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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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She frowned. “I don't get it.”
“Let's say, for instance, I start hating you.” His hand trailed down her thigh, squeezing lightly, then moved back up to her hip. “If I
do
, I lose perspective. And if I do
that
, I stop thinking about my job, and—” He shrugged, raising his drink with his free hand. “Well, it's not a good idea.”
She didn't respond, edging away so that he wouldn't be able to touch her as easily.
“Then again, worst scenario, I start
liking
you,” he said. “And
liking you makes it a hell of a lot harder to do the things I have to do to you.”
“
Have
to do to me,” she said, almost under her breath. Then, she thought about that. “Wait a minute. You don't like me at
all?
”
He shook his head.
“Even with me being such a—you know, under the circumstances—good sport?” she asked.
He laughed. “Afraid not.”
If she hadn't been handcuffed, she would have put her hands on her hips. Or, at the very least, folded her arms. “Well, for Christ's sakes,” she said.
He laughed again, moving back to his chair.
She scowled at him. “Yeah, well—fuck you.”
“Such conviction,” he said.
“
Fuck you
,” she said.
He nodded. “Keep trying. You'll get it right.”
Damn him. She looked down at her hand, wrapped around the glass. “Would it make a difference?” she asked, ashamed by the question.
He cocked his head. “What?”
She kept her eyes down, feeling herself blushing. “Me making you like me.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “In exchange for not killing you?”
She nodded, incredibly ashamed.
“Probably not,” he said, then paused. “Would you do it?”
“Probably not,” she said.
“Just curious?” he asked.
She nodded, her face hot with embarrassment.
He looked her over, in a calculating sort of way. “It's not the
worst
idea I ever heard.”
“Yeah, it is,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, I don't know.” He rested his hand on her stomach. “You might
enjoy
it.”
She shook her head, moving away from the hand.
“You might be”—he shifted his hips slightly—“surprised.”
She looked right back at him. “You know what they say about people who carry
guns
around.”
He grinned, taking the gun out, holding it between his first two fingers. “What,
this
little thing?”
He was so god-damn arrogant that she found herself grinning back. “Yeah, right.”
“
Well
,” he said, and put the gun back.
What a—she couldn't even think of a word—but, it was somewhere between jerk and psychopath.
“What?” he asked.
“I don't know.” She shook her head. “You must listen to a lot of Screamin' Jay Hawkins.”
He nodded. “My man, Screamin' Jay.”
“You really do?” she asked, surprised.
“Well—not recently,” he said.
The fact that he even knew what she was talking about was—weird. Too weird. She slugged down some of her scotch. “You're not anything like a terrorist.”
“Ah,” he said. “You know a lot of terrorists, do you?”
“No, I—” Something new occurred to her, and she stopped drinking. “Was it like, an inside job? I mean, do you work for the government?”
He made a face. “Oh, right. Definitely.”
“Well, I still don't get how you pulled it off,” she said.
He shrugged.
Her mind felt so damn sluggish that it was frustrating, and if there were a table or anything nearby, she would have put her drink down, once and for all. “They should have been able to
stop it. I mean, I don't care about Dennis, or how smart you are—”
“They
could
have,” he said. “A little quicker with the flash-bangs and the rest of the NLWs, and they
would
have.”
Which didn't make much sense. Christ, was she drunk? “Flash—” She shook her head. “I don't—”
He grinned wryly. “You have a lot more back-up than you think you do.”
“You mean—” Jesus. “You paid off
all
of them?” she said.
He snorted.
“Then—” She must be drunk—“I don't—”
“Took a gamble,” he said. “Figured it out as much as I could, and then it depended on how far they were willing to go.”
Why couldn't she follow any of this? “I don't understand,” she said.
“It's simple,” he said impatiently. “Either they were going to blow away everything in sight,
or
they would decide your life wasn't expendable and try to arrest the situation at a different point.”
She frowned, her brain still feeling fuzzy. “You thought they would
kill
me?”
He shrugged. “Tough call. Me pulling it off makes the government look pretty stupid.”
