Under Fire. Carol Ericson
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“How? That didn’t happen in our lab.”
“No. That occurred in the debriefing unit in Germany where we went after every assignment.”
She pinned her hands between her knees as her eyes darted to the hotel door. Max Duvall could be crazy. This could all be some elaborate hallucination, one that he’d shared with Simon Skinner. Then her gaze tracked to the metal rod of the lamp, which he’d folded as if it were a straw. So, he was crazy and strong—a bad combination.
“How did they do it? The brainwashing?”
He squeezed his eyes closed and massaged his temple with two fingers. “Mind control—it was mind control and they did it through a combination of drugs, hypnosis and sleep therapy.”
“What is sleep therapy?”
“That’s my name for it. The doctors would hook us up to machines, brain scans, and then sedate us. They said it was for deep relaxation and stress reduction, but...” He shook his head.
“But what?” She wiped her palms on the bedspread. The air in the room almost crackled with electricity.
“It didn’t do that. It didn’t relax us, at least not me and Simon. After those sessions, a jumble of memories and scenes assaulted my brain. I couldn’t tell real from fake. The memories—they implanted them in my brain.”
She gasped as a bolt of fear shot through her chest. “They wanted you to forget the assignments.”
“But I couldn’t.” He shoved off the window and stalked across the room, pressing his palms against either side of his head. “Simon and I, we remembered. I don’t know how many others did.”
He really believed all of this, and he blamed her for administering the serum. Maybe the men at her house had been there to protect her from Max. The pressures of the job had driven them both off the deep end. Simon had snapped, and Max was nearing the same precipice.
“I-is that what drove Simon to commit violence? The implanted memories?”
“No.” He pivoted and paced back to the window, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “The implanted memories were fine. It was the flashes of reality that tortured us.”
If she kept pretending that she believed him, maybe he’d drop her off at the airport without incident. She could make up family somewhere, a family that cared about her and worried about her well-being. A fake family.
“The reality of what he’d done for Tempest pushed Simon past the breaking point?”
“It’s the serum.” He turned again and swayed to the side. He thrust out an unsteady hand to regain his balance. “Simon tried to break the cycle, but you can’t go cold turkey. I told him not to go cold turkey.”
A spasm of pain distorted his handsome features, and Ava tensed her muscles to make a run at the door if necessary. “I’m not sure I understand, Max.”
“The pills.” He wiped a hand across his mouth and staggered. “I need the pills. I’ll end up like Simon without them.”
She braced her hands on her knees, ready to spring into action. The pills, again. He’d been going on about blue pills at the lab when he rescued her, too.
Max was talking gibberish now, his strong hands clenching and then unclenching, his gait unsteady, sweat dripping from his jaw.
“What pills?” She licked her lips. Her gaze flicked to the door. If she rolled off the other side of the bed, she could avoid Max, pitching and reeling in the middle of the room. Then she’d call 911. He needed help, but she didn’t have the strength or the tools to subdue him if he decided to attack her.
“Pocket. The blue.” Then he pitched forward and landed face-first on the floor.
“Max!” She launched off the bed and crouched beside him. If he decided to grab her now, she wouldn’t have a chance against his power.
His body twitched and he moaned. He had no power to grab her now. She could make a run for it and call hotel security. The hotel would call 911, and he could get help at the hospital from a doctor—a real doctor.
Max’s dry lips parted, and he reached for her hand.
And if any part of his story was true? She knew the secrecy of that lab better than anyone. Those two men with the automatic weapons had been waiting at her house, for her. Max had saved her.
She curled her fingers around his and squeezed. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran to the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel. She held it under a stream of cool water and grabbed a bottle of the stuff on her way back to Max. She swept a pillow from the bed and sat on the floor beside his prone form.
He’d rolled to his back, so at least he wasn’t unconscious.
Pressing two fingers against his neck, she checked his pulse—rapid but strong. She dabbed his face with the wet towel and eased a pillow beneath his head.
“Can you drink some water? Are you in any pain?” She held up the bottle.
“The pills.” His voice rasped from his throat.
They were back to the pills? “What pills, Max?”
His hand dropped to his side, and she remembered what he’d said before he collapsed. His pocket.
She skimmed her hand across the rough material of one pocket and then the other, her fingers tracing the edges of a hard, square object. She dug her fingers into the pocket and pulled out a small tin of breath mints, but when she opened the lid no minty freshness greeted her.
Five round blue pills nestled together in the corner of the tin. She held up the container to his face. “These pills?”
His chin dipped to his chest, and she shook the pills into her palm.
He held up his index finger.
“Just one?”
He hissed, a sound that probably meant yes.
She picked up one pill between two fingers and placed it into his mouth. Then she held the water bottle up to his lips, while curling an arm around the back of his head to prop him up.
He swallowed the water and the pill disappeared. His spiky, dark lashes closed over his eyes and he melted against her arm. Her fingers burrowed into his thick, black hair as she dabbed his face with the towel.
His chest rose and fell, his breathing deeper and more regular. His face changed from a sickly pallor to his usual olive skin tone, and the trembling that had been racking his body ceased.
Whatever magic ingredient the little blue pill contained seemed to work. She peered at the remaining pills in the tin and sniffed them. Maybe he was a drug addict. Hallucinogens could bring on the paranoid thoughts.
His eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up.
“Whoa.” Her arms slipped around his shoulders. “You just had a very scary incident. You need to lie back and relax.”
“It passes quickly. I’m fine.” He shrugged off her arm and sat up, leaning his back against the credenza. He chugged the rest of the water.
“Are you okay? I almost called 911.”
“Don’t—” he cinched her wrist with his thumb and middle finger “—ever call the police.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She should’ve run when she had the chance.
His deep brown eyes widened and grew even darker. He dropped her wrist. “I’m sorry. I scared you.”
She scooted away and rested her back against the bed, facing him. “And I’m sorry you’re