Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
“Yes, Dr. Cobakis,” a male voice answers, and I flinch instinctively, my pulse jumping before I recognize the voice. “But you’re safe now. It’s over. This is a private facility where we treat our agents; you’re safe here.”
Carefully turning my aching head, I gaze at Agent Ryson, and my stomach hollows at the expression on his pale, weathered face. Bits and pieces of my ordeal are filtering in, and with the memories comes a surge of terror.
“George, is he—”
“I’m sorry.” The creases in Ryson’s forehead deepen. “There was an attack on the safe house last night as well. George… He didn’t make it. Neither did the three guards.”
“What?” It’s as if a scalpel punctured my lungs. I can’t take in his words, can’t process the enormity of them. “He’s… he’s gone?” Then the rest of his statement sinks in. “And the three guards? What… how—”
“Dr. Cobakis—Sara.” Ryson steps closer. “I need to know exactly what happened last night, so we can apprehend him.”
“Him? Who’s him?” It’s always been them, the mafia, and I’m too dazed for the sudden change in pronoun. George is gone. George and three guards. I can’t wrap my mind around that, so I don’t try. Not yet, at least. Before I let the grief and pain in, I need to recover more of those memories, piece together the horrifying puzzle.
“She might not remember. The cocktail in her blood was pretty potent,” the nurse says, and I realize she must be with Agent Ryson. That would explain why he’s speaking so freely in front of her when he’s usually discreet to the point of paranoia.
As I process that, the woman steps closer. I’m hooked up to a vital signs monitor, and she checks the blood pressure cuff around my arm, then gives my forearm a light squeeze. I look at my arm, and a cold fist grips my chest when I see a thin red line around my wrist. The other wrist has it too.
Zip tie. The recollection comes to me with sudden clarity. There was a zip tie around my wrists.
“He waterboarded me. When I wouldn’t tell him where George was, he stuck a needle in my neck.”
I don’t realize I spoke out loud until I see the horror on the nurse’s face. Agent Ryson’s expression is more restrained, but I can tell I shocked him too.
“I’m so sorry about that.” His voice is tight. “We should’ve foreseen this, but he hadn’t gone after the families of the others, and you didn’t want to move away… Still, we should’ve known he wouldn’t stop at anything—”
“What others? Who is he?” My voice rises as more memories assault my mind. Knife at my throat, wet cloth over my face, needle in my neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
“Karen, she’s having a panic attack! Do something.” Ryson’s voice is frantic as the monitors start to beep. I’m hyperventilating and shaking, yet I somehow find the strength to glance at those monitors. My blood pressure is spiking, and my pulse is dangerously fast, but seeing those numbers steadies me. I’m a doctor. This is my environment, my comfort zone.
I can do this. Suck in air. Let it out. I’m not weak. Suck in air. Let it out.
“That’s good, Sara. Just breathe.” Karen’s voice is soft and soothing as she strokes my arm. “You’re getting the hang of it. Just take another deep breath. There you go. Good job. Now another. And one more…”
I follow her gentle instructions as I watch the numbers on the monitors, and slowly, the suffocating sensation recedes and my vitals normalize. More dark memories are edging in, but I’m not ready to face them yet, so I shove them aside, slam a mental door on them as tightly as I can.
“Who is he?” I ask when I can speak again. “What do you mean by ‘the others?’ George wrote that article by himself. Why is the mafia after someone else?”
Agent Ryson exchanges looks with Karen, then turns to me. “Dr. Cobakis, I’m afraid we weren’t entirely truthful with you. We didn’t disclose the real situation to protect you, but clearly, we failed in that.” He takes a breath. “It wasn’t the local mafia who was after your husband. It was an international fugitive, a dangerous criminal your husband encountered on an assignment abroad.”
“What?” My head throbs painfully, the revelations almost too much to take in. George started off as a foreign correspondent, but in the last five years, he’d been taking on more and more domestic stories. I’d wondered about that, given his passion for foreign affairs, but when I asked, he told me he wanted to spend more time home with me, and I let it drop.
“This man, he has a list of people who have crossed him—or who he thinks have crossed him,” Ryson says. “I’m afraid George was on that list. The exact circumstances around that and the identity of the fugitive are classified, but given what happened, you deserve to know the truth—at least as much of it as I’m allowed to disclose.”