Operation Midnight. Justine Davis
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stepped inside, looking around even more intently. There was a big table with eight chairs, in the same style as the coffee table, over near a half wall that formed what appeared to be the kitchen. There was a compact stove, a small refrigerator, and even a microwave sat on the counter, so clearly they had power. Which, come to think of it, was puzzling as well, since she hadn’t seen any power lines. Not surprising; if they told her they were literally a thousand miles from nowhere, she’d believe it. A generator? She hadn’t seen that, either, or heard it. They weren’t uncommon where she lived, she had one herself, and she’d never heard a truly quiet one.
Maybe they’re environmental fanatics and there are solar panels hidden somewhere, or maybe that windmill wasn’t really broken and had been converted to power production instead of pumping water, she thought, not finding the idea particularly comforting. Zealots of any kind made her nervous.
She nearly laughed at herself. Nervous? How about terrified? Spirited off in the middle of the night by one of those black helicopters that had become a cultural myth….
Something else registered as she studied the kitchen area. Instead of cupboards there were open shelves, and they were clearly well stocked with easily stored food, some canned, some freeze-dried, some packaged. So well stocked, her stomach sank; just how long did they plan on keeping them here?
“In there,” Quinn said, pointing toward one end of the room where a narrow hall led off to the right.
The need was rapidly approaching urgent, so she followed his gesture. For a moment she wondered if he was going to follow, to watch, and she frowned inwardly. But, in one of those constant trade-offs of life, dignity lost out to bodily imperative.
To her relief, he let her shut the door. Probably, she thought as she flipped on the light and glanced around, because there was no window in the small bathroom. The sink, with a narrow cabinet, was in the far corner, with the toilet—thankfully—opposite. There was no tub, and the stall shower was tight quarters; she couldn’t imagine a man the size of Quinn using it easily.
Oh, good, she thought caustically, let’s start thinking about the man in the shower, naked and wet.
Although she had to admit, it would be a good way to keep her mind off the fact that he’d kidnapped her and dragged her off to a place that looked, on the outside at least, as if it could belong to some crazed, manifesto-writing bomber or something. Probably about the only thing that could keep her mind off it; for all he’d done, she couldn’t deny Quinn—was that his first or last name?—was a fine-looking man.
“The laws of the universe really should include one requiring bad guys to look like trolls,” she muttered as she finished making use of the facility.
Then she turned on the water, quickly washed her hands and dried them on the hand towel politely waiting on a wall hanger. With the outgo problem resolved, she took a quick drink, her dry mouth and throat welcoming the soothing wetness. Then she left the water running while she investigated the cabinet and the small medicine chest.
She found nothing but more towels, and unopened packages of soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes and safety razors. She pocketed one of those, even as she told herself they were called safety razors because you couldn’t do any major damage with them. It just made her feel better, and she left it at that.
And then, for the first time, she looked in the mirror over the sink. Bleary, tired eyes stared back at her. And as if they’d been a signal her brain had until now been too revved up to hear, a wave of weariness swept her.
She shouldn’t be so tired, she told herself. She’d often pulled all-nighters with her mother in those last, grim days. She’d learned then to nap in small increments when she could, getting just enough sleep to keep going. And that had gone on for months, so one sleepless night, even a stressful one, shouldn’t make her feel like this.
Maybe being kidnapped is a different kind of stress, she thought, then nearly laughed aloud at herself, trying to be reasonable and logical when her entire world had gone insane.
“The water supply isn’t endless.”
The sharp words came from outside, and with a start she quickly shut the water off. When she opened the door, Quinn was leaning against the doorjamb, left thumb hooked in the front pocket of his jeans, his right hand loose at his side. Keeping the gun hand free? she wondered, scenes from a dozen movies coming to mind. Did he really think she was going to attack him or something?
It was all she could do not to reach into her jacket pocket and finger the razor she’d snagged.
“Find anything?”
The question was pointed, in the tone of a man who knew perfectly well there was nothing to find, and was just letting her know he knew she’d looked.
“I’m sure you already know the answer to that. What do you think I’m going to do, sharpen a toothbrush?”
“No, although it’s been done. You might want to use one, though.”
She instinctively drew back; was he saying her breath needed it?
He’s just trying to keep you off balance, she told herself. And succeeding, she amended sourly.
“How kind of you to offer,” she said sweetly. “Should I waste the water?”
His mouth quirked again, but he only shrugged. “Just don’t be profligate. You’re already an extra person. Unless you want the dog to go thirsty.”
“He’s going to need water,” she protested instantly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s got a pretty heavy coat.”
“Not my problem.”
“Yes, it is. He didn’t ask to be dragged off to the middle of this desert, wherever it is.”
“Then you can give him your share.”
She would, of course, if it came to that. “I didn’t ask for this, either,” she reminded him.
For the first time she saw a trace of weariness around his eyes. Blue eyes, she saw now, in the growing morning light. Very blue.
“I know,” he said, that barest hint of weariness echoing in his voice. “But there was no choice.”
Was he softening, just slightly? She was torn between wanting to demand answers and a gut-level instinct that she might be better off not knowing the answers.
“I am very sorry, miss.”
The quiet words came from her left, and snapped her head around. It was her neighbor, looking at her with troubled dark eyes.
“It is my fault,” he began, formally, still apologetically. “I—”
“Enough, Vicente,” Quinn cut him off sharply. “Don’t talk to her.”
Hayley smothered a gasp, as if he’d slapped her. So much for any softening, she thought angrily. Vicente sighed, and retreated to the living room. Then Quinn turned on her.
“You, get upstairs. And stay there. Don’t leave except for the bathroom.”
She had to fight the urge to scamper up the narrow stairs like a skittish cat. It took every bit of nerve she had to meet his gaze.
“He was just trying to apologize.”
“And he did. Go.”
“Cutter—”
“We’ll round him up later, if he hasn’t taken off.”
Her mouth quirked this time, at the very idea of the loyal animal deserting her. Even if he was fascinated by their captor.
“Never had a dog, have you?” she asked.
His brow furrowed, as if thinking her words a complete non sequitur. Then, slowly, a distant sort of look crept over his face.
“Not in a very long time,” he said, not even looking