“Taken,” he says for me.
“Yes. My friend Lynn came by with a copy ofUs Weeklywith me on the front showing off my backside. It had been Photoshopped, of course—my dress wasn’t that short. I was so angry that after so long the media would still peg me as a sloppy drunk. I barely drink as it is!” I shake my head. “Of course, my father was furious and told me we’d discuss it over dinner the next night. That never happened.” Goosebumps slowly inch up my arms. I take a long breath, trying to rein in my emotions. “I hate that my last conversation with my father was him being disappointed with me again.” The doctor hands me a tissue.
“It’s hard being in the spotlight when you never asked to be there.” He sighs. “Sad that people care more about celebrities than what’s going on in their own country. Troops being sent over to fight for our freedom get less media coverage than the Kardashian family.” He stands and stretches his legs. “You did well today, Savannah. Try to get some rest tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy the sun while it lasts.”
“Thanks.”
My foot is propped against a small table, allowing me to gently rock myself. I lean my head back and smell the oncoming rain. A low rumble echoes over the mountains, warning of the storm that is brewing. It has been a long time since I’ve watched a good show of force from Mother Nature. In New York, we have the four seasons. I missed them terribly in my prison. My time without so much as a window was terrible.
“May I join you?”
I look up to see Logan standing next to the swing, holding a blanket, a thermos, and two mugs.
“Sure.” I sit up to make room for him to join me, surprised and a little pleased that he is being so thoughtful. I know how busy he is all the time.
“I love a good storm,” he says as he opens the thermos. “Abby told me you love your coffee. Seems we have something in common.” He hands me a mug, and I wrap my chilly fingers around it, seeking its warmth.
“Thank you.”
He leans back and drapes the blanket over my lap. “The temperature can drop quickly in Montana this time of year.”
Wait, what?
“Montana?”
He shifts, making the seat sway. “Sorry, but you hadn’t signed the NDA yet.”
“Now that I have, what else can you tell me?” I think I have the right to ask now.
He lets out a long breath. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” I say without missing a beat. “But first you can tell me who you are.” I wave my hand. “Abigail filled me in some. She said you’re top of the line trained, and some of you are Special Forces.”
He sips his coffee. “We’re all Special Forces,” he corrects me. “My grandfather was the founder of this group. We’re called Shadows. The U.S. government wanted a group of highly trained professionals who could slip in and out of Mexico to gather information on the Cartels,Los Sirvientes Del Diablos, and a few other drug and kidnapping rings. At first, that’s all we did, and then they started to use us to retrieve hostages and bring them back across the border safely. That’s when this place was built. We needed a safe place to bring the kidnapping victims while we tied up the loose ends. We like to call them our ‘guests’ when they are with us. As soon as it’s safe, they go home to live their lives, and we move on to our next job.”
“Why Montana? Why not somewhere closer to the border, like Texas or California?”
“Because that’s the first place they’d check. Who would think to look in the back mountains of Montana? Plus, we have a pretty good advantage if attacked.” He waves at the view. You can see for miles all around us.
I try to remember my journey here, but I still blank out after the cabin of the plane. I think about the other people who were here before me and what it was like for them.
“Were there any who didn’t make it? You know, when they got back home.”
He nods. “Yes. Some refused our help and went back before it was safe and were taken again or were killed. Some couldn’t handle what they had been through and ended it themselves.”
Lovely. He must have caught my expression.
“We have a high success rate, Savannah. Eighty-five percent go on to live normal lives.”
“Who was the last ‘guest’ who stayed?”
He looks at me carefully.
“York mentioned something about the last one not being as pretty.”
He rolls his eyes.
“York,” he mutters to himself. “We haven’t had a lot of women here. It’s mostly wealthy businessmen. The two women we did have were in their fifties, and they were the wives of some important people. You’re the first who’s young and, well, pretty.”