Come As You Are. Amy J. Fetzer
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against fresh bruises. He’d reached the point that his body had stopped fighting for clean air, his blood pounding between his ears. He didn’t struggle, didn’t strain to pull upright. It wasted precious air to the brain.
The man yanked him up, Logan’s hair blocking his vision already swimming with stars. I hate this part, he thought, and the soldier with the piercing eyes tipped his head back. In the corner of the room on top of an old refrigerator unit was a camera. Who’s watching, he wondered, and where were his buddies? The last time he’d seen Max or Sebastian, they were face-down in a cell, bleeding.
They dunked him again and Logan wanted to go lax, pretend he was dead, but he was too deep inside for an escape and his buddies weren’t with him. Three more times, the soldier shoved his head under water. Logan felt like he was back on a SERE training op, the instructors torturing them like this to see if they could break them.
Then, as if by mysterious command, it stopped. The soldier pulled him to his feet, and Logan stumbled against his captor, his weight pushing the man against the wall. Logan closed his hand over the man’s knife and when he pushed Logan back, the blade came with him. Attacking was out of the question, but defense was another matter.
With a soldier behind him, Logan left the interrogation room and walked the corridor, his vision blurred from the strain of holding his breath. I really should have cut down on those cigars, he thought, still struggling to breathe easily. As they approached an open door, he glanced and intentionally stumbled to the ground, then pushed the knife into his boot. The soldier grabbed his hair, yanking his head back as he rattled off a few insults to Logan’s mother. But he’d seen enough. More cameras, and in the room the men were tearing at their gear, and not just the load bearing vests, but using a small knife to rip the seams like a dressmaker. They’d come with minimal equipment, yet about ten grand in liquid body armor was now torn and bleeding the plastic mix on the floor. Good thing the GPS locator was in his boot heel. Expensive toys, and not one of them was saving their ass now.
Outside the cell, the soldier cut his bonds and with the cursory shove and kick, Logan staggered in and slid to the ground. He leaned against the stone wall, water dripping off his clothes. His thirst was so great, he let it drip into his mouth, then sucked the fabric of his shirt.
“All around it hasn’t been a productive day, huh?” His head lolled to the side, and he could feel his heart beat in his teeth.
Wrapping his hands around Tessa’s throat would be like morphine right now. She was easy to blame. But this was his fault. If they’d pulled Ramos out of there instantly, it would have been a clean break and they’d have been gone before the guards rotated for shift change. Out through the kitchen, then the laundry; Riley was to make the pickup in the laundry van.
Till Tessa. He didn’t know whether to be happy she was alive or furious that it was all a lie at his expense. He’d mourned her, blamed himself for not keeping her safe, and now to find her still in the spy game and helping Ramos?
He almost couldn’t comprehend it. Not from her.
He worked kinks out of his shoulders, then crawled to Sebastian, rolling him over and cursing the mess of his face. Logan was examining a cut over his eyebrow when he noticed something on the floor. Reaching into the corner piled with dirt, he found a small piece of fabric, a button still attached. He recognized the nonreflective button, then checked his own black clothes for a tear. There wasn’t one and he held it out to Sebastian.
He checked his clothing, then shook his head. “I guess we’re not the first guests.”
Logan glanced around the cell, then gestured to the splatter on the wall. The blood stain was nearly black, old. The first team? Or some poor local?
Max rolled over. “What was I thinking?” he whispered.
“That you should shut the hell up?” Logan pocketed the button, then shifted to him, tipping his head toward the light. They went for the hot spots; nose, eyes and jaw, probably his kidneys, too.
“We aren’t pretty anymore, so I don’t think they plan to parade us for the press.”
It would be a benefit to keep them well fed and clean, Logan thought, and took off his shirt and twisted it, holding the rope of wet cloth over Max. Water dripped, rinsing blood from his eyes, and he opened his mouth to catch some. They’d given them nothing except a good beating since they were captured. He glanced at his watch. Eighteen hours ago.
“God, McGill is going to be so pissed.”
“Oh, he already is,” Logan said. “We were videotaping.”
“Great, a ringside seat to failure.”
Logan pried at his wounds. “You need a couple stitches.”
“How’s Sebastian?”
“Pretty bad. I think they broke his fingers.”
“Just my thumb,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth as he forced himself upright.
Logan twisted the shirt again and gave what little water was left to Sebastian, then used the wet cloth to clean cuts. “They’re looking for something. The troops stripped our gear down to the parts.”
“There goes the budget,” Max said.
“They’re getting orders from someone,” Sebastian said. “They have ear mics.”
“I was so hoping for Third World electronics.” Max finally sat up.
“Not a chance. This place is wired up like the White House.”
Only Logan’s gaze moved, indicating the camera secured to the corners. Their identities were compromised and although it would be very difficult for them to get a face or fingerprint match, parading them before the press was the least of their problems.
If they learned they were Americans, the U.S. was screwed.
Hours later, when the cell door scraped open and the guard held a jangle of leg irons, Logan knew—they were, too.
Four
A knock startled him and Eloisa quickly answered it, throwing the door wide. Sexually satisfied without removing a stitch, she was almost eager to be gone. It amused Ramos and warned him that she used him as well…enough to not notice he wasn’t Garcia.
“I have a few questions,” a deep voice said from beyond the door, and Ramos frowned.
Eloisa nodded and waved the man in, then looked back. “I’ll leave you two,” she said. Ramos caught the Cheshire cat smile she threw him before she disappeared.
The man stepped into the room and Ramos recognized him. Not from a past meeting but from a photo in Garcia’s files. Diego Salazar. Ramos knew he was looking at his own counterpart. Highly trained and well funded, Salazar was deadly. Not in his skill but in his cunning use of power. If Garcia was to be believed, this man worked several sides of the box at once. He was in the hip pocket of the President, which meant his loyalty stretched to Eloisa. It was rumored he was once an advisor to Fidel, and was an intelligence officer.
Salazar would be his biggest opponent because he’d once served with Garcia. Ramos knew Garcia’s enemies, and Salazar was one of them.
“Questions?” Ramos asked with authority. “Shouldn’t you be learning how they got past your men, Commander?” He didn’t want this guy anywhere near Logan and his teammates.
“I will see to that personally, señor. What were you doing in here alone?”
“Reading.”
“And you had no suspicion that these men would attack?”
“No, or I would be armed. Protection is your job, Salazar.”
The man’s features sharpened. The only sign the reprimand had hit the mark.
“If it were anyone else, I’d be dead.”
Salazar opened his mouth