Acts of Honor (45 page)

She thought of Foster. God, but he was going to get an earful when this was over. And not wanting to miss any details she could heap on his head, she scanned the structure. Four men, all wearing fatigues and all armed, were positioned inside the building; one at each of two entrances and two beside her. The building was about eighty by ninety feet. Metal walls, painted white. Concrete flooring, unpainted. The metal ceiling, about sixteen feet high, followed the pitch of the roof. Electrical cables ran through PVC pipes positioned alongside the exposed beams overhead, and wide gaps between the pipes left electrical wires exposed. Definitely a safety hazard, and it had to be a breach of at least one of the million military regulations.

A stark white light flickered on and shone directly into her face. Seated on the structure’s south end, she squinted and scanned north. Two men she hadn’t seen earlier stood in the shadows, talking softly. Unfortunately, too softly. Their voices echoed like dull droning bees, but their words were lost.

The man on the left shifted into the light. He wore an Air Force uniform. The glare made seeing his face impossible, but there was something familiar about him. Sara dipped her chin against the glare but still couldn’t peg what struck her as familiar. She couldn’t make out the man’s rank, either. That baffled her. How could the blinding light reflect?

Ah, the metal ceiling. The rank had to be metal. Most officers now wore cloth rank on their uniform shirt’s epaulets, but this man evidently preferred the metal rank tacked to his collar. Another hard-core diehard resisting change?

The second man was Dr. Owlsley. Anger surged through her, had her blood hot and threatening to boil in her veins.

Clearly in charge, Owlsley shuffled around a machine small enough to be used by mobile field units. About three feet high and eighteen inches wide, it was dull black with a cone-shaped nose that pointed right at Sara’s chair. It had to be the laser.

A sinking feeling pitted a hole in her stomach. Doubt filled it. She hadn’t told them, but had they discovered her real purpose for being here on their own?

If so, then you’re a dead woman. You know Foster didn’t recruit you for the obvious, and he didn’t arrange to bring you here to find the obvious, either. He never operates that way. Think about it, Sara. Foster wanted you to find something here
 . . .
or to keep you from finding something. Which is it?

Not knowing, her worry deepened, and she shifted on the seat. The bands gouged into her ribs, cut into her throat. Choking, she gagged. The bands dug deeper, and pain shot through her neck.

This was damned ridiculous. Strapped and banded from head to foot, and yet the chair seat was padded. That seemed strange, out of place. Panic swelled in her throat. Her breathing grew rapid, shallow, even more difficult.

She had to get a grip. They couldn’t have their answers—she was still alive and undamaged, wasn’t she? Maybe they weren’t going to use the laser on her yet, and they were trying to scare her into believing they were to get their answers.

Only one thing was certain. This wasn’t part of the normal psych-warfare training program. If it were, then this environment would fall under strict controls and regulations. Her gaze drifted up, back to those exposed wires. She licked at her split lip, tasted blood, and her heart rate kicked up a notch. Definitely outside the normal program. That, or regulations weren’t followed here. Possible, but not likely. This place and these people were too sadistic, smelled too desperate. Especially Owlsley. He oozed desperation.

But was that by design? To strengthen the impact of the training? Or was it another simulation designed to optimize maximum effectiveness, like the sensory-deprivation tactics simulation she’d already undergone in the box?

Wrong.
Her instincts flashed a warning.
You’re wrong, Sara. This has nothing to do with effectiveness, and it’s not part of any program. Listen to me. Listen. Forget the damn program. It’s the laser. They’re going to torture you into telling them what you know about their operation, then they’re going to kill you.

Sara had learned early to trust her instincts, to rely on them to survive. Here, like at Braxton, attacks were plentiful. From the enemy, and from allies. And right now, through her confusion, her instincts were screaming a warning.

She curved her spine to lessen the tension on the bands so she could breathe deeper, clear her mind. She hadn’t fully recovered from her stint in the box, from the medication she’d been given, or from the Jarrod and Lisa charades—
God,
please. They had to have been charades.

They were. Of course they were. Intentional intimidation tactics. Just as intentional as Owlsley putting her through this now, hitting her while her defenses were down and she was weakest, physically and emotionally.

“Dr. Owlsley,” the beefy lieutenant said. “We’re ready, sir.”

“Very well.” Owlsley’s shoes scraped across the bare concrete. He signaled the familiar man, who then nodded to a guard near the wall. He reached over to a switch, and the bright lights snuffed out.

The stark white walls went black.

Sweat poured down Sara’s face. Her heart thudded, and fear gripped her hard. She would be scrambled. Mentally destroyed. A vegetable like David.

No, Sara. You have the tools. You know how to fight this. No rage. Feel no rage. No intense emotion.

Dr. Owlsley stood behind the machine, and another man in uniform stood at his side in the shadows. He wasn’t Fontaine. But he was familiar.

A quiet whir sounded. Out of the darkness, a pinpoint of red light streaked from the cone-nose machine directly at her head. Her skin prickled, her senses went on high alert, and Sara braced for pain
 . . .
but felt none. She felt nothing.

A long moment passed, then the point of red light swept across her skull. Memories flashed through her mind. Incidents long since forgotten. Insignificant events. Simple, happy times.

