Page 81 of Fury
The SUV slows as we approach a small clearing where a cabin stands, isolated and grim. Another vehicle is parked nearby—sleek, black, expensive. A man leans against it, smoking a cigarette with casual elegance.
"Our host," the gunman explains unnecessarily as we come to a stop.
The driver and his companion exit first, coming around to open our door. The gunman slides out, keeping his weapon trained on me as the others haul Greyson out of the vehicle. His face oozes blood from the head wound, but his eyes are clear and focused.
"Careful with him," the gunman instructs as they cut Greyson's zip ties, only to resecure his hands behind his back with rope. "Mr. Volkov will want him intact for questioning."
They do the same to me, the rope biting into my wrists as they tighten it. The pain is nothing compared to the fear coursing through me as we're marched toward the waiting man.
"Ms. Bennett," he greets me. "And Mr. Reed. How kind of you to join us."
"We didn't have much choice," I reply, trying to match his calm tone despite my racing heart.
He smiles, dropping his cigarette and crushing it beneath a polished shoe. "Few do when dealing with my organization. But I assure you, cooperation will make this process much less unpleasant for everyone involved."
The cold metal of the gun barrel digs painfully into my temple as Volkov studies us with clinical detachment. I force myself to breathe evenly, fighting the urge to flinch away from the pressure. My head throbs where the weapon presses against my skin, but I keep my expression neutral, unwilling to show weakness.
Greyson stands ten feet away, blood still trickling down his face, his eyes locked on mine. I can see the barely contained rage in his stance, the way his muscles strain against the ropes binding his wrists. One wrong move and these men will pull the trigger.
"Now," Volkov continues, circling me slowly, "let's discuss your involvement with Diane Mercer and the information she stole from my associates."
I want nothing more than to run to Greyson, to feel his arms around me, to know we're facing this together. But the gun remains steady against my head, a constant reminder of our precarious situation. I have to stay calm. For both our sakes.
"I don't know anything about stolen information," I say, proud that my voice doesn't waver. "Diane and I were friends, that's all."
Volkov laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "Ms. Mercer tells a different story. She claims you were the mastermind behind everything, that you found recordings made by Richard Keller and decided to use them for blackmail."
"She's lying," I reply immediately.
The pressure of the gun increases slightly, making me wince despite my best efforts. Greyson takes an instinctive step forward, only to be restrained by one of the men.
"Don't," I plead, meeting his eyes. "I'm okay."
"Yes, Mr. Reed," Volkov says with mocking gentleness. "She's perfectly fine, as long as she cooperates. As long as you both cooperate."
He gestures toward the cabin. "Shall we continue this discussion inside? It's getting rather chilly out here."
The men force us through the door, the interior of the cabin stark and utilitarian—a table, some chairs, a woodstove providing minimal heat. What catches my attention immediately is the plastic sheeting spread across the floor, dark stains visible even in the dim light.
Blood. Diane's blood.
"Where is she?" I demand, unable to stop myself. "What have you done with Diane?"
Volkov smiles thinly. "Ms. Mercer is resting. She found our questioning quite… taxing."
They push Greyson onto a chair, securing his ankles to the legs with more rope. The man with the gun finally removes it from my temple, but only to force me onto a second chair facing Greyson.
My skin stings where the barrel pressed against it earlier, relief mingling with fresh fear as they bind my ankles as well. Across from me, Greyson's eyes never leave mine, silently communicating strength, determination, and love.
"Now," Volkov says, pulling up a third chair between us, "let's try again. The recordings, Ms. Bennett. Where are they?"
"I don't have any recordings," I insist. "I don't know what Diane told you, but she's the one who was involved with Richard. She's the one who had access to whatever he was hiding."
Volkov studies me for a long moment, his pale eyes unreadable. Then, without warning, he backhands Greyson across his already bloodied face.
"No!" I scream as Greyson's head snaps to the side.
"This is how it will work," Volkov explains calmly, as if he hadn't just struck a bound man. "You lie to me, Mr. Reed suffers. He lies to me, you suffer. Simple, effective motivation for honesty, don't you think?"
