Torn (Deep 8, #5)

43. Roger

FORTY-THREE

Roger

I force myself not to pace in the front of the store, sorting through racks of clothes, pretending to shop for Harlow. The saleswoman helping Harlow has disappeared, and my sixth sense kicks in. She said I was welcome to join her in the dressing room, so I go search for her.

The curtains to the other dressing rooms are open except for one. My heart races and the hair rises on my neck. I yank open the curtain and it’s empty. I call out Harlow’s name, but there’s no reply.

I stalk toward the back of the store and have my hand on the handle to push it open when a bag is shoved over my head. A hand clamps over my mouth. "Don’t say a word or the girl dies," a man with a heavy Cockney accent growls. The stench of stale cigarettes wafts off his breath, making me want to gag.

He pushes me from behind and grabs my arm to stop me. "Step up," he orders, his tone less aggressive.

My hands are tied behind my back, and the doors slam shut. The smell of citrus fills my nose, letting me know Harlow is here. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes. This was an interesting kidnapping." I sense her smile.

"We live life on the edge, and creativity is a good thing," I reply. My leg touches her leg, and I leave it there, needing to know where she is at all times.

"We have them, but there’s no Mr. Wagner," a gruff voice says from the front of the vehicle.

They don’t have a mole inside the ASIO if they don’t know Nick is dead. The higher-ups must be keeping Nick’s death under wraps until this op is completed and Deep 8 is taken down.

"My bag is loose on my head. I’m going to try and shake it off," Harlow whispers. I hear the soft rustling of the soft cloth bag. "I got it off. Give it a try."

I turn my head sideways and nudge the bag off with my nose. It falls to the floor, and Harlow’s beautiful face greets me with a huge smile. "I think I tweaked my neck." I smile.

"Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you a full body massage when we get home." She winks.

Home.

That’s where I want to be. The need to be with her trumps everything else, including my continuing ambivalence about rescuing my father. The restlessness must end. Confrontation is the only answer in a once and for all battle with myself.

The van windows are blacked out, and the bumpy ride on the metal floor digs into my ass. Light filters through the metal grate separating us from the front. Harlow and I don’t say much on an endless ride. The men in the front remain quiet.

We make a right turn, farther up a left-hand turn, and then stop. The van coasts downhill, plunging us into darkness as if we are underground. We come to an abrupt halt, and the doors fly open. The men wear robot masks.

"Someone has been naughty and took off their hoods," one of them says in a robotic voice.

"Please, taking it off was a piece of cake. Too bad your IQ doesn’t match your mask," Harlow snarks.

"We’ve got a live one here. Wait till you see what we have planned for you." The other one laughs.

"Kiss my?—"

"We can’t wait," I interject, stopping her from escalating the situation.

One of the idiot robots grabs the bags from the van and pulls them over our heads. We’re cast back into darkness, forced to rely on them for guidance. Neither one of us gives in to the forced vulnerability.

We ride an elevator up, where we’re separated. The magnetism holding us together loses its grip as she’s led away from me. She’s a trained agent and can take care of herself, but my heart races, nonetheless.

A door opens, and I’m thrown onto a hard floor. The bag is removed, and I gasp for air as my hands are untied. The robot says, "Good luck. You’re going to need it." He shuts the door, leaving me to guess my next move.

The sparse room contains a twin bed, a sink, and a toilet. The bed sags as I sit on it and lean my elbows on my knees. This was always the endgame—to get inside Deep 8, if that is where we are. We need to make sure they have my father before any deal is made.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, running possible scenarios, trying to prepare for every situation. It’s a futile exercise. This op has been full of mystery, questions without answers, and twists we never saw coming. I have confidence that our teams can get to us with the plan we have in place.

Hours pass before dinner arrives. A tray slides through the bottom of the door. The plates are covered as if I’m dining in a five-star restaurant. I balance the tray on my lap as I uncover the dinner plate. Underneath is my favorite meal of filet mignon topped with Boursin, a loaded baked potato, and maple-glazed Brussels sprouts. I grab the other covers and throw them to the floor. The dessert plate holds my favorite Southern pecan pie. This feels like my last meal, but I shake off that thought.

Something is off. They know too much. Questions swirl in my head. My father must have told them personal details about me, but why? Serving my favorite meal isn’t an advantage. I won’t be lulled into comfort and safety locked up in a room underground.

A fleeting thought enters my head that the food might be poisoned. They need me to give them the pieces and tell them about Nick. They also might use me as leverage against my father to extract information from him.

They won’t poison Harlow. She will be used as a pawn to keep me in line. I’ve been down this road one too many times and know how the game is played. I suspect Harlow was offered her favorite meal as well.

The Pinot Noir wine matches the meal perfectly, but I eat each bite with disdain. This will be my least favorite meal from now on. A piece of pecan pie melts on my tongue as the lights go out, and the room goes pitch-black.

I place the tray on the floor and push it with my foot toward the door. There’s nothing left for me to do but conserve my energy and sleep. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and slide into the soft sheets. Tomorrow will bring another set of challenges.

The lights come on, disorienting me as I pull the pillow over my head. A mechanical voice comes from somewhere. "Time to get up." The floor has been cleared of the previous night’s meal, and another tray slides through the opening at the bottom of the door.

A plate of blueberry pancakes with butter and confectioner’s sugar stares at me, accompanied by a cappuccino and apple juice. If this keeps up, I might stay here forever. They’re spoiling me with my favorites which I will enjoy but won’t be swayed.

There’s a knock on the door, and two men enter as I sit with the tray on my lap in my underwear. "Hi there. How’s it going?" My tone is glib.

"Get dressed. You have an important appointment." They leave, shutting the door behind them.

My clothes have been washed and folded. I dress and knock on the door when I’m ready. They put a bag over my head and lead me up a set of stairs. I don’t resist because what’s the point?

They stop me and remove the bag from my head. I’m standing in the middle of a living room. In front of me is a balcony where a man sits with his back to me with a small table next to him. The ocean view is a magnificent backdrop behind the wrought iron railing.

He turns my way, and I recognize his profile. "Welcome to Deep 8, Son."