Presidents, Spies, and Boys, Oh My!

Chapter 40

Chapter 40

I woke up to an all too familiar setting. I tried to yawn, but my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I knew it all too well. A gag. Oh My God. Everything from the night of the concert came back to me. Harry, staring at me in awe and fear, his duffel bag filled with another person's guns and an empty file. The last thing I remember was turning around and going unconscious. 

I blinked, adjusting to the minimal light. Wherever I was, a musty, moldy smell blanketed it. The light came from a small crack in the wall, high above my head. Squirming over to the wall, I found both my wrists and ankles bound by tight-knotted ropes. I tried to pull my hands free, but the fibers of the coarse rope dug into my bare skin. I bit down on the gag in my mouth to keep back a cry of pain. My back touched the wall. It was cold. Cold cement. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the shape of the room. It was a circular cell with a large iron door as the only exit/entrance. The door seemed so far away. There's no way I could squirm my way over there.

I somehow managed to sit up against the wall, chills running through me as my back touched the icy cement. I looked down at my clothes. As expected, my weapons and comms unit were gone. Even my black-top-black-bottom ensemble was gone. Instead, in it's place, I wore dirty gray scrubs. Like the one you'd see nurses wearing in hospitals. The pants felt two sizes too small and the shirt felt two sizes too big. My heart raced, but I took deep breaths through my nose to keep calm.

Calm down, I told myself inwardly, you've been through this before. Remember Siberia? And Hong Kong? This isn't anything new. You can get through this.

I desperate tried to remember what to do. A sick dread filled the pit of my stomach. Interrogation. And, for terrorists, interrogation is practically a code word for torture. I've been tortured before in ways most people can't even have nightmares about. That doesn't make me used to it. Nobody gets used to torture. The last time I was tortured (in Hong Kong on a mission-gone-bad), I didn't get a good night's rest for three weeks. I still have nightmares of getting tortured. Suddenly, from a darker corner of the room, I heard a rustling. Whipping my head in that direction, I saw the outline of a form. It could've been human, but from the minimal lighting in the cell it made it difficult to tell. I swallowed (well swallowed isn't exactly the word I'd use. More like gagged), and tried my voice.

"Hello?" I tried to ask, but it came out completely muffled.

The form moved and I saw a face in the light pouring in through the crack. It was a man's face. His eyes were sunken in. His skin was sickly pale, almost gray. The whiskers on his chin had grown into a half-beard. His bright blue eyes looked dull. He wore a gag around his frail neck.  His eyes seemed familiar, but I couldn't place how... 

"Don't talk, dear. They'll hear you." he said in perfect English.

I recognized the voice, gasping as much as I could behind the gag. The prisoner was a colleague of mine. An agent who was presumed dead not too long ago. His name: Thomas DeAngelo. I squirmed closer to my undead colleague, but only succeeded in moving a few inches. He stood up and I saw that his whole body was practically a skeleton with skin. His clothes, similar to mine, hung off of him in an unnatural way.

I felt a stab of sympathy for Thomas as I remembered his funeral. He had three little kids, two twin girls and an infant boy, and a loving wife. I remembered their tears and the speeches made for him. I remembered the sleek black coffin they buried, stuffed full of all his favorite possessions due to not having his body and draped in an American flag. I remembered his star being carved into the Memorial Wall and his name being added to the Book of Honor. Except, there hadn't been a name. It'd only been a star. Seeing him in front of me was like seeing a ghost. 

"T-Thomas?" I stammered behind the gag.

He nodded, siting next to me. His hands were tied, but his wrists were so slender from lack of nutrition that he could easily slip them out. From training, I knew that was a bad idea. Even if you can get away, act like you're trapped until the time is right. Once the time is right, you either make an attempt at escape or die trying. 

"Yes, Ember, it's me. I know you must be extremely surprised to see me alive." he said, smiling a small smile.

I tried to smile back but couldn't. I blinked. 

"I am also aware that you can't respond to me due to that damned gag. E-"

Suddenly, the iron door opened. My head whipped to face the door, my heart skipping a beat. I cursed myself for it. Dammit. Standing in the doorway was a bulky man, clad in black protective gear, and a man wearing a pinstripe suit. I recognized the pinstripe guy immediately. He grinned a snake's smile.

"Well, well, well, Miss Ember Rhinehart. I told you, didn't I? I promised we would find you."

I glared at him, straining to keep my breathing even and steady. They didn't pay any attention to Thomas. 

"Buford, take off that gag. She doesn't need it any longer." Pinstripe Suit ordered the bulky muscle-head.

Buford nodded, stepping forward and untying the gag roughly. He jerked it out of my mouth, taking a few strands of my hair with him. I ignored the pricks as I licked my dry lips. 

"My God, you do look like your dear mother oh so much. You have the same eyes. The same hair. Hell, even the same delicate face."

Anger flared in me. How dare he mention my mother! I think I can safely assume that she was a spy as well and nobody ever told me. I tried not to let the feeling of betrayal get to me. Jonathan, Garret, and Addy would only keep something from me if it endangered my safety. 

"You don't deserve to talk about her in any way, shape, or form! She was more noble than you're ever going to be!" I growled.

Pinstripe laughed and snapped his fingers at Buford. On command, the back of Burford's hand came across my face. I gasped sharply as the sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the cavernous cell. Thomas sat silently next to me, his gaze faraway. I gritted my teeth, my jaw throbbing from the blow. I turned back to face Pinstripe with a glare. He laughed again.

"Goodness you're a difficult little one, aren't you? No matter. Buford, take her to the Room."

Suddenly, I felt Buford's back hand on my jaw again and this time, I was knocked out completely as my head hit the concrete wall.