Exit Strategy (17 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Day Three—­10:00 p.m.

S
abrina strained against the rope tying her to the chair in the back corner of Cyprian’s
real
office, the one hidden behind the wall that she and Mason had found right before they’d been caught. The man who’d tied her—­Bishop—­had pulled her arms so tightly that there was no way she could break free. She didn’t even have the pleasure of being able to tell her captors what she thought of them because of the gag over her mouth. She tugged again at the ropes around her wrists, wincing when they bit into her flesh. The ropes didn’t budge. She collapsed against the chair and watched helplessly as Mason was half dragged to face Cyprian in front of his desk.

A wall of obviously fake windows lit up the room behind him, displaying what she assumed to be a recording of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains. He held court like a king, his thugs, Stryker and Bishop, standing on either side of Mason with their guns trained on him, his hands cuffed in front of him.

Mason had fought against those handcuffs like a madman when he’d first awoken, as if he’d lost his mind. And even with his hands cuffed, he’d fought valiantly while Stryker had kicked and beat him into submission. But in spite of how strong and determined he was, with his head bleeding and his arms behind his back, he’d been unable to defend himself anymore. It had been heart-­wrenching to watch, and Sabrina’s hatred of Cyprian and his men had increased a thousandfold seeing their brutal treatment of Mason.

Cyprian had ordered him stripped down to his underwear to remove the Kevlar vest and any weapons he might be concealing. When Mason’s shirt had been removed, and Sabrina saw the spiderweb of scars on his back for the first time, her heart felt like it might break. He’d suffered far more than she’d realized when she’d felt some of those scars beneath her fingertips. Now she understood why the handcuffs had driven him nearly insane. When the Jackal had restrained him in the past, the bonds had been so tight they’d cut into his flesh. She couldn’t imagine the pain he must have had to endure. That he was alive was a testament to his stamina and determination. It was so unfair that he was being treated so horribly yet again.

No amount of willpower could save him if he was so injured that he couldn’t even try to protect himself. And based on the amount of blood that had seeped from his head wound and was now drying on his neck and shoulders, time was running out. He swayed on his feet and shook his head as if trying to focus on Cyprian. The act of remaining upright after the beating he’d taken was sapping his strength.

The only solace for Sabrina was in knowing that the man named Bishop was probably in almost as much pain as Mason. She remembered how much being shot had hurt, even with a bulletproof vest on. She’d thought she was dying. Every time Bishop moved, every time he breathed, his chest probably felt like icy hot needles were being jammed into his flesh. It was the least he deserved for what he’d done.

Cyprian snapped his fingers. “Mason.” He clapped his hands. “Mason, there you are. Eyes open. You wouldn’t want to pass out before I decide your fate and the fate of Miss Hightower, now would you?”

Even from Sabrina’s vantage point she saw the deliberate raising of Mason’s head, the straightening of his shoulders even though the room had to feel like it was spinning around him. She despised Cyprian for treating him this way.

“There we go,” Cyprian said, satisfied. “I have to say, Mason. I’m very disappointed in you. It appears that you’re in league with a former enforcer who went rogue, who turned traitor against this very organization—­Devlin Buchanan. Tell me. What would make a loyal operative such as yourself go against years of training and close ranks with the likes of him?”

Mason’s mumbled reply didn’t carry very far. His head dipped to his chest and he swayed on his feet again.

Stryker punched him in the stomach, doubling him over.

Sabrina shouted against her gag and renewed her struggles against her rope.

Mason managed to shove Stryker away before straightening. But when Stryker would have retaliated, Cyprian held up his hand.

“Enough. I need him conscious. Now speak up, Mason. Why did you side with Buchanan? What are the two of you planning? More importantly, is anyone else helping you?”

He lifted his head again. “Screw. You.”

Cyprian’s nostrils flared. He looked at Stryker and nodded.

Stryker slammed his fist into the side of Mason’s ribs.

Sabrina screamed with rage against her gag as Mason staggered against Bishop. Bishop let out a howl of pain.

