by Black, Incy
Short breather over, the power of his hip behind the kick, he booted a rod to test its structural integrity. Solid, no give at all, just like the other thirty-nine he’d already checked.
His phone ringing unanswered back at the loft, and with the hours he put in at the Cube fluid, he wouldn’t immediately be reported as missing. And Angel’s disappearance wouldn’t register. She was already on the hunt list. They were on their own, and unless he came up with a means of escape, totally screwed.
Something Angel did not need to know.
He stalked back to the thick, flat lock on the barred door. Scuffed tread marks from the sole of his boot already smudged its surface, but he wasn’t giving up.
Fucking Rhys. Kick. Forcing Angel to clamber a filthy, dangerous tunnel system. Kick. Locking her up down here. Kick. When he had to have known she loathed confined spaces. Kick. Shooting her up with an untested drug. Kick. Abusing her loyalty, breaking her trust, hurting her. Backward flying kick.
Pain lanced his side. Bollocks. Bent double, he struggled to breathe, the still-intact lock seemingly mocking him.
“Good job. I snatched these before we left the loft.”
His hands braced on his knees, he glanced over his shoulder at Angel, now wearing a pair of faded but clean maroon scrubs from Rhys’s limited wardrobe supplies.
His bottle of painkillers hung pincered between her long, slim index finger and thumb.
Double bollocks. “I thought I told you to stay out of my stuff,” he snarled.
“What, you thought I hadn’t noticed that you favor your right side? That sometimes you snatch a breath and then don’t release it… For hours? I was concerned. You wouldn’t confide. I went snooping. Get over it.”
He straightened up—coloring his skull blue with unspoken curses at the pain.
She walked up to him, took his hand, and slapped the bottle into his palm.
“You’re a stubborn idiot, Berwick.”
“It’s just phantom pain, like that suffered by those who’ve lost a limb,” he ground out. This conversation was not happening. “How was the shower?”
Before heading to the surface, Rhys had shown them—with scarily misplaced pride in his underground dwelling—where they could wash up, the primitive plumbing still working because in their haste to abandon and forget this god-awful space buried deep underground, the war-time Ministry of Defense had overlooked disconnecting the utilities. Except for electricity. Eight battery-operated lanterns cast a dull yellow glow across this part of their prison.
“Icy cold… Phantom pain, Berwick? Sorry, I didn’t realize you were a qualified doctor.”
Snarky madam. And Jesus, but was she single minded. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Christ, now even he was using that stupid phrase to hide a lie.
He crossed to the midriff-high, long and wide, khaki-colored metal table and pulled out two short, wooden bar stools. “Sit. I need to take care of your cuts and grazes.”
He flipped open the box he’d found in one of the metal cabinets—briefcase-size, green plastic, white cross stamped on its lid—and lifted free a strip of alcohol wipes. Rhys knew the tunnels were a haven for germs and had taken precautions.
“I’m fine, too.”
She didn’t look it, wrapped in her own arms, her hair in a damp tizzy, her skin the color of alabaster… And why the hell was she barefoot? “You should have your boots on.”
“I’ve got a few blisters. I’m giving them some air.”
Well, at least she was no longer all curled in on herself. Shoulders braced, hands on her hips, she looked combat-ready. “Angel,” he said. “The air down here is warm and rife with bacteria. You’ve been scrambling in rat-pissed tunnels. Any and all adhesions need disinfecting.”
He walked over to a bank of lockers and rifled through Rhys’s supply of scrubs, hoodies, jeans, and…socks, thick woolen ones. He lifted a tightly rolled pair and threw them to her. “You can put those on when I’m done.”
“I can see to myself.”
Undoubtedly, but he wasn’t giving her that option. Much as she’d been trying to hide it, she had to be freaking out about the chemicals doing fuck knows what to her system. On top of that, the thick atmosphere down here, the dust, damp and decay, that some of the walls had hernias, the bricks burgeoning forward alarmingly. The whistles and eerie groans venting the tunnels. What she needed was a reassuring hug, but he had a feeling he’d lose his balls if he tried, so he’d have to settle for swabbing her with disinfectant instead.
