“It’s all good, kid.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder in reassurance, then headed inside the building and took the stairs two at a time.
When he passed Reese’s room, he noticed all the drawers of her dresser gaping open, but he kept walking until he reached the bathroom. He grabbed a towel and shoved all of Reese’s stuff onto it—her soap, shampoo, razors, a bottle of lotion that Tamara had brought back from the south. Then he reached a hand behind the toilet seat and jerked down a brick wrapped in cellophane and duct tape. It was a stash of emergency coin along with a gun and ammo. He tossed that onto the pile, secured the ends of the towel into a sack, and slung it over his shoulder.
When he stepped into the hallway, Rylan was waiting there for him. “You got all your shit?” the man muttered.
“Almost. I need a sec.”
Rylan’s face was rigid, each line filled with anger and betrayal. It was nothing like the good-natured expression that he usually wore, and it pained Sloan to see such a drastic change. Rylan’s first instinct was usually to smile, but Sloan had killed that.
The loss of Rylan’s admiration and affection was carving what was left of Sloan’s heart into thin, brittle pieces.
He ducked into his room and packed up his meager possessions as the other man watched from the doorway in silent but obvious disapproval. Fuck, he wished Rylan would yell at him or something, because at least that would mean he still believed Sloan was worth the effort.
He zipped up his duffel and headed back to the door. “Ready.”
Rylan gave a tiny chin lift, the barest of acknowledgments, and then clambered down the stairs without a word.
There was one truck left in the courtyard. The two men climbed into the back, while Randy slammed the door behind them and jogged to the front. The truck heaved a little as the teenager hoisted his body into the driver’s seat, then jolted forward as he gassed the engine.
Sloan leaned his head against the metal wall of the truck and closed his eyes, but all he could see was Rylan’s devastated face and Reese’s terrified one.
There would be no rest for him until Reese was safe.
24
The interrogation room was small, no bigger than ten by ten feet. A metal table and two chairs sat in its center. Against the far wall was a narrow cot with a thin wool blanket. The bed was . . . alarming. Since Reese highly doubted they were going to let her take naps between torture sessions, this could only mean that the cot would play a part in the torture sessions.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Eric and his men had captured her at the outpost. There was no clock or windows in the room, no indicators to help her figure out what time it was. She didn’t even know if it was day or night.
Instead of the long drive that Eric had taunted her about, they’d traveled only ten minutes to a nearby airfield, where a military chopper was waiting for them. The bird had taken them not to West City, but to the Enforcer compound east of it.
Reese had strained to get a good look of the compound, but all she’d seen was a flurry of soldiers on the tarmac. They’d ushered her into this room too fast for her to gather much useful intel, though she did have some previous knowledge of the compound: Hudson had provided a detailed sketch of it to Connor, who in turn passed a copy along to Reese.
She knew there were about two hundred soldiers living there. That there were barracks in the west building and training facilities in the main one. That it was heavily guarded and surrounded by a twelve-foot electric fence.
As she stared at the cinder block walls, Reese forced herself not to give in to the fear and worry gnawing at her insides. She desperately hoped that Rylan and the others had gotten away. And she hoped to hell they weren’t planning a rescue for her. Even Connor knew that was suicide—he’d had to make a deal with Dominik in order to free Hudson from this same compound. Security here was tighter than at any other Enforcer station in the Colonies.
It felt like at least another hour passed before the door finally opened and a stocky, balding man entered the room. He had harsh features, a heavy brow and a square jaw, and wasn’t much taller than Reese’s five-eight. His lips were so thin it almost looked like he didn’t have any—until he smirked and the hint of a curve appeared.
“Hello, Reese,” he said briskly. “I’m Commander Anthony Ferris.” One bushy black eyebrow flicked up. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for a face-to-face with you.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair in an insolent pose. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Frowning, Ferris strode up to the table and pulled out the second chair. Metal scraped against concrete, a grating sound that lingered in the air. As he sat down, two more men entered the room.