Barefoot With a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover Book 2) (36 page)

“You won’t kill me here,” she said, seizing a lot of bluster she didn’t actually feel. “You won’t pull the trigger and kill an innocent American citizen in an office in this place.”

“You’re right. I won’t kill you here.” He shoved her to the door. “We have other ways of getting information here at Guantanamo Bay.”

She closed her eyes and stumbled to the door knowing exactly what
ways
he meant.

Chapter Twenty-nine

As two guards escorted him through a series of covered, outdoor pathways through various buildings, Mal forced himself to remember every little thing he knew about this place.

“This way,” one of the guards said, the first and only thing out of the young Marine’s mouth.

The north end had been like a second home to Mal. That’s where they’d worked, where they’d tried to convince terrorists to be double agents.

And then Gabe’s voice came back to him.

There’s a Beretta Nano stashed in that cubbyhole.

But was it still there? If he could get into the Country Club…he could get out of it, too.

Memories flooded as they turned the corner and headed toward that hall. But there were six holding cells where prisoners waited their turn to go to the Country Club, and the guard slowed enough that Mal knew they were putting him in one of them.

“Have a little mercy, Private Mullins,” Mal said to the closest guard. “Gimme the last room on the left.”

“That’s not a cell.”

“There’s a real bed in it. You and I both know I could be here a long time.”

“This one, right here.” The other man, an Army National Guardsman whose badge said Harcourt, pulled out a key to one of the holding cells.

Mal eyed him. “California or Texas Guard, Corporal?” he asked.

The man ignored him and unlocked the door.

“I was with Maryland Reserves,” Mal said. At least that had been his cover when the CIA sent him here.

The guard turned to him. “You’re a fucking thief, Harris. Not a soldier. This is where you belong for what you did.”

But the other guard, Mullins, moved closer, obviously intrigued. “You’re the embezzler?” Mullins asked. “I’ve heard about you.”

“I did my time in a cell for that crime,” he said.

The guardsman looked disgusted and backed away. “I’m going to do the paperwork. Lock him in here.” He gave the key to Mullins. “And don’t leave this hall, Private.”

When his footsteps faded, Mullins nodded toward the open door, a wretched stench already wafting out. The cell was less than six by six, with a wooden box the only thing to sit on.

“C’mon, Private,” Mal said. “That key works in the last room, and you know as well as I do Corporal Harcourt is going to sit in his office and jack off until he’s off duty. He left you with the shit job.”

Mullins sniffed and turned his head, the ancient smells of a room where men were held for days with no bathroom still offensive. “No way,” Mullins said. “I’m not going to stand out here and suck in that shit.”

Mal’s spark of hope turned into a full-blown bonfire.

Mullins let him into the Country Club and gave a dry laugh when he looked inside. “Bed’s gone, Mr. Harris,” he noted, tapping a hideous overhead light. Air conditioning likely hadn’t been run since the project closed, leaving a different kind of fetid, moldy stench.

The bed was, indeed, long gone. All that was left in the room were two beat-up leather sofas, a table, and benches along the wall, with wooden tops that lifted for storage.

Storage for secret notes exchanged by an agent and a translator. Storage for porn they gave to the detainees. And, God willing, storage for a Beretta Nano.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” Mal went in, pretending not to be in any rush.

“I’ll be out here,” Mullins said. “Pound on the door if you need to piss.”

He left Mal alone, the thick metal door blocking out any sound of the private’s footsteps. Which meant he couldn’t hear Mal, either. Not that what he was hoping to do would make any sound.

Without hesitation, Mal walked to the wood slats that covered the benches, going to the spot at the end where he remembered Gabe leaving or retrieving notes for his lover.

Mal put his hand on the last wooden slat and tried to lift it. Nailed shut. Damn it. He yanked again, and again, ignoring the pain in his arm, determined to tear the wood off.

His fingers bled as he worked, sweat streaming and heart pounding, but he finally cracked a slat open enough that he was able to stick his hand in the hole and get a little more leverage. He couldn’t get his right arm all the way down without excruciating pain, so he tried his left, biting his lip with the effort.

It had to be there. Had to be. Finally, he bent over and stuck his arm deep in the hidey-hole they’d made, and his fingers grazed…paper.

Not the pistol they’d put there.

He tugged at the slip of paper and pulled it out with two fingers, swearing under his breath. There was something written on the tiny page, probably “suck it, dickhead, I took your gun” in Arabic.

But the words were in English, in a woman’s handwriting.

Gabriel, my angel…

He closed his eyes. Guess Gabe missed one. He stuffed it in his pocket, more determined than ever to get home and hand that letter to Gabe.

He shoved his right hand into the hole again, grunting as the jagged wood stabbed his wounded arm and drew more blood. Just as he was about to give up, he heard the lock of his door unlatch—

And his fingers touched the barrel of the gun.

He pushed all the way in and managed to grab the gun, tugging it out and getting it behind his back just as the private walked in.

He stared at Mal and the broken wood.

“We hid porn in there,” Mal said coolly. “Figured I might as well pass the time.”

Mullins gave him a strange look, but he didn’t make any effort to go for his own weapon.

“I’m getting coffee,” he said. “You want some?”

Such a nice kid. But probably not nice enough to help him, so Mal would have to make his night duty hell.

“Listen, Private Mullins.” Mal walked closer, the pistol in his right hand behind him, but he covered by holding the other hand over his bullet wound. “I really need to see medical.”