“Yeah, but—they wouldn't've
killed
me,” she said. Would they? Jesus.
“It would've stopped it,” he said.
Well—yeah. It probably would have, at that. But—Jesus. “So—” There had been so much shooting. “They didn't fire back?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not where you were. Didn't even seem like they had the nerve to try a thermobaric, or any of their other little toys.”
She had no idea what he was talking about—and wasn't sure
she
wanted
to know. “If they'd killed me, you
definitely
would have been killed.”
He nodded.
Jesus. What kind of person was he? Not normal, that was for sure. “That's kind of a chance to take,” she said.
His shrug was entirely disinterested as he poured more scotch into his glass.
How did someone make a comprehensive, ambitious plan, knowing that it might well result in his being killed? It couldn't have just been because of the money—no matter
how
much it was. Had he, at some level, been trying to commit suicide-by-cop, or—
“What,” he said, as she kept looking at him.
“I can't tell if you're crazy or not,” she said.
“Oh, really?” He filled his glass one more time, and put the bottle down.
“Well—you just seem regular. I mean, like you went to a good school, and could be doing all sorts of things. So, I can't see why—” She paused. “Are you a veteran, maybe? And washed out or got stop-lossed, or something, so you're all bitter towards the government and stuff?”
He rolled his eyes.
Okay, but it had to be something along those lines. “Maybe,” she said, “you're like, a mercenary? Going around to the Middle East and Africa and all?”
He didn't answer, but made it clear that he thought she was tiresome—and also, not very bright.
“I don't know,” she said defensively. “I just—I can't figure you out.”
He shrugged, drinking.
She watched him, trying to make some sense out of this. He was just—a guy. A guy in Levi's, basketball sneakers, and—today—a blue flannel shirt. An expensive one. Well cut.
“
What
,” he said, letting out an irritated breath.
“I just—” She looked at him uncertainly. “You
really
don't like me?”
“No,” he said. “I really don't.”
IT WAS VERY, very quiet. So quiet, that none of this seemed real. Then again, the world—the
actual
world, where she would be hanging out in the solarium or someplace, reading or holding her cat or watching movies with her brothers—that didn't seem real, either.
But,
this
situation, so oddly civilized and violent, was even more mind-bendingly strange. Bizarre.
Impossible.
Exhausting.
“You were going to kill me this morning,” she said, breaking the silence.
He nodded. “Probably should have.”
She sipped some of her drink, hunching her shoulders for warmth. If
only
her leg would stop hurting. “H-how come you didn't?”
“I don't know.” He looked at his own glass. “I'd rather do it as planned, not because I lose my temper.”
As planned. “You mean,” she had to swallow, “you're still going to?”
He nodded, expressionless.
Oh. “You don't have to,” she said, trying very hard not to sound panicky. “I mean—”
“Don't beg,” he said, “okay?”
Jesus, had it sounded that way? “I wasn't, I just—” Seeing utter contempt come into his eyes, she stopped. “I just wondered,” she said quietly.
Neither of them spoke for a while, the guy staring straight ahead, Meg just sitting there.
“What about—” He could, at least, answer
this.
She took a deep breath. “Did you kill him?”
He smiled faintly. “Who, your
boy
friend?”
Even her heart muscle felt tense with fear, and she clenched her hand around the glass. “My friend, yes.”
It was quiet again.
“I don't know,” he said finally. “I think I saw him out there, though.”
“On the
ground
?” she asked.
He looked at her, not answering.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “You're doing all this bad stuff to me, can't you just—
please?
”
He sighed. “He has glasses, right? Was wearing a red cap?”
Jesus. He
had
been outside, then. She nodded, her muscles even tighter.
“We were already leaving. He—” The guy moved his jaw. “He wasn't involved.”
“You're
sure
?” she said.
He nodded, and she felt her shoulders relax a little for the first time since all of this had happened.
“You really wouldn't lie to me?” she asked. “I mean,
this
time?”
“He was fine,” he said. “Don't piss me off, okay?”
She nodded, blinking away tears of relief. “Thank you,” she said, almost whispering.
He shrugged, lifting his glass.
