Page 105 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
The last thing I see is Tabby, handcuffed, being dragged away by a knot of armed men.
Why is she smiling?
Everything goes black.
Twenty-Eight
Tabby
After a short flight on a C-130 military plane, I’m seated at a table in a small, cold room in a government complex in the middle of who knows where. I had a black hood over my head when they brought me in, but they took it off, and now I can observe my surroundings.
Cement floor. Cinderblock walls. Cement ceiling inlaid with a row of florescent lights. The black plastic eye of a closed-circuit camera high on the wall in one corner.
A glass of water sits on the table to my left. Beside it is a sleeve of Oreos, which I find amusing. Apparently, the government wants you to have a tasty snack before they start with the waterboarding.
At least they removed the handcuffs.
The door opens. A man walks in. Caucasian. Thirtyish. Built. He’s tall with shaggy reddish-blonde hair, handsome with the exception of acne scars pitting his cheeks. His suit is black, as is his skinny tie. I’ve never seen eyes that color, pale amber, like honey. He looks like a friendly ginger tabby cat, which I know is intentionally misleading.
Beneath his suit, there’s a bulge on his left ankle and one on his right hip. Tabby cats who wear guns strapped to various parts of their bodies are anything but friendly.
He sits on the edge of the table, casually tosses a manila file folder my way. It lands with a dull slap against the steel tabletop, slides a few inches, spilling pages from the sides.
“Is that me?” I ask, eyeing the file.
Shaggy nods.
“It’s pretty thick.”
“You’ve led an interesting life.”
I cock my head and appraise him. “So have you, I bet. What’s that accent? No, let me guess. Appalachia?”
He watches me with those unusual eyes. “Twenty years ago. You’re the first person in fifteen to catch it.”
We stare at each other. Without a hint of emotion, his gaze takes me in, moving over my face, my hair, my body, finally settling on my wrist. “Interesting timepiece.”
“Thank you.”
“Family heirloom?” His voice is faintly amused.
“Something like that. I’m surprised you didn’t confiscate it.”
“In my experience, plastic Hello Kitty watches usually aren’t cause for alarm.”
I smile, and the stare-off resumes. After a while I ask, “So are you going to tell me your name or should I just keep calling you Shaggy like I’m doing in my head?”
“You aren’t scared,” he notes.
“That’s not really my thing.”
“Right now it should be.”
“My ride’s on the way.”
His expression doesn’t change. “No one is coming to rescue you.”
“I never said it was a rescue,” I reply, holding his gaze. “But someone is definitely coming.”
