“Sinclair,” he barks.
“Bring a team to Wildflower. The security guard at the gate took a bullet. He’s dead and I can’t reach Gray.”
“On my way,” Smith says. “Is this related to the op?”
“Can’t say for sure.” I glance up. There’s light peeking through the shutters in his office. “I think Gray’s inside.”
“Do not go in until we get there. I repeat. Do not go inside without backup.”
“Hurry.” I hang up without making any promises.
Other than the light in the office, the building is dimly lit, with some areas in total darkness.
Gray never turns on the alarm until he goes upstairs for the night. Security wasn’t near the door when I unlocked it, but that’s not unusual, although I would have expected the guard to notice the door ajar by now.
This is bad. Worse than TJ being dead, bad. I can feel it.
I scan for danger one more time before abandoning my position. It’s clear out here. At least it appears to be.
Without lowering my guard, I approach the front of the building low to the ground, and squeeze through the door, making as little noise as possible. Once inside, I creep along the wall so as not to cast a shadow. It’s dark in the inner hall and I almost trip over something. An arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’s not Gray. There’s no real relief, just building fear. What if I didn’t get here in time for Gray?
The guard appears to have bled out—there’s no pulse. It’s Ainsley. Shit. I take his weapon and proceed cautiously, every move deliberate. I dread what’s waiting for me ahead. Gray can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Get it together, Delilah. There might still be assailants in the building. This is no time for a meltdown.
“Fuckkkk!!” Gray’s harrowing scream cuts into the deathly silence.
I want to run toward the voice, but I know better. My heart pounds wildly as I inch along.
“Where is she?” a man’s voice shouts. “Where is your whore?”
They want me. Gray groans. It’s tortured, sending chills up my spine. From outside Foxy’s office, I see Gray’s door is closed. But that’s where the voices—
There’s a body on the floor. I inch closer. He’s not moving.
Maybe I can make a deal. My life for Gray’s. They’re asking for me. It won’t work. It’ll just get us both killed.
“Where is Delilah Porter?”
The sound of my name strikes terror in my soul. I need to get him out of there. How?
A distraction. That might work. I could go in through the back door of his office. Surprise them.
I slip into the dining room and crouch under a banquet table at the far end, out of sight. Risk be damned, I have to make the contact.
Delilah: Gray is being tortured. What’s the code to the back way into his office?
Foxy: How many?
Delilah: Unclear. Two voices besides Gray’s.
Foxy: You can’t get into the office unnoticed. In the storage room, there’s a false wall that contains a vault with gear. Can you get there?
Delilah: Yes.
Gray screams as I make my way to the storage room. Foxy texts instructions to open the safe and I follow them explicitly, grabbing a pair of night vision goggles and a silencer from inside.
I’m going to create a distraction. What kind of distraction, Delilah?
Gray’s warning blasts in my head. If you contact my handler, she won’t lift a finger to protect you unless she can do it without compromising the agency. She won’t even protect me if it comes to that. Her job is to protect the integrity of the mission, and that of the agency. It’s not to save us if things get too messy.
Screw it. I’m not entirely certain, but to be safe, I send one last text.
Delilah: If you do anything to clean this mess up before I get him to safety, I’ll claw my way out of hell and find those grandchildren you love so much, and I’ll torture their parents while they watch, slit mommy and daddy’s throats, and let the kiddies live out the rest of their lives with the horror.
Foxy: You’re on borrowed time.
“AHHH!”
My heart jolts at the sound of his voice. It’s tormented, and growing weaker.
Think, Delilah. Think.
Okay. I have it. Create the distraction, wait, kill, and then take the other one. I repeat this like a mantra as I go into the kitchen, and set off the smoke alarm. There’s no mistaking the sound. It’s the internal alarm that’s used for testing. It’s not hooked up to the central system. But it’s loud.
I’m on pins and needles waiting for the door to open, praying to a God I’ve never known. As soon as the figure turns the corner, I take the shot using a silencer, and he’s down. My breathing is ragged as I take his gun, and slink toward the office.
The door is ajar. It will be a few minutes before his friend comes looking for him, and I need to decide whether to enter the office or wait.
“Where is your bitch?” a man yells from inside.
He’s going to punish Gray now. That’s been the pattern: Question. A brief silence. Gray’s tortured voice. Over and over.
I position myself outside the doorway. I can’t see much, only the back of the attacker, hovering over someone on a table—that must be Gray. The strangled cry comes, and I lean into the doorway and take the shot while the bastard is distracted by the scream.
Two down.
Without thinking, I enter the room. The presence of a third man surprises me. He freezes, eyes wide, and I shoot him in the forehead without hesitating.
My gaze goes to the table. To Gray’s bloody, swollen face. It’s agony. His shirt has been cut away and his chest looks like it’s been sliced in several places. I need to get him out of here. Now.
“How many are there?” I ask, lightly brushing my hand over his hair.
“Four,” he mutters. My knees wobble, and I blow out the breath I’m holding.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise him. “They’re all dead. But we still need to get out of here in case there are others on the way. Can you sit up?”
He shakes his head. “Ribs. You. Go.”
I nod. My soul weeps. It’s a brutal technique used by the Amadis and others to torture captives. They break one rib at a time, until eventually, both lungs are pierced and the victim dies. Gray can’t go anywhere. And I’m not going anywhere without him.
I call Smith while I lock the office door, and pin a chair under the knob. It’s not much protection, but it’s something.
“We’re about to enter,” Smith barks. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Gray’s office. I think it’s over. But use caution. He needs an ambulance.” I toss the chair and unlock the office door for Smith before returning to Gray.
“Right outside,” Smith replies.
Gray’s breathing is shallow, and he slips in and out while I unstrap him from the table. I use the utmost care, but he grimaces as each strap loosens. “An ambulance is right outside. I know it hurts like a sonofabitch. They’ll give you medicine for the pain as soon as they get here. You’re going to be okay.” I murmur it over and over, as much for me as for him.
“You—shouldn’t—be—here. Consequences,” he chokes out each word in a lucid moment. I smile softly at his threat.