Shatter (14 page)

“Not going.” Her mind skidded sideways. Images of the terrors these people had suffered flashed in her head. They’d been threatened, kidnapped, imprisoned, killed. “Can’t make me . . .”

Her ribs had grown too tight, her throat too small. Suddenly, she couldn’t get enough air. She fisted the shirt over her chest. “What, what . . . is this?”

She asked the question more to hear her own voice than for an answer. But suddenly, she was spinning. Her heart hammered so hard, she swore it beat outside her body.

“Hali . . . Hali . . .”

“Hali . . . Hali . . .”

Mitch’s voice echoed and she squeezed her eyes shut to get rid of it, but when his arms came around her, she clung like she was drowning. He hauled her off her feet, pulled her into his lap, and surrounded her with his big body.

The buzz dimmed, replaced by the harsh rasp of her own breath.

Mitch’s voice tried to soothe with, “You’re fine, honey. You’re safe.”

But she wasn’t safe. He wasn’t safe. The others he wanted to drag her to see weren’t safe. “Can’t . . . go, Mitch.” Her voice came muffled against his shirt, her mouth moving against the warm, pliant muscle of his chest beneath the cotton. “Not safe. I’ve hurt them enough.”

His hand scraped through her hair, massaged the base of her neck. Emotion balled in her throat. “It’s the safest place there is, Hali.”

When she could breathe again, when the sky had stopped falling, Halina took a deep breath of Mitch before she said, “I’m okay now.”

“No,” he murmured, the rock of his body was almost imperceptible, but magically calming, “you’re still shaking.”

“I’m fine.” This time she lifted her head. He tightened his fingers in her hair.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “You were almost asleep.”

Oh, hell, that was tempting. “Mitch . . .”

He rolled backward, taking her with him, and settled on his side with Hali on her back, her legs draped over his, their foreheads almost touching on one pillow.

“Shh.” He closed his eyes. “I’m tired. We’ll talk in the morning.” He pushed his face deeper into the pillow, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Someone wore me the hell out.”

 

O
wen stepped into visitors’ reception at the Central Detention Center, unzipped his outer jacket. He jostled the fabric over his shoulders to shake off the light snow he’d collected on the walk in. A young female Hispanic officer, her dark hair coiled into a severe bun at the base of her neck, looked up from a computer screen at the counter with a resigned weariness in her gaze.

“Good morning, Officer,” he greeted.

The woman’s eyes met Owen’s only for a split second before dropping to his chest and holding on the metal there. Her gaze jumped back to his expression freshened with respect, her body straightening to attention.

“Colonel, sir,” she said with a serious nod. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I apologize for the lack of advance notice, but I need to see Mr. Abrute. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Of course not.” She clicked through several screens on her computer and picked up a phone. “It’s before regular visiting hours, so it might take an extra moment for me to round up another officer. Where would you like him, sir?”

“A private holding cell, please.” When she met his eyes, he read her silent question: Did he want their meeting recorded? There was a certain amount of risk in taping their conversation, but Owen opted for the recording. “But . . . not too private.”

“Yes, sir.”

Owen went through the standard procedure for all visitors, emptying his pockets, surrendering his weapon, allowing his briefcase to be searched, clearing a metal detector. He could bypass protocol when needed, but he didn’t like to pull rank unless absolutely necessary. The brass on his uniform was loud enough, and the only reason he’d worn it was for the psychological pressure on Abrute.

The man was waiting, hands in cuffs and clasped on the table, when a guard led Owen into the holding cell. Abrute looked like he’d been here two months, not just over two weeks. As the lab manager at the Castle, Abrute had worked with Cash O’Shay while he’d been imprisoned at the facility alongside Quaid Legend.

Abrute had been harboring 99 percent of O’Shay’s finished project for Schaeffer—one Jocelyn had been hiding from Owen, among what seemed like a hundred other things. Owen had been lucky enough to swoop in and grab Abrute during the aftermath of the lab explosion and had been trying to get information out of him ever since. Information Owen could hold over Schaeffer as insurance, leverage . . . hell, he should really just come out and call it what it was—blackmail.

Unfortunately, Abrute was either deeply loyal, scared out of his mind, or really freaking stupid, because he’d been holding out. Abrute could provide both evidence and corroboration for O’Shay’s and Legend’s testimony about what had gone on at the Castle before it had been decimated, which would end Schaeffer. Only, Abrute wasn’t talking.

The metal door clanged shut behind Owen.

“This is illegal,” were the first words out of Abrute’s mouth. “I’m an American citizen. You are violating my constitutional rights. I don’t belong here. I did nothing wrong at the lab, only performed my job as I was instructed. I have served the American people faithfully for decades.
I don’t belong here
.”

