Page 25 of License to Kill

Seven

In time, I’d break.

We weren’t the only ones the FBI took alive in the takedown, and in what I viewed as an utter breach of protocol, they kept Amelia and I together in an interrogation room, still handcuffed while we waited. There were likely people watching through the one-way mirror or via monitors linked to the room’s surveillance, and had I not been so familiar with how interrogations should have worked, I might have found their effort to get information out of us amusing.

“They’re hoping we’ll collaborate on a cover story and give them information without them having to do any work to get it. The whole purpose of these rooms is to make those being questioned uncomfortable and throw them off their game. It’s a nice big game of psychological warfare.” I would have waved at the mirror had I not been cuffed. I’d been on the interrogator end of things enough times to understand we wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

“Sounds like a good time. Let’s play. You are the investigator. What would you ask me?”

I laughed. “What? We should just do their jobs for them?”

“I’m bored.”

“They’re trying to figure out where two women fit into the equation. They haven’t figured out what we were doing there, if we’re a part of the outfit responsible for holding three FBI agents hostage, and they’re probably having difficulties with facial recognition—or they’ve figured out our identities and have no idea what to make of it. I’m sure they’ll get around to questioning us eventually—or running our prints. They’d figure it out a lot faster if they just ran the prints. Or, you know, ask us for our names.”

“You’re cranky.”

“I have a bunch of old holes through me and two new ones. Of course I’m cranky. I’d even take an aspirin at this point; it’d be better than nothing.”

“Or we’re just not important to them.”

Of the options, that one made the most sense, as it implied a lot about my general standings. Rogue agents were dealt with, but vengeful agents took their time bringing about the final fall. In my case, I had no idea how things would proceed.

Shit had hit the fan within a few hours of me walking out the door, and if Amelia’s intel was right, any rogue flags on my file would be removed due to kidnapping and attempted murder charges leveled at my ma.

It wouldn’t take much to straighten that mess out.

I doubted the gaping holes in my heart would ever heal, but I went with the flow and shrugged. In time, I’d break.

I’d just break a little later.

“They probably have more important things to worry about.” I stretched my legs out, grimacing at the pull of the older gunshot wounds. “If they caught any of the actual mercenaries alive, they’ll be having a field day with them. Between several high-profile kidnappings, attempted murder of an FBI agent abroad, and the attempted acquisition of government security intel, I’m not surprised we’ve been reprioritized to last place.”

“We’re just the nice crazy chicks with guns that helpfully thinned the mercenary population so they could rescue their agents.”

“Lucky us, right?”

The door to the interrogation room opened, and a cop let himself in. “Ladies.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked him over. “Georgia State Police?”

“Yes, ma’am. I see you know your uniforms.” The man dropped a thin manila envelope onto the steel table and opened it. “Do you know these men?”

With my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn’t point, but I recognized a lot of the faces. “From top left. I killed that one with a headshot between the eyes. Next one was a chest hit and a second round to the throat. Don’t know the next one.”

“I killed that one; throat shot.”

Amelia and I took turns describing how we’d killed men in the warehouse, and after ten photographs, neither one of us recognized anyone else.

“Do you know their names?”

We shook our heads.

The cop stared at us, stared at the pictures, and stayed silent long enough a laugh threatened to bubble out of my chest. Laughing in the face of disaster always got me into trouble. I’d laughed before I’d kicked Jake’s father, too. That hadn’t worked out well for me. Little did.

Clearing his throat and straightening, the cop asked, “So, you went into a building armed, opened fire, and killed ten men without knowing anything about them?”

“We knew they were holding three FBI agents hostage—or had cornered them. Something like that,” I offered.