Mark came awake with a bad case of cottonmouth and a terrible whining in his ears. Mosquitoes? Bees? A flock of drones? He blinked away the fog muddling his brain and found himself handcuffed and chained like a dog to a loop of rebar bolted into a cement pad. He’d been stripped to his slacks and dress shirt. They’d even taken his socks. He tugged on the restraints, tested the grip of cement on the rebar as he worked himself into an upright position so he could get his bearings.
An industrial fan mounted in the ceiling was the source of the sound. Naturally, it wasn’t blowing at him, but rather toward an old metal desk, currently unoccupied, at the opposite end of a long, narrow room. A modified shipping container, he realized after further study. The air was hot and the humidity high. How far south had Eaton taken him? And how?
He recalled the drive and the marina. After Charlotte had been escorted away, Eaton and his men had harassed him. Drugged him. He didn’t need to touch the back of his head to feel the knot there. His scalp was tight from swelling and probably more than a little dried blood.
“Charlotte?” His rusty voice sounded pitiful in his ears. Clearing his throat, he shouted her name.
The only response was his rumbling stomach.
Mark twisted as far as the restraints allowed, trying to get his bearings. There was remarkably little to go on. Rusting corrugated walls and one door. When his eyes landed on a bottle of water near the wall, he didn’t even try to stretch for it. It was either out of reach or laced with drugs. Let the games begin. Mark scanned the windowless room again and spotted two cameras. Was Eaton already sending out the feed meant to torture his father?
“Charlotte!” he called again. What had Eaton done with her? Mark forced back the swell of panic. He had to stay calm. One step at a time, just like he’d told Charlotte.
Eaton had to know the army investigators were closing in on him. Why else would he go to such extremes with this elaborate kidnapping?
The man wanted to get caught, everyone agreed on that. More specifically, he wanted to get caught on his terms, after he’d accomplished his goal of ruining the general. Hank’s team had managed only a few successful interrogations of people they’d connected to Eaton. Still, Hank and his team were piecing together a picture.
Power was Eaton’s drug as much as control and impact. Whatever misfortunes he blamed on General Riley, Eaton intended for the general to suffer and keep on suffering as everything he valued dissolved into a wasteland. He blamed the general for the destruction of his family and seemed intent on dealing the same crushing blow to the Rileys.
“Charlotte!” Mark shouted her name again.
“Mark!” The faint response motivated him. If she was within earshot, they still had a chance. He hauled himself to his feet and tried to budge the cement pad. The door opened and Eaton walked in, followed by a man tall enough that he had to duck to get through the doorway. The man was bald and a wall of muscle. His uniform, likely in deference to the humid climate, was a black tank top with black cargo pants and black jungle boots.
If he was part of Eaton’s plan, Mark anticipated a great deal of pain in his own future.
“We’re glad to hear you’re back in fighting form,” Eaton said. He propped a hip against the desk, staying well clear of Mark, and folded his arms over his chest.
Mark stilled, refusing to give any hints about his condition. “Where’s Charlotte?”
Eaton looked at the muscle man. “So predictable.”
“Just as you said,” Muscle replied.
“What did you do to her?” Mark demanded.
“We’ve shown her every courtesy,” Eaton said. “Haven’t touched a hair on her head.” He took two strides forward, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Yet.”
Mark strained toward him, wanting a piece of Eaton more than a gallon of water. “I’ll get free,” he vowed. “You’ll pay.”
“You will get free,” Eaton agreed. Then his eyes narrowed to slits and his nostrils flared. “When I’m ready for you to be free.” To Muscle, he said, “Go on and introduce yourself.”
Mark watched the big man advance, learning what he could in the few brief strides it took the thug to reach him. He dodged the first ham-sized hook aimed at his jaw and, thanks to the restraints, got caught with an upper cut. Wheezing, cuffed, he couldn’t do more than offer a few weak blocks against the rest of the beating.
“That’s enough for today.” Eaton gave the order just before Muscle’s boot connected with Mark’s rib cage.
The big man pulled the kick, sparing his ribs, and Mark smiled. His teammates always claimed he lived a charmed life. He was starting to believe it.
