Red Zone (Red Zone 1)

“Yeah.”

“Then we definitely go in cautious.” She paused. “And armed to the teeth.”

He might hate their new world and the genetic crap that came with it, but it had its perks. One of them was the strange sixth sense his animal had given him. It hadn’t steered him wrong yet. And that sixth sense told him Striker was in trouble up to his neck.

The sooner they got to La Paz, the better.

Chapter Thirty-Five

They’d been thrown into a holding cell, which was nothing more than a bare concrete room with one high, narrow, heavily barred window and a thick steel door. There was a toilet and sink in the corner, a mattress and blankets on the floor. Nothing else.

Well, except for the four cameras taking up space in each corner of the room. They were placed high up against the ceiling, protected behind shatterproof glass, ensuring they couldn’t be tampered with. There wasn’t one inch of the cell that wasn’t covered by surveillance. Striker had checked. He’d been pacing the cell, looking for weaknesses since the minute they’d been thrown into it. He checked his watch, for the millionth time. Nine and a half hours until Friday’s deadline. They could still make it to New York. If he could just get them out of this cell.

Friday sat on the mattress, her knees pulled up tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. It didn’t take a genius to see she was hugging herself. She didn’t move or speak. She just sat there, watching him pace. The fight had gone right out of her. Seeing her like that was a knife to his heart.

He tore his eyes from her and examined every inch of the room, one more time, paying particular attention to the door. There was no way out. At least none that he could see. All the while his diamondback kept sending him images of them running free. It didn’t help.

I’m trying! he snapped at his other half.

There had to be a way out of the room. He just had to try harder to find it.

“It’s pointless,” Friday said softly. “Even if you find a way out, it will be too late.”

“No.” He refused to believe it. Refused to give in.

There was no handle on the inside of the door. No lock, either. Which meant nothing to pick. Another dead end.

“Come talk to me. Take my mind off things.” It was a gentle plea that made him want to punch and scream with frustration. He had to get her out of there!

“I’m a bit busy here.” He examined the ceiling. It was flat, solid concrete, with one strip light wired into it. They were trapped in a concrete box. Floor. Walls. Ceiling. All solid concrete. The only gap was the solitary window high on the wall. The one that was barred, and too narrow for them to get through even if it wasn’t.

“Honey, come sit with me.”

“No!” The roar echoed off the walls. “No! We need to get out of here.” He looked at his watch. Nine hours. It was still possible. It had to be.

She rose from the mattress and came to stand behind him. He felt her palms on his back and jerked forward, everything within him exploding. There was nothing to hit out at except the door, and he gladly whaled on it with his bare knuckles. He struck it hard. Again, and again, and again, until blood soaked his fists. He didn’t feel any pain. The rage inside was so loud it drowned out everything else.

Soft fingers gripped his forearm, gentle in their touch. He reeled back, opening his mouth to roar, but nothing came out. Friday stood beside him, her blue eyes wide with distress, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Fuck!” he huffed. His hand hooked the back of her neck, and he pulled her against his body. “Fuck,” he whispered.

She trembled against him as she cried, not once making a sound. It humbled him like nothing else could have done, and the rage seeped away, only to be replaced with agonizing fear.

“I’m sorry, bébé. I’m sorry.” He kissed her hair and cooed nonsense to her, trying to soothe something that couldn’t be soothed.

They stood like that for what seemed like forever, swaying in place as Striker held her tight, hoping his hold alone would be strong enough to keep her with him. Against all odds. Forever.

As Friday’s silent sobs eased, he cupped her cheek and angled her face up to him. “I’m sorry, bébé.” He smoothed away the tears.

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and the look she gave him would have brought him to his knees if she hadn’t been holding him up. Her tears weren’t for herself. They were for him. She was crying for him. Fuck, but she tore him up inside.

He opened his mouth, intent on promising that he’d get her out of there. That he’d do something to make things right. That he would fight with his last breath to save her.

Trembling fingers pressed against his lips as one lone tear slid down her already stained cheeks. “It’s over,” she whispered. “I know you don’t want it to be. I don’t, either. But even if a miracle happens and we get out of here, we won’t make it to the antidote in time.”

“No.” He shook his head. His stomach tightened. “No. It’s still possible.”

“I want…” She took a shuddering breath that went straight to his soul. “I want to spend these last few hours with you. Concentrating on you. I want to feel every single minute I have left. With. You.”