Читать книгу Warrior Spirit - Cassie Miles - Страница 11

Sierra awoke with a jolt. Her eyelids snapped open, and she blinked rapidly to bring her vision into focus. Where was she? How did she get here?

She was seated in a recliner chair with her feet up and her head resting against a pillowed back. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

In front of her was a plain concrete wall. The paint was a drab color that matched the ceiling. On the wall to her left was a closed door. She craned her neck to see what was behind her. More concrete. This was a small windowless room—a prison cell without bars.

A shudder went through her as the walls seemed to tighten. She had to get out of here.

But when she tried to climb out of the recliner, she couldn’t move. Her wrists were fastened to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were also restrained. Around her waist was a wide band that held her in place. What was going on? Why had she been brought to this place?

Her heart beat faster as she struggled against her bonds. My God, what was going to happen to her? Nothing good. That was for damn sure!

She pinched her lips together to keep from sobbing out loud, but when she closed her eyes, tears streaked from the corners of her eyes. There was a dull throb at the back of her head. Though she wasn’t in terrible pain, she felt every single one of her recent bruises. And she remembered…

The funeral. Lyle’s coffin. The men who’d grabbed her. And the one who’d rescued her from them. Trevor, his name was Trevor. He must have brought her here. Why? What did he want from her?

She heard the door opening, and looked up. It was him.

“You’re awake,” he said with a smile. “Good.”

Sierra told herself to be strong. She couldn’t let him see her fear and helplessness. Keeping the tremble from her voice, she said, “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll scream.”

“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “The room is soundproof.”

She opened her mouth to yell, then thought better of it. Her throat was too dry. By screaming, she’d only hurt herself, and she needed to marshal her strength. It was going to take every bit of her tough New York chutzpah to make it through this ordeal.

When she was growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, she’d done okay. Back then, she’d thought her life was rough. But the occasional mugging and street violence were nothing compared to what had happened after she moved to Montana. First Lyle. Now this.

She glared at Trevor. “Where am I?”

He stretched his arms wide to encompass the small space. “This is an interrogation room.”

“Why am I here?”

“To be interrogated.” He held a bottle of water in each hand. “You should have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Though the water enticed her, she shook her head. “First, let me go.”

“Ah, Sierra. I didn’t go to all this trouble just to release you.” He waggled the water bottle before her eyes. “Tell me about Lyle Nelson.”

“There’s nothing to tell. He’s dead.”

“When you were dating, did you meet his friends?”

“Yes.” She eyed the water bottle. Her thirst was becoming unbearable.

“Give me some names,” Trevor said.

“I don’t have to tell you anything. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m one of the good guys. And Lyle was…”

“Not good.” She sucked on the inside of her cheeks, trying to get her saliva to flow. “And I don’t believe you’re a good person, either. You kidnapped me. You tied me up.”

“Cooperate, Sierra.”

“Let me go, Trevor.”

“You remember my name. I like that.”

As he came closer to the chair, his name wasn’t the only thing she remembered. They had been riding together, crushed together in the saddle, she’d felt the sheer power emanating from him. What woman wouldn’t be drawn to that?

Trevor had to be one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen. Tall and long-legged, his body was in prime physical condition. His shiny black hair hung straight to his shoulders. And his eyes…oh my God, his eyes were an intriguing, piercing blue.

She didn’t want to be attracted to him. He’d captured her, dragged her off against her will and tied her to a chair. “You’re a monster.”

He reached behind the chair to place one of the water bottles on something she couldn’t see. A table? A tray? Then he unscrewed the cap of the other and held it near her mouth. “Take a few sips. It’ll help your headache.”

“How do you know I have a headache?”

“Dehydration. Come on, Sierra. Make it easy on yourself.”

She licked her lips. The inside of her mouth tasted like cotton. Though it went against her stubborn grain to do anything he said, she wasn’t a fool. “Okay. I’ll drink.”

He helped her sip from the bottle. The first cool taste was pure nectar. She wanted more.

“Not too fast,” he cautioned. “Just a little at a time.”

When he supported her head with his other hand, she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch. She’d seen Trevor smack down three men with a couple of blows. And he’d rendered her unconscious with a tap on the shoulder. But he held her so tenderly now.

With a shake of her head, she derailed that train of thought. She’d have to be nuts to trust this man. At the moment, all she wanted was the water. She chugged half the contents of the bottle.

“That’s better,” he said. “You’re comfortable, aren’t you?”

“No,” she snapped. “I need to stretch. To move around.”

“First we’ll have a talk.”

She wiggled in the recliner, but there was really no point in fighting against the restraints. All she’d do was make herself weaker.

The way to get out of here was to be smarter than he was. She tried a different tactic. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He reached down beneath the chair and held up a plastic container. “Bedpan.”