Eaton walked over and unlocked the cuffs linking Mark’s hands to the rebar and Muscle shuffled him out of the room.
Definitely a modified shipping container and not pinned down well, Mark noted as the floor gave a bit under their feet. He hoped it wasn’t just his imagination that beyond Muscle’s body odor and the smell of rust he caught a whiff of clean salt air nearby.
“Tack up some plywood, add a window or two and the place won’t be half-bad, Eaton,” Mark mumbled through a swollen lip.
“Something to think about,” his captor replied. He stepped in front of Muscle and led the way to a second heavily reinforced door. “Why don’t you consider the color palette for me and we’ll discuss it at our next meeting.”
“Sure. I’ll bring color swatches.”
Muscle walked through the opening first, dragging Mark through the doorway and tossing him into a cell that resembled a dog kennel with plywood on one side. The cell door clanked shut and Muscle locked it with a standard sliding bolt before walking out of the room and slamming the reinforced door closed with a loud bang. Eaton and Muscle had to know his ears were ringing.
Swiping away the blood trickling from his eyebrow, Mark took stock of the surroundings. He looked around for a camera and didn’t see one. That didn’t mean it wasn’t here, he thought, leaning on the cage door. The bolt held firm and there wasn’t enough space to get his hand through to manipulate it. He gave his captors points for confidence.
Wire fencing made up the walls and a ceiling of the cell that was a few inches too short for Mark to stand up straight. The jerk knew how to make a prisoner miserable.
He kicked at the gap at the bottom of his cage door. A convenient food slot, though Eaton probably wouldn’t bother feeding him. Next, he poked through the chain links at the plywood pressed against the outside of one of the cage walls. When it didn’t fall, he assumed it was there to block his view of anyone in the next cage.
“Mark? Is that you?”
Charlotte’s voice, stoic and clear, erased every pain as relief surged through his system. “Charlotte, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Well, I’m terrified, but they haven’t hurt me.”
Mark sat down hard, as close to the plywood as possible with his back to the cage door. She sounded all right. He just had to keep her that way. He rapped a fist against an upright support post and the sound reverberated all around. “Good acoustics in here,” Mark muttered. Eaton or the guards would hear every movement.
“If you say so. What did they do to you?”
“Nothing serious,” he replied. He didn’t expect the reprieve to last, but no point in talking about something neither of them could control.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s rude.” He tried to laugh, but it turned into a wheeze. “Where’s the trust? I’ve never lied to you.”
“Mark, I’m serious,” she pleaded. “Have they hurt you?”
He couldn’t ignore her plaintive tone. Maybe knowing the facts would keep her vivid imagination in check. “They drugged me at the dock. Typical tactic, but it’s out of my system now. A big bald guard roughed me up a bit. I’ve had tougher training sessions.” He knew he was in for it later if Eaton had devices in here to pick up this conversation, but Charlotte’s peace of mind was more important. “Now it’s your turn to be honest with me.” He remembered the way the older man had ogled her in the van. “Has he hurt you?” He held his breath.
“No.”
Her voice was firm. She wasn’t lying to him. Thank God. He exhaled slowly. He heard her shifting closer and envisioned the flow of that dress over her body.
“He locked me in a tiny furnished cabin on the boat for the duration of the trip here.”
“How long were you on the boat? Did you stop anywhere?” How many days had he been unconscious? “Did you recognize anything on the way here?” He paused, listening. She didn’t respond. “Charlotte?”
“Oh, I’m here, just making a list. Did you want those answers in order?”
“Ha ha.” He was glad to hear her spirits were still good. But he needed information to make a solid plan.
“We left the same night we were kidnapped. We were on the water all through the next day and night. Then we arrived here in the afternoon. There’s a dock and this building we’re in. I saw a generator, but not much else.”
“Okay, good.” Her voice grew stronger with every bit of information shared. He used his shirtsleeve to blot the sweat from his face, ignoring the smear of blood. One more stain on a shirt that wouldn’t last much longer. “It’s hot in here. Has he fed you anything?”
“They’ve given me bottles of water and meal bars. It’s better than starving.”
She wasn’t wrong. “Unless you have a fake-food allergy,” he quipped.
