After a few disoriented moments, I realize I’m tied to a chair, the harsh metal of it jabbing into my body. I try to move my hands, but metal clamps secure them in place, big chunky pieces of metal that wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault. My ankles are secured in the same way.
I’m trapped.
“Arturo?” I call, my chest seizing at the thought that he’s dead. “Arturo?”
“I’m here,” he growls from the other side of the room.
I blink away the sticky fog and peer across the room. A tiny shred of light comes from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, letting me see that he’s naked apart from his boxer shorts. His muscular giant’s body is pulled taut, his hands tied above his head and his ankles tied up below, like a skewer of meat laid vertically.
It must be painful, his joints being tugged on like that, but he just grits his teeth, staring over at me.
“Your father’s behind you,” he says. “In a chair like yours. They did this to me when I woke up and started fighting the bastards. Cowards had to use tasers. Are you hurt, Aida?”
I blink away tears – they won’t help me now – and shake my head.
“No, not badly,” I say.
With him strung up like that, flecks of blood on his face and his naked torso, it doesn’t seem worth mentioning the discomfort of the chair.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“These Peacekeeper bastards is my guess,” Arturo snarls. “Aida, you need to know that I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’ll die before I do. Okay? You need to understand that. Because I—”
Because you love me? Is that what you were going to say?
But his words are cut short.
Suddenly the room floods with light, a double door crashing open to the left and sending swathes of blinding yellow surging in.
Behind me, I hear Dad stir. “What the fuck?” he groans.
Figures appear in the door, walking quickly toward us.
I can’t count how many there are, but all of them are wearing masks that cover their faces and heavy military-looking gear, jackets, and cargo pants that wouldn’t look out of place in a war zone.
I don’t see any guns out in the open, but I’ve got no doubt they’re under those jackets, ready to be drawn and fired at any moment.
Only one man doesn’t wear a mask, the one standing at the head of the group of faceless goons. He’s tall and muscular, wider even than Arturo, but he looks bloated like he got those muscles from needles and not lifting weights. He’s bald and his cold eyes flit around the room, from Arturo to me to Dad, never settling.
“The three musketeers, eh?” he chuckles, his voice far more high pitched than I expected. It’s like a high school bully’s sniggering tenor. “Seems you three have been sharing quite a few home truths recently. Isn’t that right, Franco? Been talking a little too much, haven’t you?”
“You bugged me,” Dad growls.
“Of course I did,” the man says, head tilted at the darkness behind me – at Dad – as though he’s stupid. “What sort of idiot wouldn’t bug you, my man? Come on. Don’t be stupid.”
“Now what?” Arturo snarls.
Even with his hands wrenched above his head and his ankles tied, he exudes the protective energy of my savior, his dark eyes flooded with intensity, his muscles pulsing against his bare skin, as though any second he’s going to go completely werewolf.
He looks like a beast ready to tear these people apart.
“Mr. Amato, you’re not in charge anymore.”
“Who are you?” Arturo snaps. “Who are the Peacekeepers?”
“The Peacekeepers?” the man laughs. “That was just a silly name I gave to your dim-witted friend. We’re Uncle fucking Sam, Mr. Amato. We’re the men who do what we want when we want to who we want. We’re the darkness. We’re the—”
“Is this a rehearsed speech?” I laugh, hoping to see him squirm. I can’t stand the way he’s glaring at Arturo, like any second he’s going to pounce on him. “Because it sounds really, really rehearsed. Not to mention cheesy. We’re the darkness. Give me a break.”
The man wheels on me. Just past his bulky body, I see Arturo flinch in his bindings, straining with everything he has.
The man’s faceless goons stand off to the side, clearly waiting for their boss to give them an order. They could be robots for all their lack of movement.
“Does insulting me really seem like a good idea right now, little lady?” the man snaps.
“Am I supposed to be scared of a man who won’t even tell me who he is?” I goad, even as fear lances through me, even as Arturo’s eyes flare at me, telling me to stop. “A cowardly steroid-head who’s too scared to say who he works for. Ooh, I’m so scared—”
He leaps across the room, snatching a gun from under his jacket with more speed than I ever would’ve dreamed from a man as big as him, from a man bigger even than Arturo.
He brings the barrel of the gun to my cheek, stroking it with the cold metal, sending hateful shivers up and down my body. The sensation is like a sick caricature of the way Arturo makes me shiver, tickling hands replaced with scratching fingernails.
“Oh, nothing to say now?” the man grins. “That’s strange. You were just so talkative. And if you care that much, I’ll tell you. It’s not like you’ll be alive long enough to share it. I’m Marty fucking Johnson, ladies and gents, one of the top FBI agents this nation has to offer. But why be a good guy, or a bad guy, when you can be both? You see …”
He leans in closer, pushing the barrel firmly against my face. I want to be brave, but the closeness of the weapon makes me tremble, my heart thundering in my chest.
Every instinct I have screams at me to get away, but I can’t.
The metal bindings bitting into my ankles and wrists.
“I’m one smart motherfucker,” he growls. “I saw a weakness in the government. I saw there were ways to exploit it. And I used that weakness to build myself an army, an empire. I created the name Peacekeepers, but it’s just me. I’m the army. I’m everything. Little lady, you should speak to me with some respect, because you’re speaking to a fucking god.”
I cringe away from him as much as I can, but he just casually moves the gun, always keeping the barrel pointed at me.
The revelation swims hotly around my mind.
A rogue FBI agent who created a criminal empire.
It would make quite the story.
But he wouldn’t have told us if he thought we were going to be alive to tell it.
Suddenly, he stands up, throwing his head back and laughing. It sounds unhinged, as though he’s on more than steroids.
Laced with an undercurrent of rage, an eerie energy permeates the room, like violence, like any second he could erupt.
“I guess we can make this easy,” the man says, strolling over to Arturo. He points the gun at his head. “Give me the coordinates of all your secret warehouses. I know you’ve got them.”
Arturo didn’t say anything when the man – Marty – had the gun to my head. I catch his eye now, and then I realize why.
We scream at each other silently.
If he shows this man that he cares about me, he’ll use me as a tool to extract information from Arturo.