Did he really think she’d allow him to pull down her panties? As she gazed along the length of her body, she realized that she wasn’t wearing her own clothing. She’d been dressed in cotton hospital scrubs. “You bastard!” In spite of her decision to stay calm, she jerked against the restraints. “You undressed me.”

“This outfit is more comfortable,” he said. “And I’m all about making you comfortable, Sierra. So you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

“Then you’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything.”

“You think you’re tough.”

“Damn straight. I’m from Brooklyn.”

He gave her an altogether charming smile. This guy was really fine to look at. “Tell me about Brooklyn.” His tone was courteous and encouraging. “Tell me about when you were growing up.”

“You don’t really want to know. You just want to get me talking, to loosen my tongue.”

“That’s very perceptive,” he stated. “You’re a smart person, aren’t you?”

She didn’t believe his compliment, couldn’t allow herself to believe one word that fell from his sexy mouth. “I’m not telling you squat.”

In the blink of an eye, Trevor’s attitude changed. His lips curled in an angry sneer. His eyes were cold as blue ice. “You have no choice.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “You’re helpless, completely dependent on me.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It was taking all her willpower to keep up her tough facade. She had to think about something else, something outside this interrogation room.

“You should be afraid,” Trevor repeated. His hand clamped hard around her throat. “The Militia are terrorists, murderers. If you know anything about them, give it up.”

The pressure against her throat was just enough to make breathing difficult. She choked out the words. “I don’t know anything.”

He released his grasp but stayed close to her. His gaze bored into her face. “Tell me about Lyle.”

“He’s dead. There’s nothing to tell.”

Without a word, Trevor reached behind the back of the chair. He held a pair of thick cotton socks, which he placed on her feet.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He was silent as he fitted gloves on her hands.

“Stop it!” Panic crashed through her. What was going to happen? “Don’t touch me.”

His hands were rough as he slipped a blindfold over her head. She couldn’t see anything. Her panic became terror. She was truly helpless.

“You’ll tell me,” he growled. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

“Whatever you say. Take the blindfold off. Please.”

“Silence,” he said, “isn’t always golden.”

She felt him place something else on her head. Earphones. He fastened them tightly with a chin strap. She heard nothing but an unpleasant static noise.

She was blinded and deafened, unable to feel anything with her hands. It seemed as if she were floating in a terrifying space—endlessly falling and falling.

TREVOR STEPPED AWAY from the chair and watched as she struggled. Maintaining the level of dispassion necessary for interrogation was difficult. Usually, he had no problem in turning off his emotions. Human compassion was not an option when dealing with an uncooperative subject.

But he kept thinking of her name. Sierra. Beautiful Sierra. Tough Sierra. Most women—or men, for that matter—would have cracked when they realized they were helpless. But she had put up a valiant fight.

Her struggling subsided, and he checked the silent monitor behind the interrogation chair. The restraint on her left wrist held a mechanism that measured her pulse. The beating of her heart returned to a level closer to normal. Deprived of sensory input, she was in a state of suspension.

His technique was roughly based on the CIA model for coercive interrogation. First came arrest and detention. Taking away the clothing and any familiar objects was like stripping off armor. The subject became more vulnerable—more dependent upon the interrogator.

When he questioned her, he alternated kindness and cruelty to throw her off balance. The subject should never know whether to expect a compliment or a slap in the face.

The next step was where they were right now. Sensory deprivation. The socks and gloves eliminated the sense of touch. The hood and earphones cut off sight and hearing. Without sensory stimulus, the subject became highly disoriented.

During Trevor’s counterintelligence training, he’d undergone most of these procedures himself. Though it was intensely confusing to lose the use of your senses, the worst part for him was confinement. He hated to be enclosed.

In the chair, Sierra whimpered. The sound of her fear sliced through his stoic resolve. Though he reminded himself that the ultimate goal—catching the Militia—was worth her temporary discomfort, his heart didn’t believe that rationalization. What he was doing to her felt wrong. He wanted to tear off the blindfold, unfasten her bonds and hold her in his arms.

He checked his wristwatch. In twenty minutes, the truth drug he’d administered in her water would take effect. Her defenses would be down, and she’d be ready to talk. The truth drug, or TD, never failed to produce the desired results. It had been developed in extensive tests with Army Intelligence and was more potent than Pentothal. Because the TD was mostly organic, with a mescaline base, the aftereffects were minimal, with only a few hours of slight, occasional hallucinations.

He appreciated the irony of using this derivative from the peyote button, sacred to many Native American tribes, for such a high-tech application.

Her chest heaved as she sobbed.

Damn it! He couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. This was almost more torturous for him than for her.