Owen approached the table slowly, hands clasped behind his back. Instead of sitting, he set his feet apart and stood tall, staring down at the man. Silently.

“I haven’t been allowed to call anyone.” Abrute’s voice gained strength, his belligerence replacing nerves. “I haven’t been allowed to see my family. This is inhumane and against the Constitution.”

Owen smirked. “I always find it interesting how people apply the law to benefit themselves, but ignore it all when it doesn’t.” He turned his smile into a severe line. “Holding Cash O’Shay and Quaid Legend at the Castle was illegal. O’Shay and Legend are both American citizens. Their constitutional rights were violated. They didn’t belong there. They did nothing wrong, simply performed their jobs. They served the American people for decades. Not only were they not allowed to contact anyone or see their families, O’Shay’s wife was murdered. Legend’s memories stolen. Their families were taken forever, Abrute.”

Abrute pushed out of his chair, but kept his cuffed hands flat on the table and glared up at Owen. “I did not have any part in that. All I did—”

“All you did,” Owen cut him off, slamming his hands on the metal table. Abrute flinched and cast his eyes downward. “Was stand by and do nothing about it when you knew Cash O’Shay was imprisoned at the Castle
illegally
. When you knew Senator Schaeffer was using O’Shay to develop a military-grade protective device. A device you suspected would be sold independently through his own company, not offered to the U.S. military through the Department of Defense, which funded the project—whether knowingly or unknowingly.

“Crime, Mr. Abrute, is not only a matter of committing an act. Crime can also be manifested by the
failure
to act. Such as your failure to report Cash O’Shay’s wrongful imprisonment and Schaeffer’s fraudulent actions. And in the case of conspiracy, a coconspirator such as yourself need not know the full scope of crimes they’ve been involved in to be found guilty of that crime in its entirety and punished accordingly.” He grinned at the man. “Ain’t America great?”

“But that’s not . . . I mean O’Shay wasn’t . . . You’re twisting everything around—”

“Looks like you’ll be telling that to a jury.” Owen gave the man a moment to consider the ramifications.

Abrute’s gaze drifted toward the table again. His fingers curled into his palms, leaving his hands in fists against the gray metal.

“Well.” Owen’s voice was cool, but inside he boiled. He wanted to choke Abrute with those damned cuffs. “Since the deal I’ve offered you doesn’t seem to sway you either way, I’ll be rescinding—”

Abrute’s head popped up, his black eyes wide, mouth open in shock. “What? What do you mean?” He straightened. “I’ve been working night and day on that damn formula. You can’t—”

“I can do anything I want, Abrute.” Owen straightened slowly, put his hands on his hips, and stretched to his full height, a solid five inches taller than the other man. “The way you did anything you wanted while O’Shay worked night and day on that formula for you. The way you let Schaeffer run rampant. Not much fun to be on the other side of the razor wire, is it?”

“O’Shay wasn’t working on that formula for me! He was working on it for Schaeffer!”

The echo of Abrute’s yell was still bouncing off the cement walls of the cell when the realization of what he’d just said reflected as terror in his gaze. A thrill of accomplishment traveled through Owen’s gut in the sudden, cold silence that followed.

That statement was the first solid confession Abrute had made directly implicating Schaeffer in both the imprisonment of O’Shay and his work on a private project utilizing DoD facilities and resources. And he had it on record with both the voice recorder in his briefcase and the facility’s video.

Foster would probably tell him it was inadmissible because of how Owen had obtained it, but Abrute didn’t know that. And Owen would definitely use it to manipulate the man to the stand. A few more weeks in here and Abrute would probably drop to Owen’s feet when he entered, begging him to tell every last secret he held on Schaeffer, which was all he really needed. But Owen didn’t have weeks. And Abrute might not either. Prisoners like Abrute with men like Schaeffer gunning for them had a way of ending up dead even in solitary confinement.

“You have the ability to help yourself, Abrute. All you have to do is exercise it.”

The other man pushed off the table and lifted his hands to gesture, forgetting the cuffs. They clinked loud, jerking at his hands. Rage and fear mixed and blasted across Abrute’s face. “I told you before, if I say anything against that man, I will be dead within twenty-four hours of leaving this place.”

Owen lifted his brows and shrugged. “Your other option is to plead out or go to trial. You’d be sentenced to prison and moved into the general population—”

“You can’t do that.” Abrute’s gaze grew frantic. “Schaeffer would get someone in here to kill me just as fast.”

Sweat trickled down Abrute’s temple and Owen decided this was the perfect time to leave the man with a parting thought.