Then her thoughts twisted to memories of Steve’s wife committing him for mental evaluation—the injustice done to her brother that had led Sara to become a psychiatrist. Memories of Brenda and David and Lisa. Memories of being huddled in a corner of the Laundromat on prom night, wrapped in a stolen towel, washing her dress, waiting for it to dry. Memories of being locked in the closet with Rudy, the ten-foot boa constrictor, and stuck between floors in the broken elevator at the bank. Then came dark memories that held desolation and despair. Memories she had buried in the deepest recesses of her mind and had forgotten, until now. Christmas nights spent by herself. Lonely nights, and dinners for one. Standing before the mirror, her eyes filled with tears, pleading with her reflection to tell her why someone couldn’t love her.

The point stopped moving, probed. Roused vivid images of her watching Brenda and David and Lisa together, hungering for a family of her own. Images of her aching for a husband and children to love, and them loving her.

Owlsley had found her Achilles’ heel.

And as Jarrod had promised Owlsley would, he hammered on it. Probing again and again until Sara couldn’t think rationally any more, couldn’t avoid the grueling emotional pain ripping through her chest, clawing at her stomach, torturing her mind. She tried to shut down, to force her thoughts away from the agony and anguish to the tranquil and peaceful, but she had no control. Regardless of what technique she used, the laser overrode it. She sat helpless. Helpless
 . . .
and hurting.

The deluge of unwanted memories rushed on unrestrained. Relentless. Merciless. Battering her, digging deeper and deeper into her past, arousing more and more gut-wrenching memories. Arousing more and more rage. And for the first time, she truly understood “the rage” Jarrod had described. Understood his hatred of it; his hatred, and his fear.

Physically and emotionally spent, she mentally retreated, shutting out all of the ugliness and pain. Time and space ceased to exist. The low-level thump grew louder and louder inside her head. There was no escape from the tormenting thoughts being stimulated. Even prepared by Jarrod, Sara hadn’t expected this to be so bad, so inevitable. Dear God, nothing this bad could be endurable.

Sanity was slipping away.

Sara felt it. Felt it, and fought it. And failed.

No, Sara. Don’t give in. Don’t give up. You can beat this. You have to beat this for you and me—for all of us. Deal with the emotions. Deal with the emotions!

She focused on that, on dealing with her emotions, and the deep sense of loss and anger and aggression lessened. Lessened, and then faded to mild confusion.

Think ice, Sara. Free-floating ice. Clear, blue water. Think of me, Sara.

Jarrod.
She had to fight. For herself, for her patients and family. For Jarrod.

Jarrod returned to Braxton defeated.

Reaston greeted him at the back entrance. “Christ, man. You’re three days late. The friendlies have covered, but it’s been a challenge.”

“Who’s on duty?”

“William.”

At Reaston’s side, Jarrod strode to the stairwell. “What did you tell him?”

“Shank faked orders from Dr. West to take you to a camera room on the fourth floor. You moved back to Isolation today. I’ve taken you outside.”

“Good.” Jarrod shoved open the stairwell door. Never in his life had he felt like such a failure. Not even when he’d walked in on Miranda and Royce. He loved Sara, and he’d had to leave her. She was being tortured.

“Did you find Dr. West?” Reaston asked.

Jarrod nodded. “But I couldn’t stop it.” His emotional upheaval slid into his voice. “I needed a weapon, and I didn’t have one. They popped me with a stun gun and got her, Reaston.”

“Oh, damn.” Reaston slammed a fist against the stairwell wall, denting the Sheetrock above the metal banister.

Jarrod didn’t have to explain why he couldn’t pull Sara out of IWPT once she had been taken hostage. Reaston understood the ramifications. The technology—thousands, maybe millions, of lives—could be forfeited. Jarrod had had to choose between costing the country the technology and leaving Sara, so he had done what she would have done: the right thing. And he had prayed ever since that she could withstand what Owlsley would do to her. She had a chance—provided they had been right in deducing that dealing with emotional issues minimized the damage. But what if they were wrong?

His stomach curdled, lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat. Living with this decision was going to be a bitch. He had done what he’d had to do, but he hated it. God, how he hated it.

Nursing red knuckles, Reaston caught up with Jarrod on the stairs. “What do you expect?”

Jarrod opened the second-floor door, hating the words he was about to say, and fearing them even more. “The worst. They know Foster put her here.” Lieutenant Kane being at IWPT proved that. He was supposed to be heading the Shadow Watcher task force to extricate Sara. Instead, he was an enemy red-band at IWPT—and it damn sure wasn’t a cover. The bastard had violated ethics and the creed. Jarrod would make the call and get Kane bounced from the program, but the damage was done. Sara wouldn’t be extricated. She was on her own.

“They’ll kill her,” Reaston speculated.

“No. That, they won’t do.” Jarrod turned into the hallway leading to Isolation. “It’ll be worse.”

Reaston fell into step beside Jarrod. “How can anything be worse than death?”

“They’ll do their damnedest to damage her more than they did ADR-40.”

The blood drained from Reaston’s face. “Oh, God.”

Just the idea of Sara facing that devastated Jarrod. Knowing she had taken this on herself for him and others like him only made the feelings worse. Their deductions had to be right. Had to be. Then she’d be okay.

But what if they weren’t right? What if dealing with the emotions didn’t protect Sara?

Jarrod clenched his jaw. “I’m going to kill Fontaine and Owlsley with my bare hands.”

“I’ll back you up.”

Jarrod looked over, saw his disgust mirrored in Reaston’s eyes, and nodded.