Cyprian rolled his eyes. “Enough. You hit him too hard with that pistol, Stryker. He’s useless to me right now. Lock him up in the tunnel and we’ll try again later. Bishop, follow behind them. One wrong move and he’s dead.”

“Yes, sir,” Bishop gritted out between clenched teeth as he held his ribs.

“And Mason,” Cyprian added. “Be mindful. If you try anything while Stryker and Bishop escort you, remember that I have Miss Hightower with me. If Stryker doesn’t call back that you’re secured below in ten minutes, Miss Hightower dies. Understood?”

Mason didn’t move.

Stryker grabbed a handful of Mason’s hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look at Cyprian. “Answer the man.”

“If you hurt her,” Mason bit out, “I’ll kill you.”

Cyprian’s face turned a mottled red. “Get him out of here.”

Sabrina watched with growing panic as Stryker grabbed Mason by the shoulders and shoved him through an archway on the other side of the room. Stryker hit a spot on the wall and a string of overhead lights came on, showing a concrete floor that sloped down—­the tunnel Cyprian had mentioned. What were they going to do to him? She struggled anew against her bonds, steeling herself against the pain as the ropes chafed and bit into her skin.

The door to the tunnel slid closed, leaving Sabrina alone with Cyprian. He turned his dark-­eyed gaze on her like a snake getting ready to strike.

She strained harder against her ropes. Were they loosening or was that her imagination?

“Well, well, now.” Cyprian stood, jerked his suit jacket into place, and rounded the desk. “It’s just you and me, Miss Hightower. Sabrina, isn’t it? You don’t mind if I call you Sabrina, do you? Oh, wait. How rude of me. We can’t exactly have a conversation if you can’t talk, now can we?” He mercilessly ripped the duct tape from over her mouth and yanked out the gag.

Her face stung like it was on fire from the tape. But she remained rigid, refusing to cower before him.

“What? No recriminations or accusations? I expected you to at least yell at me about Mason’s treatment, based on the daggers you were glaring earlier.”

“You’re a bastard. Is that what you want to hear?”

He sighed. “Such language is not becoming of you. But at least you’re talking.” He grabbed a chair and tugged it a few feet closer before sitting down. “I really am sorry that you’ve been caught up in all of this. It was never my intention for you or your family to be hurt. What has happened is . . . regrettable.”

“
Regrettable?
You killed my brother, my parents, probably my grandfather, and now you’re going to kill me. Yet you sit there in your suit pretending to be a civilized man and call all of that regrettable? You make me sick.”

His perfectly plucked brows rose. “My, my, my. What interesting accusations you make. Tell me, dear. Where did you come up with these theories? Whom have you been speaking to?”

“I notice you aren’t denying my theories.”

He shrugged. “I’ll neither confirm nor deny. Neither would serve me. What I wish to know is who you and Mason are working with and what you’re planning. I already know about Buchanan. But I expect there are others. I want their names.”

“I don’t know any names.”

“Hm. I doubt that. But I suppose it’s possible that you’ve seen some of the rebels and don’t know their identities. Not a problem. You’ve already proven you’re adept at drawing faces. I’ll just get you a pencil and paper and see what we come up with.” He stood.

“You mean like the sketch I made of Melissa? The one my grandfather showed you?”

He turned to face her and slowly sat back down. Sabrina immediately wished she hadn’t goaded him. She’d wanted him to admit what he’d done, to tell her his role in her brother’s death and her grandfather’s disappearance. But she feared she might have just awoken a sleeping dragon.

“It appears, Miss Hightower, that you know quite a bit more than I realized.”

“I don’t know anything,” she hedged. “Like you said, they’re just theories.”

“Perhaps. But sometimes it’s amazing how accurate theories can be. As you may have guessed, I’m in the process of performing damage control. But I can’t be sure I’ve covered all my bases without knowing all the details. I want you to tell me everything you know, or think you know, about EXIT and about me.”

“And if I refuse?”

He clucked his tongue. “That would be . . . disappointing. And I don’t like to be disappointed.” He rose from his chair with the grace and polish of a world-­class gentleman, but what he retrieved from his bottom desk drawer had nothing to do with being civilized.