“You know that’s not a thing.”
“Maybe not.” He did know she’d rolled her eyes and that made him smile. The smile tugged his busted lip and made him wince. It was worth it.
“Have you seen any cameras in here?” he asked.
“Not in here. There might have been a camera near the dock.”
That made sense. “What else can you tell me?”
“There’s a narrow beach near the dock and we walked through a wide path. Sea grasses and palms, and thicker trees farther inland. You and I are the only two people in this room.”
“Good job.” He’d had less intel on combat operations and the team had still succeeded. He had to assume Eaton knew his service record, so why allow her to tell him any of this?
It could be a test, but more likely it was one of the mind games Eaton liked. On his quest to destroy the general, he demonstrated a pitiless determination in setting up ordeals designed to create as much pain as possible for General Riley’s children. And their father had been kept apprised of every grim moment via text messages, photos and live videos.
“Charlotte, you’re amazing.” She’d wanted to help and she had. “They’ll find us soon. Whatever he does or says, remember good people are out there looking for us.”
“I’m uncomfortable but I think you’re in more danger,” she said. “He talked to me that night on the boat, Mark. He’s organized and deliberate. He has something very specific in mind.”
“We’ll get our chance,” Mark promised. He was more concerned with the improvising Eaton had in the works now that Charlotte was here. Mark couldn’t deny she was a weakness Eaton could use against him. He didn’t care. He’d do anything to spare her pain or humiliation.
“Charlotte—” He snapped his mouth closed, feeling the footfalls through the metal floor a moment before they were audible. The door opened and Muscle appeared again.
He sneered at Mark and walked right past him to Charlotte’s cage. Mark wanted to coach her, to encourage her and reassure her he’d find a way to get her out.
Muscle’s body blocked most of his view of her as she crossed in front of his cage, but he could see she’d been forced to change out of her dress and into hospital-like scrubs in a drab olive green color. Her high heels were gone and in their place she wore slip-on prison-issue shoes that were a little too big for her feet. Mark clutched the front of his cage. Willing her to hear all the things he didn’t dare say.
Muscle hurried her along. Her hands were cuffed in front of her and she craned her neck to look at him as she walked by.
Her eyes went wide and she dug in her heels. “You are hurt.”
“I’m not,” he insisted. No matter how bad he looked, he was strong enough, smart enough to get them out of this.
He had to be.
Charlotte’s heart hammered and pulses of terror zipped through her system. She paced the length of her cage, tripping over the floppy shoes. Taking them off, she shoved them into the back corner. What were they doing to Mark?
She’d known he was worried for her, but the big guard had escorted her to the other room and parked her in a chair in front of the desk, not before she noticed the drops of blood on the floor near where they must have secured Mark. Eaton had asked her several vague background questions about her association with the Riley family. She couldn’t figure out what he expected to accomplish with her. He’d seemed to be killing time, and she hadn’t had the courage to ask him why. Eventually he’d sent her back here.
Her cage door had barely locked before they were dragging Mark away. In the hours since, she’d heard only angry shouts and the occasional pain-filled cry. From the vent cut into the top of the wall, their only source of fresh air in here, she watched the light fade as night fell.
Feeling helpless, she piled her hair on the top of her head and scraped her knuckles on the wire fencing that created a ceiling. It dawned on her then that Mark wouldn’t be able to stand up straight unless his cage was taller. Eaton wouldn’t bother to do anything to make a Riley more comfortable. She pressed her cheek to the cage door, but she couldn’t get the right angle to see anything helpful about the height of his cell on the other side of the plywood barrier.
For reasons she couldn’t articulate, learning the answer became imperative. At the plywood side of the cell, she gave the fence wall a hard shake and then climbed it, shoving her fingers through in an effort to reach over the barrier.
No luck. Hopping back to the floor, she stifled a curse. She would just ask Mark when Eaton brought him back. Because Mark would come back. She had to believe it. She rubbed her arms against the chill of doubt that chased that thought. Negative thinking wouldn’t help either of them.
Frustrated and desperate, she rattled her cage door again. Outside, a light winked on and gave her enough brightness to search again for any structural weakness in the cage. The wire fencing wasn’t exactly top-of-the-line security, but she couldn’t make any useful progress where it was strapped to the floor and walls of the container.
