Code Name Sentinel (Jameson Force Security 2)

But then the cold seeped in, my arms and legs alternating between cramping pain and absolute numbness. My mind starts playing tricks on me because it’s so silent in the inky black darkness.

The worst part of being down here in the freezing solitude is it gives me plenty of time to think about Cruce. About him taking that crazy jump from the dock onto the side of the boat—knowing they had guns and he’d be shot. But it never even slowed him down. He didn’t hesitate to expend all his zeal to save me, despite the fact it would cost him his own life.

So I think about how brave he was and how I’ll never know what we could have had together. It makes me cry, and I can’t seem to stop. My tears feel frozen on my cold cheeks, but of all my discomforts, nothing compares to the searing pain in the center of my chest from losing Cruce.

He was my chance at happiness.

I had always thought I was a happy person before meeting him because I loved my work and career. Cruce made me realize how much I’ve been missing in life, but it disappeared in a heartbeat when his stopped beating.

The screech of metal sliding against metal—so ominous sounding that my heart thuds like a giant drum—pierces the silence, and I jerk against my bonds. My sadness over Cruce vanishes as fear takes root deep in my gut.

I strain to see toward the area I believe the door to be in, then a flood of light blinds me as it opens. My eyes involuntarily snap shut against the pain of it, yet my fear won’t let me sit here in continued darkness. I wince, opening my eyes up a fraction to see who’s coming through that door.

I see nothing but a large outline of a man with wide shoulders and powerful legs. I’m assuming it’s Paul, although it could be anyone. Whoever has kidnapped me has the money and means to hire a small mercenary army to do his bidding as evidenced by how quickly and effectively they struck. It could be any one of those murderers, which is what they all are. Maybe only one pulled the trigger and shot Cruce, but they’re all responsible for his death.

A light comes on overhead. As I start to become accustomed to it, my vision focuses. It’s Paul, and I don’t like the look in his eyes.

Way too much determination.

He’s here for the information I hold in my head.

Cruce had warned me about this if I were to be captured. Our second night on the island, over dinner, he had a terrifying conversation with me about what would happen if I were caught.

Paramount, he’d said, would be to get the information from me at all costs. He’d informed me in a cold, flat tone that they would hurt me to get it.

He also told me to resist the impulse to give in because once they had the information, chances were they would kill me. They were never going to let a witness who could identify them live to do so.

I try to straighten my spine to show my defiance, but Paul just smirks. Apparently, I amuse him.

“They say you are a brilliant scientist,” he murmurs as he approaches. My eyes stay locked on his. When he reaches my chair, he squats so we are eye to eye. “So you are surely smart enough to know what I want.”

“I won’t give you anything,” I say. It takes everything within me to keep my voice calm and confident.

Paul’s glare bores deep into mine, perhaps trying to glean just how much I mean that.

He merely inclines his head. “We shall see.”

And so, it begins.

Paul stands, then moves over to a metal table against one wall. He pulls it toward me, the legs scraping along the concrete floor. The sound is excruciating to my ears after having been left in silence so long.

When he drops it beside me, I twist to see, fearing the horrible instruments of torture that might rest there. Instead, I’m surprised to find the top bare.

Paul pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen a few times, then sets it beside me on the table. He explains, “I’m recording our little session. Can’t cause you pain and take notes on what you’re going to tell me at the same time, you know.”

I flash a faux smile. “Let the record reflect I think you’re an asshole, and you probably have a little dick, too.”

Paul may be big and appear to be an oaf, but he’s surprisingly quick. I don’t even see his hand coming at me, but I sure feel the crack of his palm against my cheek. My head snaps to the right, and my face explodes with pain. It’s the second time in mere hours I’ve been hit. The other strike was a backhand from a righty, so it was to my right cheek. This one was also from a righty, but he wound up like he was taking a swing for the fences and hit me with an open palm on my left cheek. I had thought nothing could hurt worse than knuckles, but I was wrong. Paul’s youth and size over the older man makes a world of difference in the pain scale.