“Angel— Arse. Seat. Now.”
She scurried to the stool and levered herself onto it. Good to know she hadn’t totally missed out on the obedience gene.
Settling down beside her, he lifted one of her ankles and tucked it securely between his knees, tightening the pressure when she tried to pull free. He ripped open a square sachet and warned, “Brace, this is going to sting.”
Finished with her heels and her knees—though getting her to roll up the leg of her scrubs involved a tug of war—he moved on to her palms.
“What is this place?” she hissed through one of his swipes, the alcohol doing its job and biting deep.
He gentled his strokes and looked up at the running curves of the low vaulted ceiling supported on solid, rounded pillars in the same London red brick. Those Victorian engineers sure hadn’t held back on showing off their skills. “Ex-Ministry of Defense facility, judging by the lockers and old filing cabinets,” he grunted, hoping her inquiring mind wouldn’t demand further details.
“Used for what? And why was it sealed? It must have taken Rhys weeks to hack a hole that size through concrete, easily three-foot deep… We really do need to talk about those pills, Will.”
He’d rather have flaming splints driven up his nostrils.
And Rhys wasn’t the type of man to chisel away at anything. Someone else must have dug through to gain access to this area. But, maybe, if he did share his suspicions about this hidden facility, she’d shut the hell up about the painkillers and rein in her need to poke her nose into every goddamn facet of his existence.
“Various parts of the underground rail network were used as secret operational centers during World War II. Given the corridor of containment cells and that large tiled room at the end of it, I’d hazard a guess this facility was used to interrogate Nazi enemies of the state.”
Angel paled, pushed off her stool, and keeping her back to him, crossed to the bank of lockers.
Shit. He needed to remember that Angel was a civilian. That she had enough to contend with worrying about the harm BT11 might be doing her, without him putting violent graphics in her head.
“Breathe, Angel. Just stick to this central area if it freaks you out. Chances are it was used solely by the guards for admin and living space.”
One locker door hung open; she slammed it shut. It fell open; she slammed it again. Open. Slam. Open. Slam. The door was buckled. No way was she going to win that fight.
With a sigh, he went to her and, edging in close, caught her wrists and crossed her arms across her belly. “Enough,” he insisted gently.
Her chest heaved. “What’s happening to me, Will?” she whispered.
“You’re feeling a little claustrophobic, that’s all. It’ll settle.” He sure wasn’t about to mention the shitty chemicals coursing through her veins. He hoped to God she never again heard the label BT11 spoken out loud.
“I don’t want to be down here long enough for this level of fear and…helplessness to settle.”
Inappropriate, the timing soooo bad, it occurred to him that he wouldn’t exactly protest if he got to hold Angel, all soft and compliant, like this for a whole lot longer. “I’ll speak to Rhys when he gets back. Talk him into finding us some alternative accommodation. Preferably, somewhere above ground.”
She tipped up her chin, her cheek resting on his shoulder, and looked him in the eye. “Fair warning, Will. You keep being nice to me, and I might reverse my opinion and start liking you.”
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br /> His lips twitched; so did hers. He tightened his arms and gave her a squeeze. “Want a little revenge for me being a dick and freaking you out about this place?”
No hesitation, she nodded vigorously.
He laughed. Scratch Angel, and she’d scratch you right back. His kind of woman. Ah…that would be an almighty hell no.
Abruptly loosening his arms, he forced himself to step back.
What the hell was he thinking? Since Diana, he’d made room in his life for no woman, at least not beyond a night or two.
Unlike two of his closest friends, Jack Ballentyne and Nick Marshall, who’d both quit the Service to be with the women they’d fallen for, he was a committed lifer—they’d carry his dead body out of the Cube in a pine box before he quit. Which meant no long-term relationship for him. Not with the amount of time he’d have to spend out in the field or behind his desk. Never again would he commit to a woman, and then have her accuse him of neglecting her to the point she felt compelled to seek comfort from a different man. And then, when given a second chance, decimate him by killing herself.
