ANOMALY.MIL (The Conspiracy Series Book One): A Romantic Suspence Novel (25 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The shuttle home from work had only been half full. Ben got off at his usual stop, but he was too upset to even think about cooking. He decided to pick up some dinner at his local Chinese food place. Rain sprinkled down on the white plastic bag as he walked the rest of the way home. It was only five thirty, but it was January, so it was already dark and cold.

Wind whipped down the hill as he stood on his front porch, fishing out his set of keys. He finally managed to get in the door then kicked off his soggy boots onto the rubber mat sitting against the entryway wall. His puffy down jacket came off next, and then the warmth of his home sank deep into his bones.

"Dinner," Ben ordered himself to eat, because he had not eaten all day.

He picked up the plastic bag off the floor, hoping that his egg rolls were still warm and crisp.

He didn't normally eat such fatty foods, but egg rolls had always been a weakness of his. However, Ben made sure to balance out the meal with a light chicken and vegetable dish with steamed brown rice, not fried.

He sighed as he walked to the kitchen, inhaling the delicious aromas before turning on the kitchen light. Ben realized that he was hungry as he reached up to get a white ceramic plate out of the cabinet. But when he turned around, he dropped it on the kitchen floor, because standing in the middle of his living room he had just walked through were two ominous-looking people.

They were both dressed in army fatigues but the tall, muscular male seemed to defer to the pretty Hispanic woman, who said, "Good evening, Mr. Hollister."

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" Ben was angry. And scared.

The woman walked toward him. "I received an alert that General Hawkins' private number was being monitored. It took us a few days to narrow the search. But with you working for a company able to run the trace on the general's phone, along with your affiliation with Seneca Reed…Well," she sighed. "Here we are."

Ben was terrified, but he tried not to show it.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he scoffed, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm calling the police."

But before he had a chance to dial 911 the woman was crushing his wrist.
How was that possible?

"Who told you to run a trace on General Hawkins?" she demanded, taking his phone from him.

"I don't know what you’re talking about," Ben lied.

"Now, see." The woman wagged her finger at him, dragging a dining room chair into the bathroom. "That's irritating."

She pushed him down into it. But his computer was password protected, and he doubted that they had a warrant, or they would have come with it in hand. All he had to do was stick to his guns and Seneca would be protected, and these people would eventually leave.

"I run traces on the phone numbers that I'm given. I have no knowledge of—"

The woman sat in his lap, straddling him, while the man tied his ankles to the legs of the chair.

"Have you ever heard of—” She leaned forward, pressing her breast against his chest as she whispered in his ear, "—waterboarding?"

Ben flinched, and she chuckled, leaning back.

"Good, I see that you have. Well, I won't subject you to that, if you tell me who asked you to run the trace on the general's phone, and give me all the recordings you made of it." She tapped the tip of his nose with her finger, politely adding, "Please."

"I don't know—"

The woman pushed, and the back of his chair hit the side of the bathtub with a spine-crushing crack.

"I don't have time for this, Mr. Hollister." She snapped at the other man, who brought a gallon of water into the bathroom, but he wasn't scared. Such a commonplace item. But he was terrified when the man wrapped a towel around his head and the woman warned, "This is your last chance."

"I don't know what you’re talking ab—"

The legs of the chair were lifted off the ground and onto the top of the toilet seat, with his head resting upside-down somewhere in the middle of the bathtub.

He couldn't see, which scared him more than anything until the water started to come. Ben closed his eyes and mouth, but the water just went up his nose. He tried to spit it out, but the soaked towel was stretched tightly across his mouth, making it impossible.

Ben was in great shape. He ran five miles a day, and he should have been able to hold his breath longer than most. But it was the darkness, the constant water that made you never able to catch your breath, that caused a feeling of panic to overwhelm him.

He started fighting his restraints, turning his head from side to side in a feeble attempt to breathe.

And then the water stopped, and he could breathe.

"The files, Mr. Hollister?"

Ben couldn't think. Adrenaline was still surging through him when the towel was wrapped around his head again.

"No!" he tried to scream, but his protest was drowned out by the constant flow of water.

He fought it. But he must have passed out, because when the towel was removed he was already sitting up.

"The recordings are at work." He was flipped upside down. "Wait!" he said, before the towel was placed across his face. "I have another copy on my laptop."

"Good." The woman looked down at him. "And who asked you to make the recordings?"

Ben thought about that. They already knew he worked with Seneca, knew of Seneca's relationship with Catherine Miller.

"Seneca Reed," Ben said, telling them what they already had guessed.

But then the woman asked something that caught him completely off guard. "Where is she?"

Why?
Why did they need to know where Seneca was? "The recordings are on my laptop, not hers."

"That is not what I asked you." The woman bent down to look him in the eye. "Where is Seneca Reed?"

They must have already gone to Seneca's apartment to find her. But if he was giving them the recordings, why still question her? Maybe they didn't want to question her. Maybe they wanted to arrest her.

Or worse.

"I don't know where she is," Ben lied.

The woman's mouth pulled up at the corner in a cruel smile. "I do so admire loyalty in a man." She wrapped the towel around his head, and Ben mentally prepared himself. "But I have done this many times, Mr. Hollister," she whispered through the dark. "The first thing you tell me will be a lie, and maybe even the second. But eventually, you will tell me where Ms. Reed is hiding. So, why suffer?"

