Kristi was shoved into a dark room, the door locked behind her. For a moment, she stood there, paralyzed by fear, the thrumming of her pulse in her ears the only sound she could hear. She took one breath, then another, trying to rein in her panic.
It wasn’t working.
They were going to torture Malik. They were going to kill him. Malik was only here because of her, and now they were going to kill him.
Cobra will come for us.
He was so certain.
But what if Kristi had screwed up sending that text message? Or their work on their other mission wasn’t done? Or the GPS tags had stopped working and they didn’t know where to find them? Even if Shields had gotten the message and the GPS tags worked, how long would it take for Cobra to get here?
Kristi didn’t know.
Until they arrived, she and Malik were alone.
You can’t just stand here in the dark freaking out.
Kristi turned and walked back toward the door, a seam of light coming through the crack around it. She reached with her hands, searching the wall for a light switch.
There.
She flipped it, and fluorescent lights flickered on, revealing her prison.
An old wooden table. Two chairs. A pile of discarded cardboard boxes.
She glanced inside the boxes, found them empty. There was no phone, no water, no comforts of any kind, apart from the chairs.
She sat, despair and dread heavy in her chest.
Malik.
Unless Cobra got here in a big, fat hurry…
Oh, God.
Kristi had worked her entire adult life to alleviate suffering. She’d seen people in terrible pain for all kinds of reasons—gunshot wounds, diseases, car crashes, fires—and had done all she could to take their pain away. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone deliberately inflicting suffering on another person, especially not the man she loved.
He loved her—she knew he did. She loved him, too, but she hadn’t told him, not yet, not with words. She’d thought there would be time to tell him how she felt later, when they weren’t on the run, maybe over a candlelight dinner in Denver.
Now, she might never get that chance.
Tears blurred her vision, fear for him overwhelming her.
An hour went by, then two. She didn’t have a watch or her phone, so she couldn’t be sure. Each moment was unbearable. Horrible possibilities flashed through her mind, all the terrible things they could be doing to Malik, what they might do to her.
God, help us.
Rage. It hit her hard.
No! No, Malik’s life could not end in this dirty warehouse in Lagos. The man who had fought his way through dozens of battles and survived two wars could not die at the hands of criminals.
When you’re part of something, like the Rangers or even Cobra, you’re fighting for your team, not just for yourself. You keep fighting until you can’t fight any longer.
Well, Malik was her team. She would fight for him. But how? She had no combat skills, no idea how to use a gun. She’d never even struck another person.
Restless, desperate, she stood, her hip hitting the table, making a small drawer slide out. She hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because it was tucked beneath the table. But there, in the drawer, was a utility knife, the kind used to open cardboard boxes.
Men’s voices, a key in the lock.