Page 75 of Keeping Kasey
“You can’t be stupid enough to play both sides, so what exactly is your plan?” he asks, and everything about the accusation implies that I somehow know him.
I don’t.
But I get the feeling that playing along is my safest bet. I need to stall until Ford gets back.
I take a steadying breath. “I’m doing the job I was hired to do.”
As if this entire interaction wasn’t weird enough, he smiles at that.
Carefully, I plant my feet and push the chair out of Brandon’s hold, and he lets me. I push myself slowly toward the desk without taking my eyes off his.
“You’re here to delete it, then?” he asks.
The chair bumps against the desk, and my fingers move across the keyboard. Usually, I’d brag about the fact that I can hack into any database without looking, but right now, I’m so shaky I’m not convinced I could type my name correctly.
Still, I have to take my chances contacting Logan blindly because I’m too afraid to look away from Brandon.
If I’m doing it correctly, the chat should be loading.
I think through this wildly bizarre conversation, and try to think of anything that’s vague enough to buy more time.
I go with, “What else would I be doing?”
I should be at the text box now and begin to type a message. I go simple, writing that I’m in Brandon’s office and need help.
Brandon ponders that for a moment, then gestures to the screen. “Then why would you be making it harder for us to—”
His eyes focus on the monitor—on the message I’m writing.
“You little traitor,” he seethes as one hand reaches back, then slaps me across the face.
I haveneverbeen hit before.
And I am not a fan.
I kick the chair back on instinct and blindly hit the keyboard, hoping to send the message to Logan, but I have no idea if it works.
Brandon gets a tight grip on my hair, and I yelp just as his hand covers my mouth and tears fill my eyes.
“You realize this screwsyouover, right?” he says with a manic laugh. “That this little game ends with Consoli putting a bullet inyourhead?”
His hand doesn’t move from my mouth, so I can’t tell him that I have no idea who he is or what he’s talking about. I do the only thing I can think of and start swinging my arms and legs out, hoping like hell I hit something.
I do.
At full strength, I kick my foot out and hit the metal leg of the desk. White-hot pain shoots up my leg, and I whimper against his hand.
With his grip on my hair, he hauls me out of the chair and throws me to the ground. I barely get my bearings before hewraps one hand around my throat and presses his gun to my temple.
I go still.
No struggling.
No fighting.
Nobreathing.
“Did you really think you could work two angles and hope he’d spare you?” He breathes a humorless laugh. “Or maybe you’re trading us for your freedom? Is that it?”
