“Welcome to reality, Drew.”
“Oh, I’ve had more than my fair share of reality, Silas. Fuck off with the sarcasm.”
“The reality is,” he says, ignoring that, “Anya is tight as a drum. Senator Bosworth is freaking out, and everyone’s mobilized to find Lindsay.” He looks at the laptop. “We should get as much manpower on this as possible.”
I ignore that.
“I can’t believe Anya threw Lindsay under a bus. She had to know that what she did meant sending her to her death.” My stomach roils at the thought. A vision of Anya fills my mind’s eye. Cool, calm, implacable.
And that evil?
“She’s been part of Harry’s team for too long to turn on the family.” I fight my internal denial. I need to be clear headed and impartial. The only bias I allow myself is toward Lindsay.
“It’s hard to believe,” Silas says in agreement.
This is a distraction. I need to focus on action.
“We need to regroup.”
Silas says, “Jane and Anya aside, the question is this: how do we get into your apartment and rescue Lindsay?”
“We?” If my face didn’t hurt so much, my eyebrows would shoot up. “You realize this is career suicide if you help me.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
Have I mentioned what a good man he is?
“What about Paulson?” I ask.
“What about him?”
“Where is he?”
Silas checks his phone. Taps a few times. Looks at me. “Still don’t know.”
“Fuck. If Jane’s in on it, and Paulson’s in on it, who else?”
“Throw in the senator while you’re at it, Drew. How about Lindsay’s mom? And me. We’re all part of it. Need a little extra foil for that hat you’re wearing?” He gives me a WTF? look. “Paulson isn’t in on this.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“How do you know I’m not in on it?”
“I don’t,” I hiss.
Neither of us breathe. One, two, three, five seconds go by.
Finally he shakes his head and slowly lets out his breath through his nose. “Then you have two choices. Let Lindsay die because you can’t figure out who to ask for help, or ask the wrong person and she dies, too.”
“Those are terrible choices.”
“Yeah. So pick the one that gives her a chance.”
I hate being wrong.
“We have to get her out of my apartment.”
“You go anywhere near it, they’ll know. Whatever surveillance you’ve got going on, theirs is better.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I reply, mocking his own words. As I speak, I crack open a cut on my lip, blood tainting my words.
“The more time we waste talking the harder this mission becomes,” he points out.
“Then shut up and move.”
“Move where? How the hell can we get you within yards of your apartment? They’ll see us coming a mile away.”
I spin through all the conceivable ways I can attack my own place. Beach? Bribe the security guard? Can’t do rooftop. Can’t dig a tunnel and get in.
And then it hits me.
I give Silas a hopeful look. “I have an idea.”
“It better be good.”
“It is. It involves gold bikinis and margaritas.”
“Even better.”
Chapter 5
Lindsay
They have to feed me.
Right?
Unless they plan to kill me in the next couple of hours.
If they’re not feeding me, is that a sign? Or are they just assholes who don’t care about feeding me? My stomach gurgles. Then it makes an epic sound, like wet boulders being dragged through mud with air pockets.
Muffled voices provide a strange background sound. None of their words is distinct, but the accumulation of them stacks up to create a ribbon of sound. Whatever they’re planning for me, they’re not tipping their hands.
I’m left without a voice, without a way to get out, and without Drew.
Time keeps changing. I’m on the bed again, but sitting up against the headboard, my hands in front of me in a zip tie. It’s better than having them behind me. Hurts less.
That’s how I measure time now. Through pain. Less pain = easier to pass time.
Time slows when the pain increases.
I can’t think forward, either. If I anticipate time, think about the future, the pain increases, too.
Mental pain.
Mental pain that will soon convert to physical pain.
What are they going to do to me?
As I move, my hair tickles my neck. Because I’m living with my skin on fire, every nerve quick and ready to react, even a gentle touch like strands of hair against my skin feels horrible. My mind keeps playing through memories of the video I’ve seen of what they did to me.
My gut tightens. I’m close to throwing up.
If they’re going to torture me and kill me, I wish they’d just do it.
But then again, if I draw this out long enough, Drew may have enough time to find me and save me.
Which path do I choose? If I open my mouth and provoke them, I can get out of this no-man’s-land. I’m stuck waiting for them to act.
I’m at their mercy on multiple levels.
You get to a point after a while when any outcome is better than no outcome at all. Where any choice is better than not choosing.
Where inaction turns you insane.
And being stuck in your own head, a prisoner to your scrabbling mind, can be worse than death.
There is a book on Drew’s nightstand, crooked and jutting out. It’s on top of a stack of books. I twist just enough, scooching over, moving slowly. I’m bored out of my mind and anything – anything – is better than staring at the ceiling and envisioning my own death.
My fingers gain purchase on the book and it drops onto the bedspread.
The title:
Jane’s Military Aircraft Recognition Guide You have got to be kidding me.
A laugh bubbles up, coming out like a snort, a choked gasp, the sound of disbelief and betrayal and the surreal in one bundle of air. I didn’t expect Eat Pray Love, but are you kidding me?
My very last book I ever read will be this.
I’m pretty damn sure my friend Jane isn’t the one who wrote it.
Jane.
Where’s Jane now?
And then I wonder: seriously, Drew? This is your bedtime reading?
I have so much to learn about him.