“I’ll help you out here, Mr. Abrute. We’re in a time crunch, so I’m going to put an expiration date on that deal I offered you a few weeks ago. It goes away in exactly forty-eight hours.”

“B-b-but—”

Owen turned and pounded on the door. It immediately swung open, handled by a beefy middle-aged male officer. “Work fast,” Owen said on his way out. “Or pray, Mr. Abrute. Pray hard.”

 

Mitch followed Halina up the steps of the jet, carefully keeping his gaze down, averted from her ass. Harder to do than it sounded when he’d awoken with a steel erection pressed into that softness. And his entire body pressed to the back of Halina’s. His face tucked into her hair. His arm draped over her waist. His fingers entwined with hers.

The way they used to sleep together.

He was such an idiot.

In his own defense, he didn’t remember shifting into that position after sleep had grabbed him and dragged him under. Maybe she’d done it. Though, if she had, she was regretting it as much as she was regretting having sex with him, because she hadn’t yet looked him in the eye this morning.

Halina stopped short just inside the plane and Mitch almost ran into her. He put a hand to the wall to halt his forward movement, doing his damnedest not to touch her.

At her side, Dex glanced up, his metal tags clicking.

“New fear of flying?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Pick a seat.”

She glanced through the cabin with all the empty, wide, luxury leather chairs. “Aren’t we assigned seats?”

“Nope. It’s all ours.”

“This is awfully big for two people.”

“I think Dex qualifies as a third considering he weighs as much as you do. And it’s the only size they had available on such short notice.” Mitch stepped past her and walked down the aisle. Pausing in the center of the plane, he turned, held his arms out, indicating the seats around him.

Her gaze made a quick, hot slide down his body before she surveyed the plane again. Mitch gritted his teeth against the desire climbing inside him.

When she shrugged, Mitch dropped into the nearest captain’s chair and called Dex. The dog didn’t even look at Halina before he abandoned her to perch beside Mitch’s chair. He let a vengeful smile lift his mouth as he scratched Dex’s ears with one hand and pulled a laptop from a nearby compartment with the other. While the hourglass spun on the computer screen, Mitch scrolled through messages on his phone.

A text from Seth Masters, the only team member who remained a firefighter, said:
Call me when you can
.

Halina approached, assessing the seating arrangement—two chairs on either side of a small table. Before she decided to get as far away from him as possible—even though the idea had merit—Mitch grabbed her hand and swiveled toward the aisle.

When Halina halted in front of him without pulling her hand from his, he looked up. Her hair was a mess, finger combed into an untidy bun. The lump on her forehead at her hairline, developing a horrible green rim around the purple center, could never be completely hidden. She didn’t have a shadow of makeup on her face.

And she was so beautiful she made his chest ache.

There was something so sexy about a woman who didn’t mind being messy. Who cared less about how she looked and more about how she felt. About life, fun, pleasure. Halina had introduced him to that kind of woman, which was why he didn’t date them now. And after watching her in sexual abandon the night before, he had an overwhelming urge to lift her by the waist, part her legs with his knees, and pull her over his lap. To press against her and make sure she realized just how hot she made him.

He patted the arm of the chair beside him instead. The flash of disappointment in her eyes was more likely irritation. She glanced at the seat, saw the way it would trap her between him and the window, and hesitated.

“Sit,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

But he’d wait to start that until they were settled in.

She stepped past his chair and lowered herself into the seat. Looking out the window, she asked, “How did you pay for this? How did you pay for the hotels?” She turned those light eyes back on him. “They’ll know where we are. They’ll follow your financial—”

“I know, Hali. I used cash and an alternate alias credit card for the hotels and I put the charter on my account, which won’t be billed for a month. This flight won’t show up anywhere. The records are confidential. I’ve used this company for years and they know how important that is to me.”

“I’ve been so . . . freaked, I didn’t think . . .” She glanced around the plane. “How much does it cost to charter a jet like this?”

Mitch kept his eyes on his phone and whisked through his other messages. “The price is worth the convenience and security when it’s necessary, which has definitely taken a hike in the last year.”

“I developed and sold an invention to a large pharmaceutical company.” Her sudden change of subject drew Mitch’s gaze. She met his eyes, matter-of-fact, nonconfrontational. “That’s how I made the money I used to buy the house and the car. The money I use for any large purchases. I live off my salary.”

Mitch stared a moment. Not sure how to take this voluntary share of information.

Halina licked her lips. Took a small breath. “I invested the rest under an individual corporation so my taxes are lower. And I actually chose to take a lot of the payment in company stock, which was, evidently, a good gamble. The pharmaceutical company is bursting at the seams, and in the last five years since I’ve owned the stock, it has split seven times.