True Deceptions (True Lies) (17 page)

He left the door open and walked toward her, his posture becoming straighter, his pace quicker.

“Stay away from me. Please.” She raised her hands to hold him off, but he moved them aside with ease.

“Help. Please. Help,” she called to the empty hallway as, she struggled to push him away.

“Stop! Please!” Her cries became hysterical, frantic.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair. For a moment, he stood still, fingers caressing the long strands as though they were made of silk. Then he pulled her toward him. The position was awkward and vulnerable. A chill slithered over her body when his mouth descended on hers, forcing his way inside and destroying her hope for an easy way out of this hell. The violation caused her normal demeanor to snap.

Grabbing his hair and pulling, she attempted to free herself. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and shoved her back on the bed. Ripping at her neckline, he exposed her breasts. Humiliation and terror clouded her thoughts. She struggled to get away, but he had her pinned under him.

His hand went to push up her dress, but she evaded him by shifting her hips side to side. He pulled her hair again until her scalp burned. She couldn’t be raped. She refused. Rage replaced fear. She kicked off the wall with every ounce of her strength. They both fell to the concrete floor, Cassie landing on top of him.

Hostile words launched at her from snarling lips. With solid punches to her gut, he knocked the wind from her lungs. Her stomach ached, and she felt dizzy. He lifted her up and shoved her into the wall.

Her shoulder struck the concrete, but she remained standing, despite the agony pervading her beat-up body. Rushing toward escape, she flung the door open wider and almost made it. He kicked her leg out from under her. Her forehead scraped against the bars as she fell to the ground. Her chin hit the floor first, with only the slightest bracing by her hands to soften the blow. Pain radiated across her jaw, her cheeks, and her ears. She ignored her injuries and pushed up to continue fighting.

She mule-kicked her legs behind her, hitting something several times. With effort, she managed to stand…and then she let loose with a ferocity she’d never felt before. After twisting around to face her attacker, she punched his face, using her long arms and her combat training. Rage and fear combined into an adrenaline-filled rush. Her growing fury guided her movements, inflicting on her attacker as much pain as she could unleash.

Her fist hit him in the nose. She felt the bone snap and heard his cries while blood sprayed across his face and onto the nearest wall. When he grasped his face with his hands, she kicked him in the balls, holding nothing back and forcing him onto the bed. Then she flew through the cell door and slammed it behind her. Her attacker bellowed like a wounded rabbit, but couldn’t follow. But he still threatened her. Locked on the other side of the bars, he pulled a gun from his waist and pointed it toward her.

She ran to the other end of the hall past the cries of the other prisoners and crouched down by the door. Out of breath and shaking, she remained in a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn’t cry and refused to whimper, but her body trembled, and a chill fell over her like a fog on a cold autumn night. As she took a few deep breaths, she vowed to never place herself in a position of weakness again.

The door unlocked and soon a bunch of guards, both male and female, surrounded her. They pulled her to her feet and forced her down the next corridor. She struggled against them. One grabbed her hair and tried to restrain her movements, but her arms shot out to strike anything nearby. Her height and arm length worked in her favor as she left a path of injured people behind her. The petite woman who had pulled her hair received a bloody mouth after coming into contact with one of Cassie’s fists. She then kicked a male security guard in the knee so hard he fell to the floor. She fought everyone who came near her. No more sitting passively and allowing anyone to harm her ever again. It took several guards to wrestle her to the ground. They cuffed her hands behind her back, yet she still tried to fight. When they had her seated in a chair near the front of the building, a large man with a sober expression and a face covered in pockmarks squeezed her chin and stared into her eyes. Blood trickled from her cheek onto her lap.

“Stop,” he insisted.
English. Finally.

“Let me go. I didn’t do anything wrong.” She felt no pain, but could feel her jaw clenching and her eyebrows narrowing.

His face remained impassive. “Stop,” he repeated.

He didn’t know English. No one did.