Sabrina clamped her jaw shut to keep from whimpering as he drew near.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this the easy way, Miss Hightower?” He sat across from her again and pulled a decorative table next to her chair. “All you have to do is tell me everything you know about EXIT, and describe anyone who has been helping you, Mason, and the Buchanans.”

She tried to answer him, but her throat was so tight her words came out in an unintelligible rasp.

“Could you please repeat that?” He leaned closer, turning his head to the side as if to hear her better.

“Go. To. Hell,” she bit out.

He sat back, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. “I believe I mentioned earlier that your language was offensive. I have a feeling you’ll realize the error of your ways very soon.”

He plopped the heavy battery onto the table and attached the electrodes, leaving them to dangle next to the chair. Sabrina’s hands started sweating so much she could barely keep her grip on the arms of the wooden chair where she was sitting.

“Although I’m loath to cause you any pain,” Cyprian said, “I will do what is necessary.” He stood again. “I’m going to give you some time to think about this. Hopefully, when I come back, you’ll have made the wise decision and we can both avoid this bit of unpleasantness.”

Relief swept over Sabrina as she watched him go through the archway that led to his official office. The door slid shut behind him. She couldn’t believe he’d given her a reprieve. And she certainly wasn’t going to waste it.

All the straining and tugging on her ropes had definitely loosened them. If she could just get one hand free, she could lift her foot up and go for the pocketknife tucked inside her shoe.

What if she couldn’t break free? She glanced at the battery and shuddered. No, she refused to consider the possibility of failing. Because if she failed, who would help Mason?

She renewed her struggles, clenching her teeth together as the ropes bit through her skin.

M
ASON SHOOK HIS
head, trying to clear the buzzing in his ears. The darkness was absolute and he wasn’t sure where he was. His last clear memory was of warning Sabrina that they needed to leave. After that, only fuzzy images and pain drifted through his mind, but those small glimpses into what must have happened scared the hell out of him.

Because it meant that Cyprian had Sabrina
. If she was even still alive.

No, he couldn’t think like that. Sabrina was strong, a fighter. She would do whatever it took to survive. She would know that it was her duty, to stay alive until he could come for her.

Fight, Sabrina. Don’t let them win.

He traced the long chain threaded between the handcuffs. The links ended at a heavy lock that fastened the chain to a thick metal loop in a concrete wall. That loop was his enemy now, the only thing stopping him from getting to Sabrina. He focused all his rage, all his hatred on that one piece of metal, bracing his feet wide apart against the wall, wrapping the chains around his arms, and grasping them with his wrists.

After two short breaths, he inhaled deeply and pulled. He pushed with his feet at the same time, every muscle in his body straining and working together against that one little loop. He gritted his teeth, his head beginning to pound from the effort. Sweat slicked his hands, making the chains slippery, but he couldn’t give up. His muscles began to burn and sting. He kept pulling, tugging, pushing with his feet. His arms and legs started shaking from the strain until they finally gave out like limp noodles and he fell back, the chain sliding out of his sweaty grasp. He lay on the cold concrete floor, gasping for breath.

Again.
He had to try again. He couldn’t give up. Sabrina was counting on him.

When his muscles stopped shaking, he sat up, wiped his sweaty palms on his boxers, and wrapped the chains around his arms again. For a brief moment, the feel of those chains on his arms started a bubble of panic deep inside him. He could almost feel them cutting into his flesh, biting into his muscles, the sting of salt water being poured over his open wounds.

No, that was a long time ago. You’re at EXIT. Sabrina needs you. Don’t give in to the panic.

He wrapped the chains around his wrists to try again. Cold steel. Biting. Tearing into flesh.
No. I’m in the tunnel
. He yanked the chain.

Did you really think you could escape me that easily, soldier?

“Face me like a man,” he yelled into the darkness.

The Jackal laughed.

Mason lunged toward the sound and jerked up short as the chain pulled taut, making him fall down onto the concrete.

The whip lashed, flaying open his skin.

The agony of a thousand burning suns seared his flesh. He bit his tongue, trying to stay silent.

Don’t let him hear you scream.