Trevor stepped outside the room into the hallway, closed the door and inhaled a deep breath. For this interrogation to continue, he needed to get control of his emotions. His response to her was all wrong. He couldn’t be sympathetic.

Glad that nobody was around to see his weakness, he glanced down the hallway in the underground level of Big Sky Bounty Hunters headquarters. A quiet hum came from the room nearest the staircase, where they kept the computers and state-of-the-art equipment used for surveillance and tracking. This was the no-frills part of the building, nothing like the cozy upper floors, with their rustic pine paneling reminiscent of a hunting lodge.

Trevor had noticed that when he was doing interrogations, the other bounty hunters steered clear of this part of headquarters. Nobody liked to think about coercive techniques.

He checked his watch again. Ten more minutes. He had time to run upstairs and grab a sandwich, but he didn’t much feel like eating.

Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.

There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.

Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.

When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.

He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.

Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”

“Dizzy.”

His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She nodded slowly.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”

“I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”

Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”

“Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”

“What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.

“Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”

“Yes, it is.”

“First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”

“All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”

“But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”

He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”

“Where are you from, Trevor?”

“A potato farm in Idaho.”

“No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”

“I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”

Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”

“Part Cherokee.”

“And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”

He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”

Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”

“There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”

“No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”

“Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”

“I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”

And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”

“Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”

It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”

“No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”

“Talk, Sierra.”

“Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t like them. He came from money, you know. He wasn’t trash. But he gave all his money to Boone.”

“Tell me about the others.”

“The one I hated the most was Perry Johnson. He’s nothing but a sadist, pure and simple. I saw him gutting a deer they’d shot for venison, and he was freakishly happy. Perry loved being up to his elbows in blood.”

“Where were you when you saw him?”

“Perry’s cabin,” she said quickly.

That location was already known to the authorities. The cabin had been searched. “Where else? Where are they hiding now?”

“I don’t know.”

Trevor leaned closer, forcing her to concentrate on his face. “Did Lyle tell you any of his plans?”

“No. Nothing.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“After the prison break,” she said. “He came to my place. I rent half of a duplex on the outskirts of Ponderosa. I didn’t want him there, but he wouldn’t leave. He said he needed a safe house to lie low.”

This was a new piece of information. After the prison break, the Militia seemed to disappear. Apparently, they had dispersed. “When Lyle showed up, why didn’t you call the sheriff?”

“Lyle would have killed me.” Her complexion paled. “And he would have killed the sheriff, too. I always wanted to think that Lyle was better than those other terrible men. But I was wrong.”

Her voice cracked and her eyes welled up with tears.

“Sierra,” Trevor called to her. “Concentrate. How long did Lyle stay at your house?”

“He came late at night, sneaked in through the window. He tried to seduce me, but I wouldn’t let him get close. Then he locked me in the closet. I guess I was lucky that he didn’t hit me.”

“Did he hit you before? When you were his girlfriend?”

“Twice.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “After the first time, he apologized and seemed so sincere. He was under all this stress with the Militia. I forgave him. I was stupid. So damn stupid.”

Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was ragged. Sierra’s tough facade washed away in a tidal wave of tears.

Trevor felt himself melting toward her. How could he push her further? But he had to keep going. She had information she was holding back. Even through the tears, he could feel her resistance. “What is it, Sierra? What do you want to tell me?”

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much. Leave me alone. Please.”

He returned to the earlier topic. “After he locked you in the closet, what happened?”

“The next morning, I told him I had to go to work. I have two part-time jobs, and I can’t call in sick.”

“Did he let you leave?”

She shook her head. “I told him that if he wanted me to keep quiet, he’d have to kill me.”

A gutsy move on her part. Trevor was impressed. “What happened?”

“He said he’d go. But before he did, he tore my place apart. He found my nest egg, the money I’d been saving so I could move back to Brooklyn. And he took all of it.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“Did you follow him?”

“No.”

She was still holding something back. He could feel her resistance. Harshly, he snapped, “You’re not telling me everything.”

“No.” Her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to divulge this secret.

“Why?” he demanded.

Helplessly, she shook her head from side to side.

“I don’t get it, Sierra. You’re a strong woman. You don’t let people push you around. Why did you protect Lyle Nelson? Why did you stay with him?”

“Because he was the father of my child.”

There was a hollow ring to her voice; she was speaking from the depths of unbearable sorrow.

Abruptly, she stopped crying. Her eyes opened wide, revealing her unassuageable pain. “I miscarried. After Lyle was arrested. I lost my baby. My son.”

The color drained from her face. In a matter-of-fact voice, she said, “I wanted to die.”

Her miscarriage was the secret she’d been hiding from him, and Trevor had forced the words from her. My God, what had he done?

She’d been right to call him a monster.