I don’t know how long I meander, picking up shells, but suddenly, a cold prickle raises the hair on the back of my neck.
It isn’t the wind, of that I’m sure.
Frowning, I stop and look around.
The beach is deserted in both directions. Aside from the house I just left, there are no other structures within sight. The only thing I see that could be considered out of place is Spider, sprinting toward me from his post at the hedge of privet.
He’s waving his rifle in the air. Hollering words that are swallowed by the wind.
Four more armed men in black suits appear behind him, running toward me.
On instinct, I whirl around.
My brain registers eight of them, sleek black figures rising from the sea with scuba tanks strapped to their backs and weapons in their gloved hands, before the one closest to me grabs me and drags me into the water.
“She’s awake.”
“You sure those handcuffs are enough? I think we should put the leg chains on, too.”
“I bet you do. How’s the nose feeling, Cliff?”
“Fuck you.”
The voices are male, coming from somewhere nearby. They are the first thing I’m aware of. Next, the headache makes itself known, throbbing steadily behind my eyes to the beat of my heart. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, my head weighs a thousand pounds, and my right hand feels like I’ve been smashing it against a wall for hours.
I’m also wet. My clothes, my hair, all of me. I lick my lips and taste salt. Seawater.
A door opens and closes. I open my eyes and look around.
I’m in a square gray room. A single fluorescent bulb flickers on the ceiling. The floor is bare cement, and the only furniture is the metal chair I’m sitting in and a dented metal table pushed against the wall to my left.
On the wall directly in front of me looms a large panel of sleek black glass.
Looking at my reflection in the two-way mirror, I realize I’m chained to the chair.
My wrists are bound behind my back by handcuffs. The handcuffs must be attached to the chair, and the chair must be bolted to the floor, because despite several vigorous attempts, nothing budges.
“Don’t bother. You’re not going anywhere.”
I look over my right shoulder.
A man leans casually against the wall in the corner, his arms folded over his chest, one leg kicked up against the wall. He’s about thirty-five. He’s wearing an untucked red-and-black flannel shirt, faded jeans that are molded to his muscular thighs, and a pair of work boots. His hair is thick, wavy, brown, and looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in ages. His eyes are brown, too. So is his beard.
He looks like the Marlboro Man, big and outdoorsy. There’s a pale circle of skin on his tanned left ring finger where a wedding band used to be.
In a deep voice with a Boston accent, he says, “Good morning, Sloane.”
“You need a haircut. Was your ex the one who made the appointments for you?”
Surprise registers in his eyes for a split second, then recedes as he draws a curtain of practiced blankness over his gaze. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.”
He pushes off the wall and comes to stand in front of me, his back to the panel of black glass. Crossing his arms again, he looks down his nose at me, projecting power and danger from every pore.
Dear god, how many times am I going to be kidnapped by alpha males this month? It’s getting ridiculous.
Looking at his muscular forearms, I say, “I like your tats. Very Celtic. Did you know those spiral knots near your wrist represent a person’s journey through life and into the spirit world, or did you just think they looked pretty?”
He tilts his head to one side.
I smile at him. “I’ve done a lot of reading about spiritual journeys.”
Nothing happens for a while, until he says, “I’d like to talk about your boyfriend.”
At least he’s getting straight to it. I thought we might be here forever.
“Let me just stop you right there. I don’t keep boyfriends. They’re way too high-maintenance. Too much of a commitment. May I please have a glass of water? Even better, orange juice. Fresh squeezed if you have it.”
He frowns. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, dude, don’t let the D cups fool you. I know exactly what’s happening.”
I can’t tell by his expression if he’s amused or annoyed, but I know he’s intrigued, because he says, “Which is?”
“You want that five hundred bucks I owe from last year.”
He blinks. I don’t think he means to. It makes me smile again, this time wider.
“Honestly, I’m impressed. You guys must’ve gotten a sweet budget increase from the new administration. I’d love to hear how you’re going after the corporations who owe lots of back taxes. The big fish must get an entire squadron of Navy seals coming after them, am I right?”
He leans down into my face, planting his hands on his massive thighs. When we’re eye to eye, he says softly, “I’m not with the IRS, sweetheart. And this isn’t a fucking joke. You’re in big trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t the be last. Do you like blondes? I know a girl who works at my yoga studio who’d go crazy for your whole Grizzly Adams vibe. Though she’s got one of those annoyingly high baby-talk voices, but if you can look past that, she’s really sweet. You look like you could use someone to look after you.”
When he only stares at me with thinned lips and flared nostrils, I add, “Was it ketamine you gave me? Because I know how that messes up my memory, and I can’t remember anything between when the creatures from the black lagoon pulled me into the water and now. I’d love to know how I didn’t drown. By the way, props for ingenuity. James Bond would be proud.”
After a beat, Mountain Man straightens. He throws a look over his shoulder toward the glass, then slowly walks behind my chair and stops there.
His voice carrying an overt warning, he says, “Declan O’Donnell.”
“Nice to meet you, Declan.”
I look directly at the glass when I say that, smiling my shit-eating smile.
I hope whoever’s watching me behind that two-way mirror is having a meltdown. People hate it when you’re not terrified like they’re trying to make you be.
Mountain Man rests his hands on the back of my chair and leans close to my ear. In a low voice, he says, “Don’t play me for a fucking fool, Sloane.”
“Me? Play you for a fool? I would never. You seem much too intelligent. The plaid shirt’s a dead giveaway.”
I can almost hear his blood pressure rising.
“You think you’re very smart, don’t you?”
“I’m demonstrably smart. Would you like to give me an IQ test? Ten bucks says I’ll beat yours by at least thirty points.”
He gives up trying to intimidate me from behind and stalks around to stand in front of me again. He pronounces, “Laugh it up if you like, but if you don’t cooperate with me, you’re gonna stay in this room for the rest of your life with no contact with the outside world and nothing but a bucket to shit in.”
“I see. So much for the Bill of Rights and those pesky sixth and eighth amendments.”