Page 47 of Prisoner of War
Remember this is Zalaya, not Duardo. He has to do this.Shegrew still.
The hands continued their impersonal search of her, probing in every crevice and crease. She bucked when one of them thrust his hand between her legs and rammed it up against her cleft. She kicked backward and heard a curse.
“Let me see her,” Zalaya demanded, his voice still quiet and controlled.
The soldiers stepped away from her and Zalaya lowered the revolver to the desk, studyingher.
She straightened her spine, threw her shoulders back and looked him in the eye.
“Very brave indeed,” Zalaya said. He massaged his thigh once more, over the same spot. “It’s time to tell me why you were wandering the corridors of the presidential palace.”
“You won’t believe me,” she said warningly.
“Likely not,” he agreed. “Yet we must go through this tiresome business.”
“Don’t you wantto record this for posterity or something?” she asked. “All these cameras everywhere...one of them must work. I don’t want to have to do this twice.”
“Oh, do not worry,” he assured her. “Thisisbeing recorded.” He pointed toward the corner of the ceiling and she looked over her shoulder. The miniaturized camera was barely the size of a cigarette pack and painted to match the ceiling. Only thereflection of the lens gave it away. “I record everything that happens in here,” Zalaya continued. “There have been many occasions I have enjoyed watching again.” He gave another of the smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.
Was Duardo merely playing the role he was locked into, or was he trying to warn her? Both? She looked around once more at the cameras and equipment. They were evidence of a sickmind. Minnie shivered.
“Are you cold?” Zalaya asked.
“You’re an evil bastard.”
“So they say,” he returned calmly. “To business. Your name?”
“I thought you wanted my story?”
“Tell me your name!” he shouted, lunging across the desk at her.
She skittered backward. “M-Miranda,” she stuttered, her heart screaming at her.He is being Zalaya.If he did not do this they would know he was not Zalayaand they would kill him. No, they would kill both of them, she realized bleakly.
Duardo had to play the role of Zalaya with complete conviction or they both would die.
She felt the tip of one of the guns touch her bare shoulder. It was a warning.
Zalaya sat down on his chair once more, as calm as a moment before. “Very good,” he said. “Tell me why you were in the palace.”
She took a deep,wobbling breath. “I’m a Knight Errant,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“I know, you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about. Most of the world hasn’t heard of us. We’re a loose alliance of people who challenge each other—”
“Wait,” Zalaya said, holding up his hand and frowning. “Ihaveheard of this. The man who walked into the Queen of England’s bedroom. The woman who climbed the outside of the EiffelTower. The person who stole Fidel Castro’s personal cigar humidor. Correct?”
“Theyweremembers of the alliance. They have been formally expelled.”
Zalaya leaned forward. “Because they were caught?”
She shook her head. “Because the rest of the world heard about it. We don’t do it for the glory.”
“Ah!” He sat back again. “And your challenge was to break into the palace and...?”
“Steal a monogrammedcushion from the presidential bedchamber.”
He considered that for a long moment. “There is no penalty for being caught?”