Again, they didn't talk for a while, Meg struggling not to burst into thankful tears. He was telling the truth. She was almost
sure
he was telling the truth.
Then, immediately embarrassed by the thought, she realized that the alcohol was having at least
some
effect.
“What,” he said.
“I, uh,” she didn't look at him, “I need to use the bathroom.”
He looked annoyed. “Christ.”
“I really do,” she said.
He sighed heavily, and fumbled in his pocket for the handcuff keys. “Got any bright ideas of how you're going to get out there?”
She shook her head, feeling—whether she should or not—very ashamed. He didn't make any move to cuff her hands together once he'd freed the left one, so, carefully, she eased her bad leg towards the edge of the mattress. It dangled horribly, hurting so much—even through the haze of scotch—that she had to groan, new tears coming out of her eyes. She brought her right leg over to the edge, too, and tried to use it to stand up, fingernails pressed into her palms. It hurt too much and she had to cry in earnest, covering her face with her hands.
“Can't get up?” he asked.
She shook her head, even more ashamed.
“Christ.” He put his glass down on the floor, then moved next to her, bending to lift her.
“I can do it!” she said, trying to pull away.
“Shhh.” He cupped her cheek with one hand. “I'll try not to hurt you.”
Oh, yeah. Definitely.
He picked her up, one hand around her back, the other under her legs. She had to gasp in pain, and he moved his arm further away from her bad knee. Being carried was humiliating, and she put her hand over her eyes, leaning away from him as much as she could.
“Be easier if you put your arm around my neck,” he said.
That was about the
last
thing she wanted to do, but then she remembered the gun in the waistband of his jeans. If she put her arm around his shoulder, maybe she could reach down, grab the gun, and—
“If you go for that gun,” he said, “I'll break every bone in your body.”
She took her hand off his back, so frustrated that she wanted to hit him. “The hammer, the anvil, and the
stirrup?
”
He didn't answer, banging her leg into the doorjamb, instead, and she gasped, having to grab his shoulder for support. Horrified, even through the pain, that she'd
touched
him—voluntarily—she yanked her hand away, covering her face with it.
They were at the bathroom door now, and he pushed it open, then set her down, Meg grabbing onto the knob to keep from falling. With her hands free, though, it was easier to get around, and she maneuvered herself into the little room, closing the door.
The whole operation was excruciatingly painful, and after she'd lurched over to the sink to wash, she collapsed onto the floor, gripping just above the knee with both hands, rocking in an attempt to ease the pain. He opened the door, but she was in too much agony to look up, the leg throbbing and jerking in what had to be muscle spasms.
“Oh, Christ.” He crouched down next to her, trying to ease her hands off. “Come on, take it easy now.”
“Don't make like a coach when you're the one who hurt me!” she said, trying to protect herself. The leg really seemed to be jerking now, hot scary spasms, hurting so much that she couldn't seem to breathe. And it was going to get worse and worse, and he was going to kill her, and, and—
“Planning on having hysterics?” he asked, his voice breaking through the blur of terror.
“You'll be the first to know,” she said weakly, and he laughed.
His hands were soothing the muscles, unexpectedly gentle, and she watched him do it, some of the panic—and a little bit of the pain—fading.
“Trust me not to, all of a sudden, twist it?” he asked.
She stiffened, just in case. “I don't have much choice.”
“No,” he said. “You don't.”
The muscle spasms had pretty much stopped now and he picked her up, still surprisingly gentle. There was something scarily
intimate about being carried, and she was so exhausted and afraid that she wanted to rest her head on his—
anyone's
—shoulder. To have him promise that it was going to be okay, that he wasn't going to hurt her anymore, that she was safe. That everything was going to—she held herself rigidly in his arms, pretending that she had fallen on the tennis court or something, and was being taken to the hospital, and—he was lowering her onto the bed, which hurt, but not as much as it could have.
Slowly, he recuffed her to the frame, then sat on the edge of the mattress. Feeling his hand touch her cheek, she opened her eyes all the way, startled by the strange look on his face.