Ben was shaking when he set his jaw, saying, "I don't know where she—"

They flipped him over, and the torture lasted an eternity. The panic, the relief, the panic again. His tormentors were soaked and breathing hard by the time Ben finally told the woman what she wanted to know, just as she had predicted.

"Salt Lake City," he mumbled, a moment before losing consciousness.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Seneca slipped on her pajamas then walked into the bathroom to take off her makeup. The water warmed quickly and she grabbed the washcloth hanging from the silver towel rack, wetting it completely. Heat penetrated her skin as the cloth glided over her eyes, taking black streaks of mascara with it. She rinsed the washcloth and repeated the process, until the white cloth came away clean.

A blue jar of moisturizer was on the counter and she picked it up, unscrewing the metal lid. She got a generous scoop with her fingers and was rubbing the cream all over her face when her phone rang.

"Damn it."

She rubbed faster, swiping the excess lotion across the back of her hands as she leapt across the bed to get to her phone.

"Hello," she answered, lying on her belly.

"Seneca?"

She didn't recognize the voice. "Who is this?"

"Seneca, it's Ben."

"Ben?" It didn't sound like him. "Are you sick? You sound awful."

He began to cough, so she waited. "That's because I was just water boarded."

"What!" She jumped off the bed.

"Two people were waiting in my house when I got home from work. A white man, and a Latina woman."

Seneca felt so guilty that she couldn't breathe. This was all her fault.

"Are you okay?"

"No, Seneca. I was just fucking water boarded. So, no. I'm not okay, but that's not why I called," he said in an urgent rush. "They wanted to know who ran the trace on the general's phone, but they wanted to know something else, too."

"What?"

"They wanted to know where you were, and I…" There was a long pause, and he sounded really upset. "I eventually told them. I'm sorry. The point is, they took my laptop and all my backups of General Hawkins’s conversations. And now—"

"I have the only copy," Seneca realized.

"Yes, and they're coming for you. I was unconscious when they left…" he said, and Seneca bit her lip so she wouldn't cry. "I have no idea when they’ll get there, but you have to get out of Salt Lake City. Now."

Fear focused her
.
"I'll call you when I get someplace safe." Seneca was already kicking off her pajama bottoms. "Ben…" What could she possibly say? "I'm
so
sorry."

And the she hung up.

She slipped on a pair of jeans and bra, and was just shrugging on a t-shirt when she heard the elevator ding down the hall. It was them. She knew it, could feel the danger in every part of her body.

Frantic, she yanked her computer out of the power cable and grabbed her phone, heading to the door. The elevator was a long way down the hall, and she watched as five people got off on her floor.

Two of them were soldiers.

Seneca locked eyes with the man over the head of the other hotel guest, and the recognition in his gaze sent her running in the opposite direction.

Indignant screams emanated from the elevator as the soldiers shoved the occupants aside. Seneca threw all of her weight against the door to the stairwell, her bare feet pounding down the stairs as fast as she could run.

She went down one flight and was running down the hall, but she stopped when she saw the door of the stairwell at the far end of the hall open.
Shit!
She would never make it to the elevator, so she ducked into the tiny room with the ice machine, but the door did not have a lock, so she did the only thing she could think of. She opened the lid to the large ice machine, but it was too full of ice for her to crawl inside.

Her heart stopped, and panic took hold as she wedged herself between the wall and the ice machine. Tears were rolling down her cheek as she hugged the computer to her chest. 

And then she heard it. The turning of the knob.

She held her breath, praying that it was a hotel guest. But her prayer fell on deaf ears, because the next sound she heard was, "Hello, Ms. Reed," from an attractive Hispanic woman. "I'll take that computer if you don't mind."

The woman ripped the laptop from her arms and walked out, leaving the man to deal with Seneca. The guy waved his gun toward the door, and she had no choice but to follow.

They walked her down the back stairs, all the way to the ground floor of the hotel. 

The woman hesitated when she saw the notice, announcing that all outside doors were set to alarm if opened. So, she ordered, "Take her through the lobby. And if she even thinks about screaming, shoot her."

The man nodded to his superior. As they approached the lobby, Seneca was dismayed to find that it was completely empty, so she slowed her pace. And just as they were about to walk through the large automatic front door, the lecherous guy from check-in popped out of the back office.

"Good evening, Ms. Reed," he smiled. "Is there anything that I can do to help you?" 

She could have kissed him.

"Yes," she answered as the soldier held her more closely, his gun digging into her side. "I was hoping you could give me some recommendations for dinner."

The woman held up Seneca's computer and smirked at her, saying, "Let's go," to the man at Seneca's side.

When the two soldiers left, Seneca's knees buckled and the clerk ran over to her, asking, "Are you alright?" He glanced at her bare feet, and then at the ominous figures who just left the hotel. "Do you know those people?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she said, not bothering to explain as he helped her up. "I'm afraid I’ll be checking out this evening. But before I do, would you mind helping me with something?"

"I would love to," the guy grinned, persistent as ever as he walked her to the third floor ice machine.

Seneca opened the lid and braced herself, before shoving her hand deep into the freezing cubes of ice. Her fingers probed around, but her skin felt like it was being stuck with needles.

"Sorry about ruining the ice," she said, before resuming her search. And just when she thought she couldn't stand the pain any longer, she felt it.

The slick plastic of her USB drive.

She pulled it out, so thankful that she had thought to make a copy of General Hawkins’s phone call for Joe.