The kind woman in the lab coat she’d seen before yelled something at the male guards, who had linked Cassie’s handcuffs to her chair. The son of a bitch who had attacked her appeared in the room, escorted by two men. He was bloody and limping. Good. She prayed he received a harsh punishment for everything he’d put her through.

When the men left the room, hollering at each other, two females in black stood on each side of Cassie, with guns drawn. Anger and fear swallowed up her normally optimistic outlook and provided her with all the justification in the world to hit and punch and scream. The woman touched her scraped and bloody chin, but Cassie tried to pull away from this nightmare. It was too late to be friends. No one protected her. The only person she could rely on was herself. When the woman moved to examine under her uniform, Cassie fought her off, spitting in her face and growling. Peacefulness made her vulnerable. She wanted to live, to survive. She wanted to fight.

A large needle pricked her arm, a painful reminder that she had no control. Her fight evaporated within seconds.

She awoke in a cleaner cell, with an armed guard outside her door. Her head hurt. Her chest felt tight and her stomach ached as though a car had driven over it. She felt a bandage on her chin. The rest of her injuries were covered in an ointment reeking of Bengay and garlic. She lumbered to the sink and rinsed off her hands. Then she spit out whatever taste was leftover from the animal who had attacked her.

A black cloud lingered around her. She was alone in a prison where no one spoke her language. She’d been in a fight against a team of guards, and she’d survived.

She’d never been in a fight before, except in her training classes for this mission. And even in those, no one truly wanted to harm her. As an only child, she’d grown up fairly protected. The surf had battered her down at times, but the sea held no animosity toward her. The man who had attacked her, however, spewed hatred and a dirty lust. She wasn’t sure if it was because she looked American, was a woman, or was a foreigner in a strange land. He’d wanted her to fear him, wanted to hurt her. She’d hungered to hurt him back. The pain she’d inflicted on him made her feel strong. Stronger than she’d ever felt.

She stood up and paced the floor. The movement hurt, but she wouldn’t sit and wait in fear. She was tired of being afraid, of living in a protective cocoon of sunshine and moonbeams. Simon had told her in so many words and actions that she was incompetent. And here she was in the middle of hell. She continued walking seven steps in one direction and seven steps the other way.

I can survive if I just make it another step. And another. Something will happen soon. Some idea will come to me, and I’ll get free.

Time stopped. She strode back and forth in an unending march, her thoughts focused on how she could escape. After what felt like hours, the doors down the hall opened. She peered through the bars to see who had arrived. Strolling toward her cell was a modern day hero, dressed in black pants and a billowy white cotton shirt. Dane. But he was too late. When his eyes focused on her, he seemed to struggle to maintain his faint smile. Probably disturbed by the sight of her bandage, and the swelling, and the cuts on her face.

Next to him was an armed escort and a red-headed woman in a black suit.

“Miss Watson. I’m Eileen Smith from the U.S. State Department. We’ve secured your release.” She stepped into the cell and reached out to clasp Cassie’s hands, but Cassie backed away. She didn’t want to touch anyone.

Dane placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke in a calm voice, but pulled his hand off her when she shot him a glare of revulsion. “It’s all right. You’re going home.”

Home? Where was that?

Ms. Smith returned to the corridor.

Dane pointed to the door. “Let’s go.”

No one spoke as they walked away from hell. The guards opened secure doors, and then led them into the courtyard in front of the white building. A U.S. soldier opened the back door to a tan Humvee.

Once everyone was inside, Ms. Smith handed her a new passport. “Do you need any medical attention?”

“No.” She couldn’t handle more poking and prodding.

The woman nodded. “Mr. O’Brien has offered to escort you back to the States. You can stay at one of the rooms in the embassy until your flight.”

The States?
Her American passport. She’d forgotten. The British government had no jurisdiction over her. Would they allow her to walk away from the assignment and return to California? Maybe they didn’t want her back. This could be her way out of the limbo MI6 had placed her in.

Dane sat quietly for the first half of the long ride, then he attempted to counter all the violence Cassie had experienced. She ignored him at first, but he spoke so gently.

“You’re safe with me. No one can hurt you now,” he whispered.