At the sound of the door unlocking, she hurried to the front of her cage, hoping for a glimpse of Mark. The door opened and the bare bulb overhead flashed on. She squinted at the flare of light. Despite pressing her cheek close to the cold fencing, all she saw was the smaller of the two men who had alternated guard duty. “Hey!” she called out. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t acknowledge her. She listened to the footsteps. Someone was dragging something. Please, please, please don’t let that be Mark. With a grunt and a curse, the big guard shoved the heavy object or person into Mark’s cell. Her heart sank.
“Is that Mark?” she asked, demanded. “Mark, talk to me.”
The only response was a pained groan.
“What did you do to him?” She shook the door of her cage, slammed her body against it.
The big bald guard suddenly stepped in front of her. “Back up, missy.”
She didn’t have to be told twice. The smell alone had her wishing for a fan. A stench of blood and something hot, like melting wires, hovered around him like a thick fog. “What did you do to him?”
The guard’s hard eyes glittered and he traced the hasp of the lock on the door. He had the key and they both knew it. “Be glad the boss put you off-limits.”
“L-leave ’er...’lone.”
Mark’s words were slurred, but he was alive. The guard’s attention shifted and she watched, horrified, as he hauled Mark out of the cell and pinned him to the wall in front of her.
“You don’t give the orders,” the guard said.
“You either,” Mark retorted.
Charlotte’s breath caught in her chest. He looked dreadful. One side of his face was swollen from jaw to brow bone and blood trailed over the terrain into his beard. They’d replaced his suit with a pair of thin pants like the scrubs she wore. His feet and chest were bare.
“Mark,” she whispered, afraid for him. His appearance didn’t put her off; it made her want to help, to comfort, to soothe. “Oh, Mark.”
His gaze flitted to her and his lips curved into what was probably intended to be a grin. “Hi, Lottie.”
She shook her head. With the damage to his face, he was a caricature of himself. What was she supposed to do now? Priority one was not to blurt out she loved him. That was a declaration and a moment best not shared here.
Better to focus on solutions to the immediate trouble. It looked as if the only thing keeping Mark upright was the guard’s meaty hand. She was livid with Eaton. At the first opportunity, she’d attack the jerk, to hell with the consequences.
Furious and afraid for Mark, she shook the cage door. “You’ve made a huge mistake. Open this door and I’ll kill you myself.” Senseless, likely impossible, but she wanted the chance.
“She’ll do it too,” Mark said. “Fierce.”
The guard muttered something unintelligible and shoved Mark back in his cell. He locked them into the room and the light overhead went dark again. Charlotte pressed her forehead against the side of the cage that bordered his.
“Do you have any water or food?”
“Both,” he grunted, sounding surprised.
“Good.” She’d been trying to figure out how to help him. “Don’t talk, just take care of yourself.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
She heard the wrapper tear as he opened a meal bar, then a short bark of laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“Hard granola bar. Sore teeth.”
His words were still a bit slurred, but she understood. “That’s mean.”
“Uh-huh.”
A moment later, she heard the crinkle of plastic as Mark drank the bottled water. “You should drink more,” she said when he was quiet.
“All gone.”
She felt so bad for him. Worse when she realized he would’ve been dealing with this by himself. She had four more bottles in the corner of her cage, along with three soft oatmeal breakfast bars. “I hate John Eaton.”
A snort came from Mark’s cell.
Now that she was looking for them, she’d noticed the cameras in the office where Mark had been beaten. Clearly they were doing a number on him to make the general miserable. Mark had told her that was Eaton’s strategy, but seeing it play out was dreadful. “We have to do something.”
“In time,” Mark said.
“Tell me how to help.” There had to be something more she could do here.
“Can’t.”
Not what she wanted to hear. Beating up Mark seemed to be Eaton’s only goal, anything to make General Riley suffer while he watched. A man like that would want verification that his tactics were effective. “How does Eaton know your dad’s watching?”
“Dunno,” Mark replied. He sounded half-asleep.
