Page 43 of Talk to Me

Yep, totally my fault.

The next time I woke up in my cell, I swore I had a hangover. My mouth tasted like cotton, my head hurt, and my eyes burned. There was a bang as the lights came on and the cell door opened.

I turned, curling over with an arm over my eyes to hide myself from too much light. I got a look at the woman. She was blonde, ratty looking hair, torn shirt. There was a fresh bruise on her face and an older one swelling her eye.

The guard hauled her into the cell—the one across from mine. Recognition began to bleed into my awareness. This was different from the last cell I’d been in. The dark hole had become an actual cell with bars. There was a walkway between my cell and hers.

After the guard dropped her on the floor, her wheezing groan said she was awake enough to feel it. Or maybe it was just her body’s automatic reaction. The man closed the other door and the locks tumbled into place, then he strolled out.

I closed my eyes and pretended to be unconscious even when the weeping began again. Eventually, that sound died off and it was just quiet. Eerily quiet.

Another door opened down the hall and I watched from under my arm as a new guard approached. He had a tray of food. The doors weren’t keyed—they had keypads. I saw two of the numbers he entered on her cell but not the other four.

Still, six digits.

He put the tray inside her cell, then turned to mine. From this angle, I could see where his hand hit but I only had a vague idea of what the numbers would be. The last two digits were on the bottom third I would bet, just based on his motion—and the fact the first two digits were three and one.

That gave me a few combinations to run. He put the tray down and then left. His bored expression never changed. He pulled the door shut and it auto-locked.

So—the newcomer had moved my cell, brought my new roomie along, changed the rules entirely—including adding brutal drugs to my interrogations and now food?

Yeah, my stomach cramped at the thought of it, but after everything else—I wasn’t hungry. The saline had helped to rehydrate me so—yay?

I closed my eyes and sought out sleep. I’d wait and see if I caught the code again. I needed it to be dark when I moved. But if the code worked and I could get out of this cell?

I was going to take my chances. I’d rather die on my feet and running from these guys than curled up in a cell.

Not that I wanted to die.

Pushing away the latter thought, I clung to the former. I might not be that brave, not really. But I could pretend. I’d gotten really good at pretending.

Chapter

Fourteen

LOCKE

“Yeah, I’m not feeling that answer either.” Remington pulled the plastic bag over the woman’s head again and tightened it. She went from stoicism to struggle in ten seconds.

McQuade leaned back in another chair, whittling wood or some shit. He’d brought some piece of wood in when we arrived and he’d been shaving the wood down ever since. Remington had been asking his prisoner questions for several minutes.

He’d been suffocating her for the last fifteen on and off though. Just as her struggling weakened and seemed to stop, he pulled the bag off her head and then took a step back. Like a bored man, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

I’d half-expected something like bourbon or maybe something stupid expensive, instead, he just drank black coffee. Black instant coffee. But this cabin was hell and gone, with no one around for at least three miles. She could scream all she wanted and no one would hear her.

Aware of the clock ticking on the wall, I waited for the sixty seconds since he stripped the plastic bag to pass. Then she let out a cough and choked, pitching forward as she sucked in air.

“It’s funny,” Remington said in a tone that was anything but humorous. In fact, his accent had taken on a distinctly British lilt. Maybe Irish. More London than north country. It wasn’t specific and he waxed between it and sounding like a native American.

So what was that deal?

“Nothing about this is funny,” McQuade said, pausing in his carving to reach for his own drink. “Unless you have a bizarre sense of humor.”

“Bizarre sense of humor or not, I don’t see anything funny either.” Not that they’d asked me.

“Oh, I meant her.” Remington said, motioning to the woman currently glaring daggers at him. “Clearly you’re part of a group. Three female assassins? Not everyone runs women as a unit. So you were most likely all hired by the same client. You were all hitting at the same time, that says coordination.”

Still wasn’t hearing the humor, but I sipped water rather than coffee. My would-be assassin had ruined a perfectly good suit. She hadn’t survived the encounter. I apparently “lacked the skill” to incapacitate and not kill.