The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (32 page)

I banged my head against the door, losing myself in the throbbing sensation in the back of my skull.
 

I shouldn’t have been surprised, really, but I was shaken that one of the few people I trusted — or mostly trusted, in Roman’s case — was now working for the army that had raided my home and murdered my parents.

“Some friends you’ve got here,” Greyson muttered.

I shot him a nasty look. His words were definitely loud enough for Max and Logan to hear.
 

Before I could respond, I heard heavy footsteps out in the old kitchen and the creak of a heavy door. Everyone sat frozen, but I sprang to my feet and pressed my forehead against the rough metal edges of the tiny vent to look out into the room.
 

There was a brief scuffle from inside the adjacent room, a yell, and the sound of someone being dragged out by two larger people.
Amory.
 

The huge blond man who had struck me in the face pulled a folding chair into the center of the room. It clattered and scraped against the concrete floor, and the other man shoved Amory into it.
 

Amory sat with his back to the door, but I could see a deliberate, uncharacteristic slouch in his shoulders, as if he were trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” said the blond man in a lazy drawl. “You tell us what we need to know, and we won’t make you watch us kill your friends.”

My stomach contracted.
 

“Come
on
,” said Amory, his voice echoing slightly off the basement walls. “My friends don’t know anything about my past or my father. Do what you want with me, but let them go.”

“We’d like to believe you, man,” said the other guy in a rough, gravelly voice. It was the man with the crazy sideburns. “Really, we would. But there’s no one who can vouch for you, not even Roman or Mariah . . .” He laughed. “Well, Mariah couldn’t help you now even if she wanted to.”

“They’re angry at us — at me — because we left our posts outside the base. We were trying to help Greyson escape from the prison.”

The man laughed, looking to the other to join in. “You? Help Greyson Frey escape prison? Now I know you’re lying.”

“We didn’t know he was in on it.” Amory raised his voice slightly and then caught himself. “He grew up with my friend Haven, and she was there when he was arrested. She traveled miles to find him. She had me cut out her CID so she could defect.”

As Amory talked, I felt myself grow a little taller. He may have hidden things from me, but he believed in me.

The blond man licked his lips and bent down to put his face right up close to Amory’s. “Listen. I’m not interested in how you got here or even
why.
I don’t doubt that you fooled those kids into thinking you were one of them.” He lowered his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to tell me what Elwood’s planning by sending you to mix with a bunch of illegals. What’s he hoping to accomplish?”

Amory glared up at the man. “My father didn’t send me. If you found him today and asked, I’m sure he would tell you he didn’t have a son.”

“And why is that?” The man was clearly only humoring Amory, and I felt my insides boil with rage.

“I was one of the first civilians to have the CID inserted after all the initial tests. It hadn’t even been approved by the FDA yet. But my father was so . . .” Amory faltered, and I knew he was grimacing, “proud of his work. He wanted me to be the first.” He laughed without humor. “I thought it was so cool at first.”

His voice hitched almost imperceptibly, and I felt an ache for how I knew it must make him feel to relay this — not just to his rebel captors, but to me. Not on his own terms. I was grateful he didn’t know Max and Logan were listening, too.

“What most people don’t know,” Amory continued, “is that the CID can do more than just track your movements and your records and your conversations.” He faltered. “It’s still in tests, but they’ve experimented with a form of . . . behavior modification. I’m not really sure how it works, but it’s like this frequency that goes through your whole body if you go somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

Sideburns laughed. “How would you happen to know this? Our guys inside the PMC haven’t said anything about —”

“Because they’ve done it to me!” Amory shouted.

I wanted to throw up. That was why Amory had tried so desperately to remove his CID. It wasn’t just that he had grown paranoid of his father tracking him; his father had unleashed an untested feature on him to control his every move.
 

“I begged my dad to remove my tracker. Everyone thought I was a freak. It would always happen when I least expected it, and I would just be stuck there, in my own private hell. I couldn’t move or speak or anything.
 

