His temples throbbed, his vision blurred. His tongue thick and swollen in his mouth like some alien thing. Everything hurt.
With incredible effort, Liam rolled onto his side, his cheek scraping rough concrete, and scanned the freezer.
It was devoid of anything he could use as an improvised weapon. The steel shelves were welded to the wall and floor. No furniture, no kitchen utensils or cooking tools.
Nothing but his pile of discarded clothing and the sunglasses case Luther had carelessly left behind.
Liam used his elbows to shove himself into a seated position, then rocked onto his knees. Images swam before his eyes, dimming at the edges.
He was dizzy, disoriented. Everything lurching and jerky.
With a groan, he moved his bound hands under and forward beneath his buttocks, his arms almost yanked out of their sockets. It took several tries. Leaning forward, he folded his legs to get his hands past his feet and in front of him, wincing as sweat broke out on his brow Gasping from the effort, he maneuvered his bound hands to his lower right side and gingerly peeled the medical tape from the bandage over his ribs.
Adrenaline surged through him. Pain and panic made his fingers fumble. He didn’t know whether he had minutes or seconds.
He was running out of precious time.
Frantic, unable to see what he was doing, his fingers searched for the object he’d hidden within the bandage earlier that night—Reynoso’s handcuff key.
Luther had known about the key sewn into Liam’s sock. The handcuff ploy was part of the plan. Luther’s betrayal was not.
But Liam ensured he had a back-up, one unlikely to be discovered even in a strip-search. The key was the difference between mission success and utter failure.
Mindful of every microscopic movement, Liam pinched the tiny key between his fingers and maneuvered it into the lock.
Don’t drop it. Whatever you do, don’t drop it.
The cuffs bit into his wrist-bones. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Vertigo washed through him.
The cuffs clicked open and clattered to the concrete.
Liam climbed to his feet. He closed his eyes, tamping down the panic surging into his chest, the dizziness.
His legs gave out on him, and he staggered against the shelves, nearly falling. With great effort, he pulled himself up.
The pain was incredible. His spine on fire. His ribs cracked, maybe broken. His entire face felt like someone had shoved it into a blender.
With a moan, he used the shelf to hold himself up and reached for his clothing, hoping, praying, desperate that it was still there. Please, God, please…
There it was. It sat atop his folded jacket next to the sunglasses case—the discarded pen.
Just a pen, not a weapon.
Except it wasn’t. Not in Liam’s hands.
Six and a half inches long, discrete, with a removable cap on each end. One side, a normal ballpoint pen. The other side, a hard tungsten carbide head designed to pierce human flesh with one strike.
He only needed a chance to use it.
62
The General
Day One Hundred and Fifteen
The door slammed open.
The General marched into the freezer. He held a silenced Colt 1911 pistol in his hand.
Besides Luther, three of the General’s bodyguards crowded into the room. Dobson and McArthur moved to the right. Luther sidled to the left, standing behind Gibbs.
Behind them, the door remained open.
Outside, Baxter waited nervously—the man was squeamish; he had no stomach for bloodshed.
The General held no such qualms.
Lansing had moved fast. Furious, Lauren Eubanks had called him, demanding answers and insinuating that he might have had a hand in Governor Duffield’s untimely demise.
Luckily, she couldn’t prove any of it.
Governor Duffield hadn’t updated her on the General’s air raid on an American town. The General’s secrets remained safe.
He only needed a little more time.
At this very moment, his troops were headed for Fall Creek. He’d sent them early. Because he could. Because he wanted to see the look in Coleman’s face when he told him.
Gibbs had reported that many of the National Guard had balked at engaging noncombatants. The General had threatened them with a court-martial.
They knew what that meant. He would shoot every one of them in the head before he allowed them to defy orders.
When it came to it, they’d buckle down and obey. Their lives or the lives of strangers; it was no contest.
As soon as the General gave the word, they would descend upon Fall Creek with the fury of a hurricane.
And once it was over, it was over. Feelings would be hurt; outrageous accusations made. If it ever came up in a future congressional hearing, he could blame it on Poe.
In the end, the feds only wanted results. The General would give them those results.
Just as soon as he took care of this little problem.
The General stared at Coleman kneeling on the floor. The prisoner cowered before him, wretched and pathetic, his shoulders hunched, head down in abject misery.
Blood dripped from his hairline. Cuts, scrapes, and old scars marred his bare, muscled chest. The wound in his side leaked red. The tendons in his neck stood out.
He trembled, quaking with terror and dread. A man gripped by the terrible knowledge of imminent death. Finally, he’d revealed himself as the gutless coward that he was. That deep down, all men were.
The General smiled.
All men were made of flesh and blood and bone. All men broke.
The General broke them.
He stepped forward. Raised the pistol.
“Don’t get too close,” Gibbs warned, but the General ignored him.
Dark energy hummed through him. He would relish this moment, would wring every ounce of pleasure from it. “My troops are moving in on Fall Creek right now. Your friends are about to die.”
Coleman said nothing.
“Look at me!”
He wanted to stare into Liam Coleman’s desperate eyes as he squeezed the trigger and fired the kill shot. He wanted the man to know who brought his death. Who wielded ultimate power and meted out ultimate defeat.
He longed to see the despair in his gaze.