Chapter 24

CALLIE SHIFTED ON THE hard wooden chair. Her shoulders ached. She tried to ease the ache but couldn’t; the plastic cuffs were too tightly closed around her wrists behind her and biting into her skin. Fear made her shake. She felt like crying but wouldn’t give the two men in front of her the satisfaction.

The plastic cuffs around her ankles were cutting off her circulation, her feet tingling with numbness.

Defiantly, she stared back at the two men; one wide and bulging with muscles, the other slimmer and taller, both with frighteningly flat eyes.

“Where are the documents your father gave you?” the bodybuilder asked again.

“I don’t KNOW! Are you slow or something?” Callie answered forcefully, still shaking with fear. She WOULDN’T let them intimidate her! She smiled instead.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen two dead men walking. Lightfoot’s going to kill you both when he finds us.”

The bruiser moved closer. “I’ll ask one more time. Where are the papers your father had?”

Using every ounce of strength from years of dancing, Callie kicked both feet up into his balls. His eyes bulged before he bent and slowly collapsed onto his knees.

The thinner man stepped up and, before she could turn away, slapped her face with his open hand so hard she saw stars, her cheek erupting in fire. She tumbled off the chair, hitting her head hard on the concrete floor. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Unable to stop herself, she started crying. The bitter iron taste of blood in her mouth almost made her gag.

Rough hands hauled her up and shoved her back in the chair. Tears falling, she watched the big guy slowly stand. Now his eyes were beady, dead, and mean.

“Where are the documents?” he demanded, sounding vicious.

When he raised his hand, Callie shied away, her face still hurting. It was too much. She didn’t have the strength. Please don’t hate me, Hunter.

“Lightfoot has it. It’s contained in a microdot.”

The big, thick-necked guy lowered his hand. “How many copies?”

“Two,” she claimed. “On memory keys.”

When he raised his hand, she yelled, “Two! That’s all!”

The thinner man stepped away, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE, Lucas Smith answered his direct line. He listened for a minute and frowned. “That’s not good enough, Paulins. Hold her. Lightfoot will be calling me. We’ll figure out what to do then.”

Lucas hung up. He shifted in his chair, acid reflux returning with a vengeance. Shit! How could one man give them so much trouble?

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the initiative without consulting the others. But an aggressive, proactive stance was what was needed to resolve the situation. He had no idea why, out of the blue, Callie Hollister had used her credit card in a Walgreens pharmacy, and didn’t care. It had created a short window of opportunity and he’d taken it, decisively.

This whole situation started with the President’s overinflated ego; wanting to change history, to be the greatest American President. It was compounded by James Kington’s ineptitude at the CIA. How could America spend so much on that agency and accept such incompetence? Perhaps it was time for a change in Director.