“One day, I’d had enough. I cut it out.” He paused, and I could sense the distaste with which he retold the story. “I didn’t know exactly where it was embedded . . . or how hard it would be to get it out.

“I couldn’t tell my dad what I’d done. I was in training at the PMC academy.” He stopped, and I could tell he knew that his truthfulness was futile. “I ran away. I haven’t seen my father since.”

The blond man broke his lazy listening stance. “Well, that’s a terrific story.”
 

He swatted his hand across Amory’s face so fast I didn’t see it coming.

Amory’s head fell to the side, and his cheek was an angry red. He grimaced and turned back to his captor.

“I can’t tell you what you want to know. My father didn’t send me here. I don’t know anything about their plans or —”

The man kicked the leg of the folding chair, toppling Amory backwards onto the floor. He delivered a swift blow to Amory’s ribcage. Amory yelled out in pain, and I saw his face twist in agony.

“Stop!” I yelled through the door, my mind unaware that my mouth had decided to react. I clamped my lips shut tightly, worried that my reactions would fuel the rebels’ stamina for torture.

“At least she believes you,” the man said, sneering down at Amory on the floor. He kicked Amory again, eliciting a grunt that was more controlled than the first.

“I bet,” he stepped over Amory’s still frame while the sideburn man looked on, “that you still have a CID in your arm.” He stomped down on Amory’s forearm, and his face drained of color as he screamed. “The scar is probably just for show. They’re using it to track you here right now!”
 

He delivered another kick to Amory’s ribs. “Come out, come out, you filthy bastards.” The man leaned down to hover directly over Amory’s face, which was twisted in pain. “They teach you to resist this interrogation technique in the PMC?”

Hatred burned painfully in my throat. Amory didn’t say anything. He kicked him again, this time in the head, and I cried out without meaning to.

The man straightened up and turned to the other rebel. “Take him back in there,” he said with disgust. “It’s going to take a little something extra to get this rat to confess.”

I watched as they pulled Amory up by his arms and dragged him back into the room. From the way he let himself be tossed inside — no resistance, no struggle — I could tell he really must have been hurt or passed out completely.

They slammed the door shut, and the blond man crossed the kitchen in five long strides to our closet. I ducked down from the vent and flattened myself against the wall. I exchanged a horrified look with Logan as I heard fumbling outside and the scrape of a key in the lock.

Light flooded into the small space as he thrust the door open, and I saw the man’s horrible face.

“Which one is his girlfriend?” he called back to the sideburns man. “The blond bitch or the brunette?”

“The brunette,” said the man.

“Good. She’ll be easier.”

I didn’t know what I expected, but I
didn’t
expect his thick sausage fingers to clamp around my arm and yank me through the door.

“Haven!” Greyson yelled, springing to his feet and throwing himself out after me.

The blond man shoved him roughly in the shoulder, sending him flying back against the doorframe. In a second, the other man had slammed the door shut, locking the others inside.

My feet floundered underneath me as the man dragged me out to Amory’s interrogation chair and shoved me down into it.

“Let’s see how long he lasts with his little slam piece in the hot seat.”

I glared up at the man. His face was red and sweaty from the exertion of torturing Amory, and he had a wild glee in his eyes. He relished his task.

Sitting there staring up at the rebel, contemplating what he was about to do, I felt strangely calm and resolute. It was inevitable, and I was just happy that Amory was safe, even if for only a few more minutes.

It occurred to me that the smartest thing would be to waste as much time as possible. I wasn’t concerned with angering our captors; clearly it didn’t matter if we cooperated or not. We would still get hurt.
 

I couldn’t possibly tell them what they were hoping to hear; they didn’t believe we weren’t in league with the PMC or players in Amory’s father’s scheme. The most I could hope for was to distract them long enough so they would be called to the rebels’ gathering or to launch another attack.

“What do you want me to tell you?” I asked.

The man looked slightly taken aback, as if it were all too easy.
Idiot,
I thought. I was going to tell him whatever he asked, whether it was true or not.