Maybe he was conserving his energy to heal while he could. His training would’ve prepared him for this kind of situation. Charlotte knew he wouldn’t cave to the torture anytime soon. Her heart broke for Mark, his father and the whole family. The next time Eaton hauled her in for a face-to-face, he wouldn’t find her so cooperative.
“This is intolerable.” She slumped to the floor and leaned against the barrier between them, wishing her presence offered him the same reassurance that being near him gave her.
“Life sucks sometimes.” Mark’s voice was a bit clearer now. “We’ll get through it.”
Would they? She tugged at the fencing, stretching her fingers through to touch the plywood. The fence panel was looser at the middle and the barrier between their cages didn’t reach the ceiling. Maybe she couldn’t fight back directly, but she could help him recover.
“I have an idea.” She grabbed a bottle of water and one of the soft meal bars. She tried to lift the plywood and slide the water through, but she couldn’t get the barrier quite high enough.
“Not up. Forward,” Mark said.
She heard him move toward the back wall and hurried to follow. Together, using their fingertips through the chain links, they pushed the plywood far enough out of the way for her to pass him an oatmeal bar and another bottle of water.
Her fingers brushed against his and, despite the crisis and his injuries, that familiar combination of awareness and longing zinged up her arm and straight into her heart. She couldn’t suppress the gasp.
“Don’t worry about me, Lottie,” he said, misunderstanding her reaction. He opened the meal bar. The homey scent of oatmeal was a strange counterpoint in their makeshift prison.
“Of course not,” she said, trying to follow his habit of keeping things light. “You’re obviously doing fine.”
“I am,” he whispered, his voice low. “This helps.”
Through the narrow gap, she watched him wolf down the food and guzzle another bottle of water. She took both the wrapper and the empty bottle into her cell to hide that they’d shared resources. “Do you want more to eat?”
“Better not,” he replied.
“What can I do?” she asked again. “There has to be something.”
He reached through the gap and touched her fingers, the closest they could come to holding hands with his still handcuffed. “This.” He sighed. “This helps. Knowing I’m not alone.”
She wished she could see his face, but it was too dark again. She almost lifted his hand to her lips, as she had so many times in her imagination. Her mind would always go there with him, whether they were in a dark cell or surrounded by his family at one event or another. “You’re not alone,” she whispered.
“That’s the best part of a SEAL team,” Mark said after a few minutes. “Someone has your back.”
Oh, how she wished she could have his back here. “I’ll help you any way I can,” she said.
“You’ve made that clear.” He turned his head and even in the low light, she caught a bit of that familiar grin. “At this point, I think it’s best if we let things play out.”
“How much can you take?”
“The SEAL training drummed all the quit out of me years ago.”
Not exactly quantifiable. “I’m serious.” She wanted a timeline, something to track or prepare for.
“So am I.” He turned his whole body toward her. “I know you’re scared. I’m sorry.”
For you. For herself too, but seeing him bloodied and exhausted, she was terrified Eaton would kill him. She kept the revelation locked up tight behind her closed lips. How could she convince Eaton to let them go?
“They’re looking for us,” Mark said. “We just have to stay tough. This is a performance,” he said. “An attempt to prove he can best a navy SEAL, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s not even B movie material.”
He sputtered a small laugh. “Let him have his fifteen minutes of fame.” He raised his hands and bumped into the fencing, as if he’d meant to touch her cheek and forgotten the barrier and restraints. “I can take whatever he dishes out.”
“How?” she blurted the question aloud.
“Training,” he said. “Belief.”
“Hope,” she summarized.
“In a word.” He squeezed her fingers. “Mind over matter. When I get an opening, I’ll jump on it no matter how bad I look right now.”
“We’ll jump on it,” she said.
She heard the brief hesitation before he agreed. No matter the compliments about her being fierce, he must see her, an artist without any survival skills to speak of, like a millstone around his neck.
If she proved herself valuable here, in this pressure cooker, would he look at her differently once they were rescued? See her as an equal rather than someone he needed to shield, even from his own life choices? It was a ridiculous twist of logic to think if he could believe them out of this ordeal, she might employ the same tactic and believe him into an integral part of her personal life when they were free.
And still her hopelessly romantic heart insisted that anything was possible.