"You piece of shit. I'm a victim that was pulled into your bullshit operation by your incompetent agent. I want a lawyer. You're not doing jack shit to me without one and a warrant." I turn my fury on the men I'd thought I could trust. "Is Braeden even at home? Did you two consent to an invasive internal exam? Did he get badgered into signing his consent away? How about hopping yourself back up into a lovely exam chair?"
They both pale at my questions, turning to look at their boss. "It's SOP in these cases. She had a lot more interaction and chances at verifying the informants’ story. She was alone with them."
Emmett replies to the AD's explanation. "With all due respect, Assistant Director, what you're requesting her to do isn't standard operating procedure for traumatized victims. I don't know what is going on here, but Lark doesn't know anymore than we've already told you. And you're well aware of her treatment—"
The AD interrupts him, "Agent Lancer, you're excused. No, not another word."
Emmett stalks out of the room. Rex has a frown between his brows but holds his tongue— for once.
"Miss Jones, if you don't consent, we can't do our jobs, and you'll be staying indefinitely. Would you like Agent Baelor to be present? It's not quite protocol, but if it would make you more comfortable, I think we can work something out. What do you say, Agent? You're up for helping a witness, aren't you? One that was victimized when protocol wasn't followed?"
Is this smarmy motherfucker really blackmailing us into doing what he wants? My jaw about hits the floor when Rex gives a sharp nod without even inquiring about my wishes.
"While Rex may be willing— I'm not. I wasn't bluffing when I asked for an attorney. And if Braeden is still here, I'll be requesting one for him as well. We both have emergency power of attorney paperwork filed with his business attorney, and I'm pretty sure this could count as emergent."
The AD loses his cool, and I'm actually scared he's going to hit me. Rex still has some sense because he tries to intervene. Thankfully, he doesn't need to as the intercom comes on.
"Assistant Director Chappel, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have a Mr. Bancroft here with an attorney demanding the release of Miss Lark Jones. He has paperwork from a local judge to support his demands."
I close my eyes in thanks that my ride or die bestie came through. I don't waste any time escaping. I'm still dressed in the gray scrub-like outfit and house shoes I'd been given last night when we arrived—and I don't care a bit. I'm fucking going home.