He recovered quickly with a cold laugh. “I’m not interested in what you have to say. I don’t think you had any idea you were fucking a PMC spy.”

Anger flared in my chest, but I kept talking. “Then what are you hoping to accomplish?”

His cruel eyes smoldered. “Honey, you’re just a tool to help me learn what I need to know.”

My insides squirmed with his use of the word “honey.”
 

“You think Amory will tell you what you want to know if you torture me?” I let out a loud, crazy laugh. I hoped it was more convincing than it felt.

“Won’t he?” He cocked his head, calling my bluff. This guy was smarter than he looked.

“Why would he?” I said, purposefully letting my voice shake as if I were about to cry. After everything that had happened that day, I didn’t think it would be difficult to produce some tears for effect. “I mean, if he’s PMC like you say, it was all an act anyway.” I hoped I was selling the subtle note of pain in my voice.

“Human beings are complicated,” he said. “And the PMC officers are manipulative. They’re specially trained to prey on the emotions of others — predict patterns and use those reactions to their advantage.”
 

He sighed. “But the young officers . . . they’re not perfect. Plenty of them let their emotions get in the way . . . confuse getting off with being in love. I hope to capitalize on that.”

“I don’t think that will work on him.”

“No?”

“I guess I was just a toy to him,” I said, hanging my head to hide my burning cheeks. It was much more difficult to put on this act with all my friends listening just feet away. “You can kill me if you want. I feel stupid that I fell for it.”

The man rolled his eyes. I knew he was irritated that I was wasting his time.

“See, I get the feeling you’re not that stupid,” he said. “I’m starting to think you were in on it, too.”

My breath caught in my throat. My plan had backfired.

“You’re a bad liar, and I think you’re worried he’ll spill once he hears you screaming in pain.”

“I don’t think he’s that emotionally invested,” I snapped.

The man was clearly losing patience. He wanted to get on with the business of torturing me. “It can’t hurt to test that theory.”

“You said we get due process of the law.”

“I am the law!” he screamed.

“How can you justify torturing people? Isn’t your mission about freeing the country from the oppression of the PMC and restoring freedom?”

“Freedom doesn’t come easy,” said the sideburn man from the corner.
 

I’d almost forgotten he was there, sulking in the shadows with his arms crossed.
 

“You have to break a few eggs to start a revolution.”

“At what cost? You’ve strayed pretty far from your mission, as far as I can tell.”

“This country is on the verge of destruction,” said the blond man. His voice was a low, deadly hiss. “The PMC slaughters and imprisons hundreds of innocent Americans every day!”

“You are no better than they are!”

“Enough!” he shouted, his voice ricocheting off the concrete ceiling. He pulled something out of his back pocket. “Some people are revolution makers, and some people are just collateral damage.”

I heard a bang on the door of Amory’s cell, as if he was pounding his fist against the metal. “Let her go!” There was another tremendous bang. “Haven!”

The man ignored him. “Let’s let him sweat a bit,” he murmured conspiratorially. “Your choice, honey. Fire or ice?”

I didn’t say anything. I could see what he was holding now. It was a white plastic case that held three tiny packets.

“I’m sure your boyfriend will recognize these,” he said. “Bring him out, Troy.”

Troy crossed to the closet where Amory was held and yanked him out. Amory stumbled but righted himself quickly.
 

He looked bad. The side of his head was matted with blood, and the way he held himself told me he’d been injured when the man kicked him. Our eyes met, and I tried to convey a string of messages in one glance: it wasn’t his fault, I didn’t believe anything horrible about him, and I didn’t want him to do anything drastic.

The blond man pulled a thin strip of red film out of one of the packets.
 

“Now, these babies . . . these are PMC issue.”

Amory’s eyes widened.

“Oh! So you
do
recognize them,” said the man. “Yeah. We’ll see how long your girl here can last. My money’s on one. What do you think, Troy?”

Troy shrugged, still holding Amory’s arms behind his back.

“She’s pretty small,” the man said, answering his own question. “Even one will pack quite a punch.”