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Inside, Yuri waited in the corner, his black military boots shining under a battered wooden table.
The captors deposited her in a ratty wood chair opposite him and assumed their posts by the entrance, guns cocked and ready.
Yuri shouted a command at the two gunmen, who exited the room and shut the door behind them.
The man regarded her like an annoying stray dog he wanted to kick. She doubted he even remembered hitting her last night. The rigid, unforgiving wood of the chair dug into her back, compounding her discomfort. Every breath of motor oil residue and cigarette smoke irritated her lungs, and gruesome images of Riku’s senseless death replayed in her mind. She swallowed and reminded herself to breathe. Bereft of freedom, or even fresh air, refraining from lashing out required considerable energy.
“So, you’re representing David Kingsley.” He leaned back in his chair and stared.
The interrogation had commenced. Adopting a neutral, impenetrable expression, she remained silent and stared straight ahead.
“Full name,” he commanded.
“Tess Madeleine Bennett.” Burying her hesitation, she sped to plant seeds of negotiation in hopes of avoiding a one-way grilling. “You need something, and I want to understand what it is.”
The gunman tilted his head and squinted. “I ask the questions.”
To reduce her anxiety, she reframed him in her imagination to be an important but aggravating client needing appeasement. “Let’s discuss what you need and how I can help,” she said, using a firm, but non-threatening voice.
“Citizenship?” After an eye roll, he resumed his rapid-fire questioning.
“American. And you?” She noticed the port-wine stain above his collar darken.
“Any other residency?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Permanent resident card in the UK.” During her childhood, Tess’s father often shared anecdotes about his work at the family dinner table and dispensed gems of advice should one find oneself in an unsavory position. For example, while being interrogated, say as little as possible, and be honest until conditions demand a lie.
“Why did you come to Cedarcliff?”
“David asked me to take his place yesterday.” Determined to assert control over her reactions no matter what, she clenched her fists and willed herself to be patient. His searing gaze felt like a laser burning her skin, and she looked away.
“How long have you worked with Kingsley?” He emitted a phlegm-laden cough and stared.
“Ten years.”
“Were you romantic with him?”
“No.” Her ethical hackles prickled at his weird question. She’d sooner resign her job than sleep with her boss. Where was he going with this?
“Do you know the engineering project codenamed Firefly?”
Firefly was the core of Kingsley Tech’s prized encryption software and the crown jewel of Kyle’s professional legacy. The gunmen were after money, but why and for whom? To buy herself more time, she stalled and tapped her fingers against the seat of her chair. “Firefly? Yes.”
“What about Rapadon?”
“Never heard of it.” She studied her interrogator, and the hostility in his expression made her shudder.
“You have a problem.” He stopped stabbing the table with his cheap pen, and his mouth locked into a horizontal line, like soldiers standing at attention, awaiting inspection.
The word problem crackled through her body, and her face flushed warm as she shifted her weight in the wooden chair. Suddenly overheated, her body temperature spiked and felt out of sync with her freezing hands and feet.
Across the table, Yuri coughed, then hacked until he spat into a dirty handkerchief, which he threw on the table.
Fresh red blood and gobs of mucus stained the cloth. Disgusted, she wrinkled her nose and curved her body away.
He cleared his throat. “We need fifty million pounds sterling and the original source code from the Firefly and Rapadon projects.”
Tiny beads of sweat coated her forehead, but she resisted the urge to wipe them away. Refusing to panic, she attempted to engage him with questions. “If you want money, why not attack a multinational tech company? PeopleClick is booming by the billions. Kingsley Tech is a small company.”