“Will… Knock, knock, you in there?”
“What?… Oh…ah—” Damn it, the last thing he needed was Angel’s nosy concern, which was precisely what now shadowed the depths of her eyes. Again. “Okay, Sunshine, I’ll give you your revenge,” he said, slipping her a grin tight enough to split skin. “It’s your turn to have at it with the alcohol swabs—after I grab a shower. I think I may have taken some skin off my back crawling those ventilation shafts.”
Though she was being gentle, it felt like she was damn near exfoliating the grazes on his back. Then she switched her attention to the scar on his lower abdomen. Probing, prodding, as he tightened his six-pack against her administerings.
To avoid whimpering like a wuss, he’d had to duck away and drag on another of Rhys’s scrub tops—his set faded green rather than maroon—while flapping at her we-will-not-be-denied fingers.
“Christ, woman. Are you trying to kill me?” he demanded, having managed to get the high metal table between him and her.
“Stop being a big baby, Will.” Both of them had their hands on the table, braced to move fast. She cut several paces to the left. He cut several to the right. “You’re being ridiculous.” She laughed—evilly, in his opinion. “Come on. I need to take a closer look.”
No, she did not. Not unless she wanted to lose a fucking eye to the throbbing erection tenting his scrub pants. “Back off, Angel. I was cleared as physically fit before returning to duty. As I said earlier, the irritating pain plaguing me is probably all in my head.
“Well, in that case, I’ll stand down,” she declared. “Because, as we both know, Elvis will up and perform again before anyone gets inside there.”
He narrowed his eyes so she wouldn’t catch his eye roll. “What you need is a distraction. How about helping me with something more constructive than ransacking my mind? Rhys might have taken his laptop with him, but I’m betting the original thumb drive is still down here somewhere. You search this area. I’ll hit the cells and the room at the back.”
Angel, still huffy, folded her arms. “It’s been hours since Rhys left. He said he was going for supplies, yet there’s a week’s worth of tinned food on those shelves over there. And all that bottled water would last a month.”
“He had to go top-side to reset the timer on his laptop and stop the automated publication of those files he stole. He’ll be back.”
“That wouldn’t take this long. I bet he’s up there accessing the dark web as we speak. Auctioning off BT11 to the highest bidder, with not one care for its hideous side effects.”
“Angel, stop pacing. You’re kicking up dust. Rhys isn’t yet in a position to take BT11 to market.”
“Right. Silly me, I forgot. He has to wait and see how I react to his stupid drug first… Christ, it’s hot down here.”
He pushed away from the brick pillar against which he’d been leaning while Angel rode out her BT11-heightened anxiety—better than bottling it up—and crossed to the mouth of the corridor that housed the bank of cells. “While searching for the thumb drive, put anything you find that might help us get out of here on the table.”
“So you don’t think Rhys is going to return?”
Sighing deeply, he turned back around to face her. “He’ll be back, Angel.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because for all his faults, and Christ knows he’s got a shit load of those, I truly believe he loves you.”
“Well, he’s got a bloody funny way of showing it,” she huffed, scratching at the khaki-colored paint peeling the locker fronts with her forefinger. “For years, he preached to me about the importance of always staying in control. Then he goes and shoots me up with a drug known to cause violent psychosis, without knowing for sure if his ‘fix’ to it will work. Have you any idea of how immensely betrayed I feel?”
Betrayed, a euphemism for straight up petrified. He didn’t call her on it.
Giving herself room to put her body weight into the swing, she attacked the buckled locker door again, slamming it and using the heel of her hand to hamper it closed. “Well, I’m done. As of now, Rhys is dead to me.”
The agony of cutting her brother from her life was etched as sharply across her face as the conviction behind her words ran deep. He couldn’t leave her to the same fate Diana had left him. As adamant as she was, Angel would never relent, and the absence of Rhys would nibble away at her until she became a mere husk of the woman she was now.
