits in the compartment, leaning against the wall in quiet observation. The back of the truck is separated and sealed off from the cab, and the only way in or out isthrough the large bay door at the back. I’m grasping at straws trying to come up with some way to get free of the restraints—if I wasn’t tied up, I’d be able to fight properly. I’ll manage though.
“Bag her again,” Jeffries orders.
Cloth bag in hand, one of the others walks toward me. Just as he reaches my side, I jerk my legs up, wrap them around his thighs and force him back. Stumbling, he falls, bouncing his head off the floor, and for good measure, I bring my heel down as hard as I can manage onto his sternum.
I wrestle my hands under my butt and over my legs as the other one comes at me. Blood is dripping from my fingers as I roll and push up onto my knees, just in time for a kick to come at my head. Wrists still bound, I throw my forearms up to be battered by the force of the shin that slams into them hard enough that it helps me pop onto my feet as I curse in pain.
The kicker comes at me, and I step inside his guard, pinning a foot down with mine and burying my knee in his gut before stumbling back when the truck swerves. My back slams against the wall and the kicker pitches forward, losing his footing, too. Not wasting the advantage, I grab his shoulder in the stumble and guide his head into the wall. He crumples to the floor.
Doing all right, so far.
I spin around to face Jeffries, but he pulls out a massive blade from a sheath on his hip. Who the fuck carries a knife likethat? I know he has a gun, but he must have orders to bring me in alive. That knife can cause some damage without killing me though . . . if he knows how to use it.
I need to get out of this truck alive, so I need to get that knife. Jeffries steps toward me tentatively, testing my resolve. I flinch.
Damn it.
He runs at me, and I dive, rolling over my injured shoulder and crying out in pain as I slam against the rolling door. Panicked, I grab the handle and try to force it up. The door creaks in resistance and starts moving, but a swift kick to my side winds me, and I coil reflexively, releasing the door. Nabbing my hair, he tugs me back down the length of the compartment, and my scalp screams in protest.
“You bitch,” he grunts, panting for air.
The knife waves teasingly in front of my face, so I clasp his wrist and jerk it toward me. Panicking, he tilts the point away, and I bite down on his hand below the thumb until I feel the skin give way.
Hollering, the knife drops, and he lets go of my hair. I drop to my knees and fumble for the blade, hands blood-slick as I grasp it and work it around in my grip to press against the ties. Once positioned, I drag myself to my feet and back toward the door, working the blade as I watch him.
Pain and shock contort to resolve in his face and sweat pricks my body. A new wave of anxiety hits me, and I struggle with the blade, finally snapping the ties and losing my hold on it. The knife clatters to the floor, and we both look at it silently. The truck turns again, throwing me into the corner as Jeffries loses his footing entirely.
“Fuck this,” I mutter and grab the handle on the door instead of going for the knife.
I strain under the effort, my hands slipping as I grip the cold metal, but I plant my feet, and it gives way with a groan, rolling up. I plaster myself back to the wall as I realize how fast we’re going, but we’re still in the city. The man driving the car behind us goes wide-eyed, and I know that he’s my only play.
This is going to fucking hurt.