“You would, no doubt, have grown into a spe
ctac
ular woman,” he said.
“You'd better watch it,” she said, just as quietly. “You're going to lose your edge.”
Abruptly, he got up. He stood there, looking at her, his expression unreadable, and then suddenly smashed his fist into the wall above her head, Meg cringing. He must have been even drunker than she thought, because even though he'd dented the plaster, his expression never changed. He picked up the scotch bottle with his other hand and turned to go, not speaking to her. The door slammed behind him, and she was alone in the dark, trembling, not sure where the scotch left off, and the
real
fear and confusion began.
 
IF NOTHING ELSE, she slept
heavily
. Dead, dreamless sleep, waking up with a pounding headache—to go along with all of the other pain—and an unbelievably dry mouth. She licked her lips, trying to moisten them, wishing he would hurry up and come in, so she could get a drink of water from the bathroom.
But, he didn't. Not for a long time, anyway. She lay on the bed, just being in pain, her eyes so heavy that it hurt to keep them open, too tired to worry, or be afraid—or even to think. She was also too
tired to sleep, so she rested her head against the wall, holding her aching jaw. Sometimes, the warmth from her hand made it feel better. Her leg and nose hurt too much to touch at
all.
When the door finally opened, she shook herself out of her doze with some difficulty. He didn't look that great, either—wearing the same shirt, unshaven, shadows beneath his eyes.
“Need to use the bathroom?” he asked, not looking at her.
She nodded, although if he didn't carry her again, she wouldn't be able to make it. “How's your hand?” she asked,
not
kindly, seeing that it was swollen.
He glanced down, a little self-consciously. “I'll live,” he said, with extra irony.
They didn't look at each other.
“Yeah, well,” he said, and came over to uncuff her.
As he reached for the keys, there was an urgent knock and instantly, he had his gun out. He moved to the door, opening it partway. One of the men said something to him in a low voice, and she heard him say, “
Shit,
” before he answered, his voice just as low.
Then, without any explanation, he was gone, and the other man had posted himself inside the room, machine gun ready, staring straight ahead through his mask.
“Wh-what's going on?” she asked.
The man didn't even look at her, giving no indication that he had heard.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, although from the sounds of quick movement and muffled orders in the hall, the answer was obvious.
The man never spoke, and when the regular guy—Jesus Christ, she didn't even know his
name
—came back with another stocking-masked man, she knew. The way they came in—very quiet, very professional, emotionless. She stiffened even before she saw the syringe in his hand and then, felt bile come up into her throat.
They were going to kill her. Jesus Christ. Right now, without any warning, or preparation, or—she drew her good knee up, moving defensively into the corner.
“What's going on?” she asked, voice shaking.
None of them said a word, which was scarier than an answer. She edged further into the corner, making her body as small as it could be, hampered by the handcuffs.
“At least tell me what's going on,” she said, looking at the regular one, trying to find some sign of the man who had seemed almost—fond—of her last night.
He avoided her eyes, turning to one of the other men. “Hold her down,” he said, which was when she panicked, forgetting about the handcuffs, trying to dive past them.
The man in the stocking mask caught her easily, pushing her back down on the mattress, keeping her there. She fought as hard as she could, twisting and turning, never taking her eyes off the syringe—or the man holding it. He was going to kill her. Without even—she struggled harder, adrenaline bursting into her in uneven jerks.
He just waited, letting the man in the stocking mask do all of the work. “Come on,” he said, sounding very tired—and maybe even a little sad. “Don't fight.”
When she didn't stop, looking directly at him as she flailed at the other man with her free arm, fighting with more strength than she thought she had left, he sighed and pressed his hand into her left knee. The combination of that—and the other man's weight and fists—worked, and she found herself pinned, breathing hard, trying not to cry, her left arm forced out at an unbearable angle along the bed frame.
She watched him come towards her arm with the syringe, and as their eyes locked, a weight even heavier than the other man seemed to press into her whole body. She had to do something to stop him,
say
something, something to make him change his
mind—
anything
to—it was almost over, the whole thing was almost—she had to
think
, had to—
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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