I want to kill him. I want to kill him so much, I can almost hear his pathetic screams as he drowns in his own blood from the stab wound in his neck that I’ll give him.
Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.
I close my eyes, count to four, then decide I don’t have time for the rest of the breathing exercise. I need to tell this guy to go fuck himself sooner than that.
Opening my eyes, I say calmly, “If you tried to put my friend in prison, her man would burn you alive. Then he’d burn Moose and Rocco here.” I shoot a dismissive glance at the two burly, uniformed Marines. “Then he’d find your mothers and burn them alive, too. Your siblings, also. And your pets. And your houses, your cars, and the towns you grew up in. So I won’t worry about her. She’s covered.
“As for my sister, brother, and Dad? Well, I can’t control what happens to them. Life’s a gamble, and I guess they rolled unlucky dice for being related to me. Besides, it really wouldn’t be my fault. You’re the douchebags who have the control. Whatever nasty thing happened would be on your conscience, not mine. So do what you have to do. Leave me chained to this chair forever. Lock me up and throw away the key.”
After a calculated pause, the suit says, “There are worse things we could do to you than imprison you, Miss Keller. I’m sure you can imagine what they are.”
Lance Corporal McAllister steps forward. He gazes down at me with a small, evil smile.
I almost laugh. Instead I heave a heavy sigh and nod my head. “I actually don’t have to imagine. I’m very familiar with the particular brand of savagery that useless, worthless, dickless males enjoy. Go ahead, guys. Do your worst. I still don’t know who Declan fucking O’Donnell is.”
Nothing happens for several moments. Then a tinny male voice crackles over a hidden speaker in the ceiling.
“Put her in C-9.”
The suit stands. Lance Corporal Fuckface walks behind me and unfastens my handcuffs from the chair. He hauls me to my feet with fingers like steel claws that dig into my biceps.
The suit says, “Have it your way, Miss Keller. The worst it is.”
They drag me from the room.
I manage to kick the suit in the kneecap on the way out. He falls to the floor, howling.
What a sissy.
36
Declan
Three and a half days later
* * *
“Where is she?” I roar, bursting through the conference room doors. “Where the fuck is she?”
“Easy, big guy,” says Grayson, rising from his chair at the long mahogany table. He’s got his hands up and an apologetic smile on his face. There are ten other men seated around the table, several of whom I recognize, a few I don’t.
But I spot that ugly fuck, Thomas Aquinas, the head of the High Value Detainee Interrogation Group, right away.
Grayson jumps in front of me as I lunge in his direction, snarling.
“Declan! Chill the fuck out!”
He’s trying to get me to slow down, shoving and pushing me back with every ounce of his considerable strength, but I’ve got the demon of fury in my veins, thirsting for blood. Nothing on this earth is going to stop me from getting it.
I shove Grayson aside and punch Thomas in the face.
He topples backward in his chair with a cry, feet flying. He hits the conference room floor with a thud, rolls to one side, and starts flailing, trying to clamber to his hands and knees to crawl away. The fucking cockroach.
Before I can kick him in the gut, three men tackle me.
They take me down to the floor. I’m up within seconds, headed back to kick the life out of their boss.
I stop short when the remaining men at the table—now all on their feet—pull pistols from the holsters under their suit jackets and point them at me.
“Everybody calm down!” commands Grayson, holding his hands out. “He’s a friendly! Put your weapons away! That’s an order!”
Reluctantly, the men obey him. They glower and grumble, but obey.
Always the fucking peacemaker, this guy.
Breathing hard from rage, I point at him. “I’m holding you responsible for this. If there’s even a tiny fucking scratch on her, if there’s one miniscule bruise, I’ll kill you and your piece-of-shite boss.”
The man in question is still struggling to get to his feet. He’s gripping the edge of the conference table like it’s a life preserver and staring at me with all the whites of his eyes showing, holding his bleeding nose.
“I’ll put you in prison, you maniac!” he screeches. “You can’t come in here and assault members of the federal government!”
“I can and I did, and if you don’t shut your piehole, I’ll do even worse. Where is she?”
“She’s in a holding cell,” says Grayson in a tone meant to be soothing. It’s fingernails down a chalkboard instead.
“A holding cell?” I thunder, infuriated. “You put my woman in a bloody holding cell?”
“She’s fine. In fact, right now, she’s sleeping. Okay? Take it easy, brother. Take it easy.”
“Don’t give me that bloody ‘brother’ shite, you traitorous fuck. What the hell were you thinking by picking her up? I’ve been going out of my bloody head!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But this was the only way we could vet her. We couldn’t tell you about it in advance. You know the ropes.”
Vet her? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. “I said I potentially wanted to make her an asset! Potentially! I never gave you the green light!”
He shrugs, looking sheepish. “I told you I had to run it up the flagpole. This is what the top brass wanted. And now we know.”
Sucking hard breaths into my lungs, I curl my hands into fists and try to contain the homicidal urges making me want to stab him repeatedly in the face until he’s as unrecognizable as a pound of hamburger meat. “What do you know? What are you talking about?”
“He’s talking about your little girlfriend!” shrieks Thomas, still kneeling on the floor. “She’s as crazy as you are!”
I point at him, blood pulsing in my vision. “Say that again. Go ahead. Call her crazy one more time.”
“What he means,” says Grayson soothingly, putting a hand on my outstretched arm, “is that she passed with flying colors.”
I lower my arm. When I only stare at him, he nods. “She refused to admit she knew you at all, even when we showed her the pictures.”
“The pictures?”
“Don’t get your hackles up. You know how this works. Would you like me to tell you more, or would you prefer to continue the rampaging-gorilla routine?”
“You can tell me on the way to where you’re holding her. And so help me, god—”
“I know,” he says drily. “If she’s got even a miniscule bruise, you’ll kill me. Copy that.”
He heads to the door, knowing I’ll follow him. On the way out of the room, I notice one of the men who pulled a gun on me has two black eyes and a white strip of medical tape across the swollen bridge of his nose.
Oh, baby. My fierce little lion. Hold on a bit longer, here I come.