I peeked my head out into the hallway and didn’t see any men in black or men in uniform. Apparently the ones controlling the game had thought handcuffs and sedation were enough to keep me at bay.
Their mistake.
I imagined I was there to visit a sick friend. Someone who was very ill. I’d been up with him all night, and there wasn’t much hope he’d live. Once the character was in my head, I adopted her posture, her movements. Shoulders slumped, downtrodden gait, lips pursed to keep from crying. I kept my face pointed toward the floor and headed to the elevator, my eyes darting back and forth behind my sunglasses, checking my periphery. On my way I passed a patient’s room, caught the snoring, chanced a look and saw a glass vase filled with assorted flowers. I ducked inside, hefted the arrangement. Satisfied by the weight, I took it with me to the elevator and hit the call button.
According to Jack, my sister was being held on the sixth floor.
No doubt, they were interrogating her.
No doubt, they weren’t being nice.
I felt a flare of rage, then forced it down. My sister, whom I knew by her codename, Fleming, didn’t have the use of her legs. I’d known her voice for years but only met her face-to-face recently, not only surprised to have a sister, but surprised she was my twin.
I was also surprised to discover the depth of feelings I had for her.
The thought of them hurting her…
The rage kicked in again, and I made a fist so hard, I could feel my nails cut into my palm.
Despite my strong feelings, I had to be realistic. Attempting to rescue Fleming was a fool’s game. I’d be killed, or captured. No two ways about it.
My primary objective was to get out of there, find safe ground. The odds were against me even being able to do that much. No doubt the exits were being watched, and the only weapon I had was a vase of posies.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped into the empty lift, then eyed the buttons.
First floor.
Sixth floor.
1 or 6.
My finger hovered over the 1.
I hit 6.
Fleming was in a wheelchair, a generic, hospital model. There were thick Velcro straps around the waist, legs, and arms. The straps hardly seemed necessary. She couldn’t run away. She couldn’t even stand. Fleming had crippled her legs years ago, while in service to her country.
Now agents from that same country were holding her prisoner, trying to get her to talk.
“Who do you work for?” the agent asked, staring down at her. He had a long, pale face, a pointy nose, pointy widow’s peak. Fleming smelled aftershave on him. Old Spice. He wore the typical black suit of a spook, and judging by the way the other three in the room regarded him, he was obviously top man on the scene.
“We’re on the same side,” Fleming answered. “But that question is on a need to know basis.”
The agent rested his hand on Fleming’s bandaged one—earlier they’d allowed a doctor in to splint her broken fingers.
They still hurt like hell.
“I need to know,” he said.
“I take orders from two people. One is the President.”
“And the other?”
“The other one is not you.” Fleming flashed a bright smile.
The man squeezed her hand. Even though the lidocaine hadn’t fully worn off, the pain was instant and overpowering. Fleming gasped.
“You have no identification,” the man said, maintaining his grip. “No fingerprints on file. No hits on our facial recognition software. As far as our government knows, you don’t exist.” He squeezed harder. “Since you don’t exist, I can do anything I want.”
“Anything?” she grunted.
“Anything.”
“Then you might want to brush your teeth. Smells like you were licking Uncle Sam’s ass.”
The agent released Fleming.
For a few seconds, it took everything she had to control her breathing and separate herself from the pain. Since her accident, she’d been behind a desk, working operations from the intel side. But she’d secretly longed to be a field agent again. To be out in the world, where the action was.
“The other woman. She’s your sister, yes?”
Fleming forced cool. “Where is she?”
“She’s talking to one of my colleagues. He plays a bit rougher than I do. Your sister is telling him everything.”
Fleming didn’t have to force the laughter. It came naturally. While everyone had a breaking point, they hadn’t had Chandler nearly long enough to reach hers.
The agent frowned. “You think I’m being funny? We’re going to take you, and your sister, someplace where you’ll never see daylight again.”
“Where no one will ever look?” Fleming asked.
“Exactly.”
“Like in your underwear?”
His frown deepened. “Prepare her for transport,” he told his men.
The other agents moved forward.
“Hold on,” Fleming said. “What’s your name?”
The agent hesitated, then answered, “Malcolm.”
Fleming looked beyond him, to the other men in the room. “Does anyone here have a mint for Malcolm? Or some gum?”
No one chuckled. Tough crowd.
Then one of them produced a syringe.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Fleming understood Malcolm’s threat all too well. The United States had dozens of secret prisons throughout the world. Being the last super power standing, those in charge had decided to wipe their asses with the Constitution. No more due process. No more trials by peers. No trials at all, in fact. US citizens could be kidnapped, tortured, and executed by their own government, all on the hush-hush.
Fleming knew what went on at these black sites. She knew that no one made it out of them alive.
“The President will have your head if you take me anywhere,” Fleming said.
“Right now the President is in the middle of a worldwide scandal. It’s a PR nightmare. I really doubt he cares what happens to you.”
She and Chandler had saved millions. But that didn’t mean much for the Commander-in-Chief’s upcoming reelection campaign.
“You’re worried,” Malcolm said. “I can tell. You have good reason to be. Are you sure you have nothing to say?”
