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Ava
Present Day
Quantico, Virginia
The minutes keep ticking.I know, I’ve counted all one hundred and twenty of them.
They’re trying to rattle me with one of their basic ploys: always keep your opponent off guard. It’s law enforcement’s initial interrogation tactic.
Well, technically, the first tactic is to establish a rapport and roll out the “kill ’em with kindness” act. However, since federal agents had me in cuffs as soon as my plane landed, I’m pretty sure they skipped it and went straight for psychological manipulation.
Their white-washed concept of torture is to keep me locked in an office for two hours. I want to laugh, but it isn’t even worth the effort. Two hours is nothing. I’m fully clothed, and I’m wearing shoes. My hands aren’t bound to this chair, and I can see the sky right outside the window overlooking Quantico.
Yeah, they can wipe their asses with their two hours.
The door behind me opens then slams, but I don’t flinch. Keeping my eyes forward, I ignore the intrusion until FBI Section Chief Dunning stomps around the oversized desk in a storm of heated fury and arrogance.
Throwing a stack of files on his desk, he takes his seat and glares at me. “I don’t suppose you understand what kind of shit you’re in.”
“And all this time, I thought I was the victim. Thanks for clearing that up.” Folding my hands, I interlace my fingers and sit back. My eyes wander, landing on an American flag encased in glass hanging on the wall behind his head. The way it’s situated, he looks like he’s wearing it as a crown.
Like the prince of freedom.
The irony isn’t lost on me, and as nauseating as the red and white stripes are, at least they give me something to focus on other than the arrogant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He slams his palms against his desk and cocks his chin, the dark skin pulled tight across his jaw. I know his game right away. Intimidation. He wants me to break first. Good in theory, but if he’s been debriefed on anything that’s happened in the last week, he should know better.
I have nothing left to break. A conscience can’t fracture if it doesn’t exist, and if you bargain with the devil, sometimes you pay with your soul.
With his tactics failing, Dunning’s demeanor changes, and he digs his nails into the wood. “You’re part of a Russian crime syndicate.”
I don’t hear a question in there, so I hold his stare while brushing my thumb over his nameplate. “Well, that may be true, Carl, but I also took out one of this country’s most prolific assassins who, I might add, your agency has failed to identify, much less apprehend. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
A faint flush stains his coffee-colored cheeks as his fist comes down hard on his desk. “You will address me as sir. Your actions were unprecedented, not to mention stupid. You walked into an undercover FBI investigation completely unarmed.”
He watches me for a reaction, and I recognize something familiar in his eyes. Controlled chaos. He desperately needs to assure himself of his own authority, so I sit motionless.
“Oh, I was definitely armed. I was just relieved of it shortly after my capture.”
“That’s what you choose to focus on, Miss Chernova?” What’s left of the chief’s composure snaps. Unclenching his hand, he sweeps it across the polished wood, sending stacks of papers scattering to the floor. He’s pissed, and with good reason. Every word I say exposes something ugly he doesn’t want to face.
Gritting my teeth, I relive the moment I stumbled into a nightmare. “Might I remind you that your agency came to me. It’s not like I had much choice in the matter.”
“Agent Schaeffer didn’t have authorization to conduct his own investigation. Least of all with you.”
He’s baiting me again. “Well, maybe you should take that up with him. Oh wait, you can’t, can you?”
There’s a flicker of something in his dark gaze. Fear? Respect? Regret? I can’t get a read on it, and as quickly as it appears, it vanishes. “Agent Schaeffer’s actions were unsanctioned, but his intentions were honest. He was trying to save countless girls’ lives.”
Leaping out of my chair, I slam my palms on his desk. “What about mine, Carl?” The words taste as bitter as they sound.
His nostrils flare, and a vein pulses in his right temple. “It’s Section Chief Dunning, and take your seat, Miss Chernova.”
I freeze at his sharp tone, and the room spins. In a dark, hazy corner of my mind, another voice calls to me.
“Dostatochno!You should always think before you speak, pchelka. Either choose to fight battles or strategize to win wars, but never underestimate your enemy.”
Even now, he commands, and I listen.