“I can’t take you—”

Mal whipped the gun around and slammed the barrel against the kid’s neck, instantly getting his arm and twisting it. He fought, but Mal had adrenaline and determination and years of experience in this kid’s shoes on his side. Mal flipped him around in a flash.

“Drop your firearm, or I shoot,” Mal said into his ear.

Private Mullins complied immediately.

“Arms out.”

Holding the gun steady on Mullins’s neck, Mal reached in and took his com device. “Where’s your phone?”

“Don’t have one.”

Liar. They all had them.

“Boots off,” Mal ordered, backing away but not taking his aim or eye off the guard.

He obeyed again, and an iPhone fell to the ground.

“Give it to me.”

Mullins didn’t move. “You won’t kill me. I heard about you. You’re legend around here.”

“Don’t push me, kid. Give me the phone.”

Mullins dropped slowly, got the phone, and Mal tossed it out the open door. He ripped the keys from Mullins’s other hand and didn’t wait for one second to let the young guard remember his training.

He closed and locked the door and ran toward the back entrance that only employees knew existed, but just as he stepped outside, he saw a light flicker on and off from the third floor. No one should be up there. Not anymore. That was all over.

No one should be in those hideous, heinous rooms where men had been reduced to animals and treated worse.

The light went out, nearly as fast as he thought it had come on. Was it Mal’s imagination? Who could be up there?

The pain in his arm stabbed, like a reminder of the pain that could be inflicted in those rooms. But it wasn’t his problem anymore…his problem, the one that mattered most to him, was Chessie.

The light flickered again, and suddenly he knew exactly who could be up there.

Chapter Thirty

It was so cold. Bitter, freezing cold. Not like anything she’d ever felt, even in the worst winter in Boston.

Chained to an iron chair in the dark, Chessie felt a fine mist of icy water fall over her, making her teeth chatter and her bones feel like they could break like icicles.

She barely remembered getting here, with Drummand’s gun in her back while he whisked her through what felt like the back alleys of this hellacious prison.

Every inch reeked of death and misery, making Chessie want to hold her breath and force images of torture out of her head. That’s what they’d done in this room.

What he was doing to her now.

Starting with the brutal, frigid mist that caused a different kind of pain than she’d ever felt before. The kind that made you want to give up. The kind that made you want to tell anyone whatever it was they wanted to hear just to get relief.

It was pitch dark, impossible to see, except for when it was as bright as looking into the sun, the light right in her eyes, blinding and painful, then it would go black again.

It was the not knowing when it would happen that created the first level of torture. The actual misery wasn’t as bad as the anticipation.

“So what exactly were you doing on that computer, Ms. Rossi?”

Drummand’s voice kept coming from a different place in the room. He was circling her, and with no light it was impossible to be sure where he’d be next. Behind her. Next to her. Close to her ear.

“M-m-moving money.”

“Where?”

She jerked back when the words came at her an inch from her face, and the barrel of that pistol stabbed in her chest.

“T-t-to…your…a-a-account.”

She screamed when the light came on, like fire pointed at her eyes, then it was gone, and all she could see was the burning white spot against the black.

“Francesca.” He breathed her name into her other ear, the syllables that sounded so poetic when Mal whispered them merely offending her now. “Tell me the password for that account.”

And never clear Mal’s name? She bit her lip hard, refusing to even think about the simple password she’d just made up.

She’d been so close. She almost proved he’d stolen it, but she’d been one freaking keystroke away when he caught her. One more keystroke, and she would have cleared Mal’s name.

Now she’d probably die in this place, and Mal…what would happen to him?

“We can go back there now. Just tell me the password and this”—the blinding light burst like an explosion in her eyes—“will be over.”

“I w-w-will if you clear Mal.”

He laughed in her face. “Making deals, kiddo? Of course. You’ve got a pair like your cocky-ass brother.” She heard him step away, maybe back to the light, maybe somewhere else.

“The password, Francesca.” He flashed the light on and off, on and off, on and off, like a strobe. And then the mist turned into a drenching of freezing misery from above that made her choke and squirm and want to die.

“Tell me the goddamned password!”

She opened her mouth, but it filled with water.

Another light flashed, and something crashed, making her scream again and get another mouthful of water. A gun fired. A man yelled.

Choking, gasping for breath, she tried to see through the downfall of water that poured from some hole in the ceiling. But the water was rushing so loud she couldn’t hear what it was or see anything.

Another shot and lights came on. Soft lights. Warm lights. And the water stopped.

“Chessie, oh my God, Chessie.” Mal nearly sobbed the word as he fell to his knees in front of her.

“Mal.” She fought for breath and sagged forward, the relief of life and air and protection and
him
washing over her with more force than the submersion she’d just experienced.

She looked past him at Drummand, who rolled on the floor, howling in pain, blood oozing from his leg and arm. “Is he…did you…”

“He’ll live, unfortunately.”

“Then we have to do something. Can you free me? Can you get me back to that computer?”

To his credit, he didn’t argue or question her. Just produced a key and went to work unlocking the first cuff.

“Hurry, Mal. Before they come after you.”

“I don’t care,” he said, twisting the lock the way his broken voice twisted her heart. “I only care about you. That’s it. That’s all that matters. You.”

He released her other hand and immediately she reached for him, throwing her arms around him and pulling him close. He was so warm and so big and so strong and so safe.

Then she pushed him back. “We have to go!” Shaking and fighting shock, she tried to get out of the chair but her legs were wobbly.

“No! Please!” Drummand called out, his hand extended for assistance.