He ought to know. Hating Diana. Fiercely resistant to any woman ever getting that close to him again—he was a hollow man walking. He didn’t want that empty existence for Angel—she deserved better.
Sweat pooled in his palms, his vision narrowed. Christ, he cared about Angel. Maybe more than cared, if the tight vice clenching his heart was anything to go by. Not something he could allow. Not again. Never—but he would give, had to give, her a small piece of him.
“I once told Diana the same thing during a row—that she was dead to me,” he started gruffly, hoarsely, and had to pause for his mouth to moisten so he could continue. “She’d just confessed to cheating on me. Then, one day she was. Dead that is. And to this day, I can’t breathe under the weight of her loss. We only separated for a few weeks. I couch surfed at Zac’s place. But even now, I can’t bear the thought of her spending those fourteen days believing I wanted her out of my life. Worse, I’ll never know whether it was the strain of me being an agent, or those stupid words I uttered in anger, that contributed to her killing herself.”
Angel slumped onto one of the stools at the table, the fingers of both hands threading into the thick of her hair. “Jesus, Will.”
“I didn’t share that with you to garner pity, Angel, so I’d appreciate it if you lost that look on your face fast. I’m just cautioning you against writing your brother off, because, trust me, that brings its own kind of special hell. Take it from a man who knows.”
Chapter Fifteen
Angel opened a locker and peered inside—empty. She opened another—zilch.
Gnawing at her lower lip, she glanced over at the corridor down which Will, on an eye-watering curse, had abruptly disappeared twenty-odd minutes ago in search of the thumb drive, but more to escape her, she suspected.
He hadn’t wanted to tell her about Diana, not the way his jaw had been clamped, his words shredding as they passed his clenched teeth. Jesus, the man was locked down tight. In a cell of his own construction. His sentence—self imposed—to forever wonder how far his own actions had contributed to the death of the woman he’d loved, despite her betrayal.
Should she go to him? Offer him some of the psychobabble he so despised?
A dulled thud and bellowed epithet sounded from the area Will was looting.
Her chest tightened. Might be prudent to allow him his space for a while longer.
She reached for another cabinet, pulled open the door—nothing. She chec
ked four more—all empty. Bloody fantastic.
Aside from a small gas camping stove and a cigarette lighter, she wasn’t having much luck finding things Will could use to break them out. Mind you, given his desperation to get as far away from her as possible, he’d probably force a flamethrower or some sort of grenade from her hopeless haul.
Chin to her chest, she kneaded the muscles knotting the back of her neck. The speed she and Will slammed from one emotional drama to the next, she’d be crazy to dismiss whiplash.
Opposites attract? No matter how long their tentative truce lasted, she couldn’t see that being true for her and Will.
She liked being still. Will lived in a state of perpetual motion. She liked calm. Will thrived on tension and excitement. She liked structure. Will only did unpredictable… About the only thing they shared in common was that they both took their coffee black.
She hated being teased, so he teased. She hated being crowded, so he crowded. She hated being bossed, so he bossed. And, when she least wanted to be kissed, he kissed—and, she caught fire.
She didn’t do fire. She. Did. Ice.
He was open and friendly—except with her. He was popular, amusing, respected, a leader. She was not.
He lived life large and messy; she lived life small and contained. He was dangerous; she was… Worse, especially with BT11 pumping her veins.
She pressed her palm to her chest to hold her lungs in place. Will had a tendency to push her too close to the edge. What if the steel cords of her restraint snapped?
Damn Rhys. Damn him to hell. If she survived this underground nightmare, the first thing she was doing on hitting the surface was having her adrenal gland removed. Failing that, she’d self-medicate on Propranolol. No more adrenaline surges for her. Ever. She’d rather be catatonic.
She cocked her head to the side. Her ears pricked up.
Odd. Silence? Now why was that more chilling than hearing Will thump about? If he’d accidently injured himself, the foul curses spewing from his lips would have wakened the dead. If he’d been attacked, she’d have heard his war cry—so would half the planet… Unless, he’d been rendered unconscious before having the chance to retaliate.
