had to make it in her best interest to keep him alive. Blackmail had always done the trick before.
“Then you’re willing to prove that?”
Her brow lifted. He could almost see the thoughts flying through her head. The first of which was, “What will it get me?” He didn’t care. He took her mouth like a starving man.
She fought for control. It was game to her, a play for power, and she was very good at getting it. Her mouth teased him, and he drew her between his thighs. She came willingly, her smile soft in her beautifully elegant face, as his hand swept up the back of her thighs. He’d take back the power, like this, having her. Until his face was destroyed two years ago, he knew women and how to manipulate this one. He sought it for a means of escape, and while she used him, he returned it tenfold, torturing her with the only weapon he had left.
Before she killed him, he thought, as she pulled up her skirt and settled on his lap. He played the role of Latin lover. It wasn’t an easy task, his hands moving slower than his brain. He was grateful for instincts and training, but that his entire life came down to screwing a woman to stay alive, was an incredible irony. She started working open his trousers, her dark eyes glittering with hungry anticipation. But his fingers were already under her clothes, between her thighs, stroking her.
If his behavior wasn’t like her husband’s, he’d tell her something syrupy like his brush with death made him appreciate what he had. She wouldn’t care, distracted by her own desire, yet it would satisfy her ego. As Garcia, he was useful, and when he wasn’t, he’d get a hero’s funeral meant for another man—and destroy America in the process.
That alone was enough to push him to survive.
Logan had flashes of another time halfway around the world as they forced his head under water. Only then, it was into sand. How long had they been at this? It felt like an endless cycle from this room and back to the cell.
His hands bound behind him, he had no leverage, his skull in the bottom of the trough. Pinpricks of light burst behind his eyes, his lungs filled tight and pushing against fresh bruises. He’d reached the point that his body had stopped fighting for clean air, his blood pounding between his ears. He didn’t struggle, didn’t strain to pull upright. It wasted precious air to the brain.
The man yanked him up, Logan’s hair blocking his vision already swimming with stars. I hate this part, he thought, and the soldier with the piercing eyes tipped his head back. In the corner of the room on top of an old refrigerator unit was a camera. Who’s watching, he wondered, and where were his buddies? The last time he’d seen Max or Sebastian, they were face-down in a cell, bleeding.
They dunked him again and Logan wanted to go lax, pretend he was dead, but he was too deep inside for an escape and his buddies weren’t with him. Three more times, the soldier shoved his head under water. Logan felt like he was back on a SERE training op, the instructors torturing them like this to see if they could break them.
Then, as if by mysterious command, it stopped. The soldier pulled him to his feet, and Logan stumbled against his captor, his weight pushing the man against the wall. Logan closed his hand over the man’s knife and when he pushed Logan back, the blade came with him. Attacking was out of the question, but defense was another matter.
With a soldier behind him, Logan left the interrogation room and walked the corridor, his vision blurred from the strain of holding his breath. I really should have cut down on those cigars, he thought, still struggling to breathe easily. As they approached an open door, he glanced and intentionally stumbled to the ground, then pushed the knife into his boot. The soldier grabbed his hair, yanking his head back as he rattled off a few insults to Logan’s mother. But he’d seen enough. More cameras, and in the room the men were tearing at their gear, and not just the load bearing vests, but using a small knife to rip the seams like a dressmaker. They’d come with minimal equipment, yet about ten grand in liquid body armor was now torn and bleeding the plastic mix on the floor. Good thing the GPS locator was in his boot heel. Expensive toys, and not one of them was saving their ass now.
Outside the cell, the soldier cut his bonds and with the cursory shove and kick, Logan staggered in and slid to the ground. He leaned against the stone wall, water dripping off his clothes. His thirst was so great, he let it drip into his mouth, then sucked the fabric of his shirt.
“All around it hasn’t been a productive day, huh?” His head lolled to the side, and he could feel his heart beat in his teeth.
Wrapping his hands around Tessa’s throat would be like morphine right now. She was easy to blame. But this was his fault. If they’d pulled Ramos out of there instantly, it would have been a clean break and they’d have been gone before the guards rotated for shift change. Out through the kitchen, then the laundry; Riley was to make the pickup in the laundry van.
Till Tessa. He didn’t know whether to be happy she was alive or furious that it was all a lie at his expense. He’d mourned her, blamed himself for not keeping her safe, and now to find her still in the spy game and helping Ramos?
He almost couldn’t comprehend it. Not from her.
He worked kinks out of his shoulders, then crawled to Sebastian, rolling him over and cursing the mess of his face. Logan was examining a cut over his eyebrow when he noticed something on the floor. Reaching into the corner piled with dirt, he found a small piece of fabric, a button still attached. He recognized the nonreflective button, then checked his own black clothes for a tear. There wasn’t one and he held it out to Sebastian.
He checked his clothing, then shook his head. “I guess we’re not the first guests.”
Logan glanced around the cell, then gestured to the splatter on the wall. The blood stain was nearly black, old. The first team? Or some poor local?
Max rolled over. “What was I thinking?” he whispered.
“That you should shut the hell up?” Logan pocketed the button, then shifted to him, tipping his head toward the light. They went for the hot spots; nose, eyes and jaw, probably his kidneys, too.
“We aren’t pretty anymore, so I don’t think they plan to parade us for the press.”
It would be a benefit to keep them well fed and clean, Logan thought, and took off his shirt and twisted it, holding the rope of wet cloth over Max. Water dripped, rinsing blood from his eyes, and he opened his mouth to catch some. They’d given them nothing except a good beating since they were captured. He glanced at his watch. Eighteen hours ago.
“God, McGill is going to be so pissed.”
“Oh, he already is,” Logan said. “We were videotaping.”
“Great, a ringside seat to failure.”
Logan pried at his wounds. “You need a couple stitches.”
“How’s Sebastian?”
“Pretty bad. I think they broke his fingers.”
“Just my thumb,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth as he forced himself upright.
Logan twisted the shirt again and gave what little water was left to Sebastian, then used the wet cloth to clean cuts. “They’re looking for something. The troops stripped our gear down to the parts.”
“There goes the budget,” Max said.
“They’re
