Night Of The Hunter

Black Mail

A year ago

I sat in the uncomfortable metal chair in the bright, sterile room with a one-way mirror staring back at me. I knew I was being watched from the other side—probably multiple suits analyzing my every breath. And the armed guard by the door? Yeah, he wasn't exactly being subtle either.

My ankles and wrists were cuffed to the table, giving me just enough slack to lean back and let out an annoyed sigh. I'd already run through a dozen escape routes in my head, but these cuffs weren't standard issue—they were reinforced, probably custom-built for people like me.

The door finally creaked open.

In walked a man I'd never met personally, but knew well enough by reputation. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, grey tailored suit—he looked more politician than soldier, but his body language was pure military precision. Clean-shaven jawline, tall with broad shoulders that filled out the jacket a little too well. The crisp white shirt under his suit hugged him in a way that made it difficult not to notice.

He nodded to the guard, set down two styrofoam cups and a manila folder, then took the seat across from me. There was a calm confidence in the way he moved, like he'd already decided how this conversation would go. His cologne—subtle but sharp—lingered just enough to make my pulse skip for a second before I forced it back under control.

His hazel eyes met my icy blue ones as the door behind him clicked shut, and I braced myself for whatever smug, rehearsed speech he was about to deliver.

"Sorry for the wait. Coffee?" he asked, nudging one of the cups toward me like this was some casual catch-up in a breakroom and not an interrogation.

I arched a brow, giving the styrofoam cup a long, skeptical once-over. It could be just black coffee—my kryptonite on most days—or it could be laced with enough sedative to drop a horse. Again. My fingers itched to grab it, but I wasn't about to let my guard down. Not yet.

"It's good to have you back, Arabella," he added, voice smooth and annoyingly calm, like he genuinely believed he was doing me a favor.

A bitter laugh broke past my lips. "Yeah, feels just like home. Missing the torture chamber, though."

He didn't flinch. "We're under new management. Sarah Walsh is officially out. I'm in. Jason Brooks."

"And I don't care," I cut in with a shrug, trying to mask the slight flutter that crawled up my spine. "Can I go home now?"

He smirked, the expression tugging slightly at the corners of his mouth, and damn it, even that looked good on him. "I figured you'd say that. But I'm curious—how do you know who I am?"

"Know thy enemy," I replied coolly.

"I'm not your enemy," he said evenly.

I rattled my chains with a clink of defiance. "Says the guy who's got me locked to a table."

"That's for my protection."

"Afraid I might hurt you?" I asked with a smirk.

"Afraid? No. Cautious? Yes. I know you've already thought about three ways to kill Agent Duke over there, and at least two for me."

I leaned forward abruptly, making Duke twitch with a subtle shift of his weight. That reaction made me laugh under my breath. I grabbed the coffee, lifting the cup with a slow, almost theatrical grace, and swirled it under my nose like a sommelier examining a rare vintage. All the while, I let my eyes flick back to Brooks, studying the careful way he watched me—steady, unreadable, irritatingly attractive.

"It's just coffee," Brooks said, his tone patient, measured—like he was trying to build trust brick by brick.

"Then why am I here?" I asked, locking eyes with him and keeping my voice flat. No cracks. No tells.

"A job opportunity," he replied.

I let out a short, sharp snort. "You're joking."

"Not at all," he said smoothly, folding his hands over the folder like he was pitching a vacation package and not a government contract. "We're deploying agents—some military, some not—across the globe. Afghanistan, Iraq, Korea. We need operatives with... specific talents."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you think I'm the one you want for that?"

"We want you as a freelance agent. Contracted. Compensated. You'll be free to come and go, under agreement."

I leaned back, scoffing. "Right. Because government contracts are known for their flexibility and moral backbone. Let me guess—first mission comes with a leash and a GPS implant?"

Brooks didn't flinch. Calmly, he opened the folder and slid a stack of glossy photographs across the cold metal table. Each one was more invasive than the last—zoomed-in shots, blurred angles, grainy captures in public spaces. Surveillance. No doubt about it. And the faces? They were burned into my soul.

My family.

"We've kept tabs on your sister, Skylar," he began, casually, like he wasn't dangling a loaded weapon in front of me. "She's adjusted well. A natural mother to Penelope. And Bryan—honorably discharged, still wrestling with his demons, but keeping it together. Barely."

I froze. Not a blink. Not a breath. But every inch of my body tightened, heat rising beneath my skin like a storm waiting to break. My jaw locked until it hurt.

"You so much as look at them the wrong way," I said quietly, voice cold and cutting, "and I will bring this whole facility down on your head. With you in it."

His expression didn't change. Calm. Confident. Practiced. "I don't want them, Arabella. I want you."

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. "Get in line."

He watched me for a beat, then nodded slightly—as if he expected that response. "You're not just some runaway with a chip on her shoulder. You're exceptional. I've reviewed the data. Watched the footage. You've evolved. Smarter. Stronger. Tactical. The world needs soliders like you. America needs you."

That line snapped something in me. I laughed—sharp, humorless, venom-laced. It echoed in the sterile room like a crack of thunder.

"Let me guess," I said, eyes narrowing. "You've got that on a T-shirt too? Do all your lab rats get that patriotic pep talk before you shove them back into the cage?"

He sighed, hands folding neatly over the folder. "I'm offering you a deal—"

I slammed my fists down on the table so hard it rattled the coffee cups and made the metal groan. The guard jumped, hand twitching toward his weapon. Brooks didn't move.

"No," I growled, cutting him off before he could finish. "Don't waste your breath. I already know the pitch. I go on your little black-ops field trips, get a paycheck and a promise my family stays safe. Same deal, different face. Not buying it."

He didn't rise to the bait. Just sat there, eyes level, expression unreadable. "Think about it, Arabella. Say yes, and you walk out of here free. No cage. No collar. You're a contractor, not a prisoner. Say no..." He tapped a finger on the table. "And I make the call. Everyone of your friends and family ends up back here. We both know how easily that can happen."

The rage boiled just beneath the surface. But I didn't let it spill. I met his gaze, steady and sharp, letting the silence stretch between us like a drawn wire.

I didn't answer.

Not yet.