It was enough. For the first time in days, she took a deep breath.

When they arrived at the embassy, he led her to a small apartment. She remained on the couch, listening to him make plans for them to fly to the United States. Perhaps she could stay there with him, hidden away from her enemies and her memories and Simon. Where the heck was Simon? She’d placed all her trust in him, and he never came.

She’d believed he cared about her. What a stupid childish fairy tale. Fairy tales didn’t exist. Her mother’s cancer existed, rape and torture existed, but happy-ever-afters didn’t.

“Do you need anything?” Dane approached her, looking concerned but not touching her.

“No, thanks. I’m all right.”

“Why don’t you go into the bedroom and lie down.”

She nodded.

Sleep would be wonderful. She wandered toward the bedroom, but the knock on the front door stalled her movement. Could someone be here to return her to the prison? She clasped the doorframe and placed her hand over her stomach. An empty feeling roiled through her.

Dane peered through the peephole. “Don’t worry. It’s Simon. Do you want to see him?”

Where had he been when she needed him?

She shook her head. He’d make everything worse. His presence in her life tended to upheave all her beliefs and expectations. He’d remind her that she was the one who’d screwed up, and he’d be right. She wanted to go back to California, live by the beach, and never set foot near Simon Dunn again.

“Open the damn door, Dane,” Simon yelled. He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t peaceful. He was violence and anger. Part of her wanted to see him and yell and scream and fight him. The other part couldn’t deal with him.

She walked into the bedroom and locked the door in case Dane let him in, or he crashed through the wall. She entered the bathroom and locked that door, too. Running water to fill her bath muffled the argument taking place in the living room. Simon had to have gained entry into the apartment because Dane probably wouldn’t holler, “bastard,” “asshole,” or “son of a bitch,” and he didn’t have an English accent. Simon, however, swore like a man from the worst sections of London. Where Dane was light and comforting, Simon was dark and unstable.

She slid into the tub. The bruises on her face and torso still hurt, but the warm water would help her aching muscles. With soap and a washcloth, she tried to scrub off the grime and the memories, but everything was still too raw. She wrapped her arms around her chest and took some deep breaths. Her lungs couldn’t take in much air. The large imaginary stone remained lodged in her throat and never released her from the feeling of suffocation. Would she ever be able to breathe without exerting herself?

Shutting her eyes, she tried to will herself to the bungalow of her youth, a place where she’d lived and laughed with her mother. They’d sit on the couch every Sunday afternoon, watching romantic comedies and eating popcorn. In the evenings, her mother would take her to the beach to say good night to the sun. The colors of the sunsets on the Pacific coast glowed as brightly as her mother’s love. She wrapped herself in those thoughts and colors until she fell asleep chest deep in the warm water.

A few hours later, or maybe just a few minutes, she heard a distant knock on the bedroom door. The knock was soft and undemanding. Simon must have left. He was never soft and undemanding.

She dried off and wrapped the towel around her torso. She couldn’t wear the awful prison outfit again. Dane’s suitcase rested on the top of an armchair in the bedroom. Locating a large maroon sweatshirt and some sweatpants, she changed and answered the door.

Dane leaned against the doorframe and wore a carefree smile on his face. No worry, just peaceful concern. He glanced at her outfit, and his smile grew. “I thought you might like something to eat. Any requests?”

“French fries and tea?”

“Sounds good. I’ll have the same.”

He reached out, clasped her hand, and led her to the couch. When she sat, he placed a large blanket over her lap. No expectations. No demands.

The knock on the door a half hour later twisted her stomach into knots. Dane strolled to the door with confident strides. Dinner. He didn’t let them in. He just took the food cart.

“French fries and tea, as you requested.” He lifted the cover off the plate. The aroma of hot oil and salt floated over to her, making the room feel more like the United States than the Middle East.

“Thanks.” Placing the plate on her lap, she picked at the fries. Her appetite hadn’t returned, but she knew she needed to eat something. French fries and tea wouldn’t settle her stomach, but she’d enjoy them in small amounts.