Shadow of Betrayal

But the answer came too fast, and Tucker knew it was a lie.

“There’s a strike team waiting close by. If they don’t hear from me soon, their orders are to attack.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Where did you get that line? Out of some fucking Bruce Willis film? You’re alone, Mr. Furuta. And you’re royally screwed.”

“No. Really, they’re there.”

“Enough,” Tucker said.

He shot the man in the left elbow. Furuta screamed again, then fell silent. Tucker kicked him to see if he was still conscious, but the man had passed out.

“Patch him up?” Petersen asked.

“Fuck no,” Tucker said. “Let him bleed out. He’s no use to us anyway. Even if the CIA is interested in us, we’ll be gone before they can do anything about it. You’ve got to love bureaucracy.”

Linden opened the door and let Tucker pass through first. Once they were all in the hallway, Tucker glanced back at the room Marion Dupuis was in.

“Are we bringing her along?” Petersen asked.

“No,” Tucker said. “Leave her to rot. She’s caused us enough problems.”

“You’re in a generous mood tonight,” Linden said.

“Thanks for noticing.”

They exited the short hallway and shut the door behind them.

CHAPTER

31

MARION HAD HEARD THEM BRING THE OTHER ONE in. At first she thought they were coming for her again. Either they had decided it was time for more questions, or had realized she had nothing to offer so were coming to get rid of her. Oddly, it was the former she feared most. At least if they had decided to kill her, she’d have nothing to lose. She could fight with all she had left, and if by some miracle she freed herself, she could try to find Iris. She knew there was zero chance of that happening, but she clung to the idea, thinking maybe, just maybe …

She had pressed her ear against her door, hoping to hear what their intentions were. But the men had not come to her cell. Instead, she heard another door open down toward the main exit. Feet scuffled across the floor, then someone barked, “Get the fuck in there.”

This went on for over a minute. A struggle of some sort. That much was obvious. It ended with a smack and a grunt. Then the door slammed closed.

“Asshole!” someone yelled. The voice had come from inside the hallway.

“Chill,” a second voice said.

“You see this? I’m bleeding.”

“Just a scratch.”

“Fucking asshole!” the first voice yelled again. “When we get the word, I want to be the one who offs him.”

“Come on,” the second voice said.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, then shut. A second later, all was quiet again.

Another prisoner, she thought. Somebody else with a child? Some one who had been able to put up more of a fight than Marion had?

When they had taken her out earlier, she had counted two other doors, both on the same side of the hallway as the one to her cell, and behind them rooms she imagined were very much like her own. The door that had slammed shut hadn’t sounded close enough to be from the room next door. So whoever their new captive was, he or she had to be in the room nearest the exit.

If there was just some way she could communicate with him. She thought for a moment, her eyes searching the blackness for an answer. The idea that came to her wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

She removed her tennis shoes, then began tapping one against the metal door. Maybe the other person would be able to hear it.

Tap-tap-tap.

Silence.

Tap-tap-tap.

Still nothing.

Tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap—

She stopped. Had she heard something?

She waited, but the only thing she heard was her own breathing.

Tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap—

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

Marion almost cried. The other person had heard her.

For the next five minutes they tried to communicate with each other, tapping back and forth but with no more meaning than an acknowledgment that they knew the other was there, confirming that they were not alone, but little more.

The other prisoner’s responses began to lag, then finally stopped altogether. Marion continued tapping for several minutes, trying to get him to return her signal, but he had either lost interest, or worse, lost consciousness.

As a last resort, she found the crack between the door and the frame with her finger, then moved her mouth over.

“Can you hear me?” she yelled.

But she knew it was useless. Where the door had transmitted and amplified the tapping of her shoe, it also acted as an effective buffer, bouncing her voice back into the room and letting very little of it pass through.

She slumped to the floor, knowing that nothing had changed for her. In thirty minutes, in an hour, in a day—at some point they would come for her. She stared at the floor, almost numb to the possibility now.

When the hallway door opened again sometime later, she thought this time was it. Her turn to die. Only once again it was the door at the other end of the hallway that opened, not hers.