Page 83 of Hunt Me
My wrists ache from the flex-cuffs. Shoulders are screaming from the awkward position. Thirst starts to claw at my throat—chloroform dehydrates you, leaves your mouth tasting like chemicals and regret.
The camera watches.
Always watching.
I wonder if Alexi’s searching for me. If he’s tearing apart Boston’s digital infrastructure, trying to find Morrison’s black site. If he’s calling in every favor the Ivanovs have ever earned.
Or if he’s written me off as a lost cause.
Can’t exactly blame him if he has. I walked out of his penthouse after he begged me to stay. Ignored his warnings and landed Maya in danger, and me right into Morrison’s hands.
Everything he predicted came true.
The door opens a third time.
Morrison again, carrying a laptop and a power cord. He sets up a folding table in front of me and positions the laptop at eye level.
“Let’s begin.” He cuts my wrist restraints. Blood rushes back into my hands, pins and needles dancing up my arms. “You have forty-eight hours. I suggest you don’t waste them.”
The laptop screen glows to life.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
One choice: betray Alexi’s family by building Morrison’s backdoor, or watch Maya pay the price for my mistakes.
Either way, I destroy someone I care about.
23
ALEXI
The beacon signal in her sneaker died forty-three seconds after we lost visual contact. Once they realized we were tailing, they used a jammer.
I stare at my laptop screen, watching the GPS coordinates freeze mid-route. Last known position: a warehouse district near Logan Airport. Private terminals. Government contracts.
Black sites.
“Fuck.” I slam my fist into the dashboard, causing pain to radiate up my arm. Better than the numbness threatening to swallow me whole.
Dmitri drives us back toward Beacon Hill, jaw tight. Erik works three phones simultaneously in the backseat, calling contacts at State, Defense, and anyone who might owe us information.
Nikolai sits beside me in silence.
The dangerous kind.
“Say it.” I don’t look at him. Can’t. “Say you told me so. Say I should’ve kept her locked in my apartment until we neutralized the threat.”
“Would she have stayed?”
Valid question.
Iris Mitchell doesn’t do cages well. Even gilded ones.
“I should’ve made her.” I’m typing at my keyboard, rebuilding the tracking algorithm. “I should’ve disabled her car and hid her shoes. Anything to keep her from walking out that door.”
“You gave her a choice.” Nikolai’s voice stays even. “She made it.”
The choice to protect Maya.
