“I’m telling you all this because I need you to know the truth about the FBI and how they’ve failed me, one of their own. I’m tired of looking over my shoulders and barely escaping hitmen, while all the while, the FBI has done nothing. The FBI needs to be held accountable, and I want you to help me make sure they are.”
All at once, reports begin to yell at me, clamoring to be heard over each other.
“Ms. Marshall, why didn’t the FBI help?”
“What about the people you were trying to take down? Aren’t you afraid they’re going to come after you?”
I grip the podium tighter and glance out at the crowd. “Thank you all.”
With that, I take a step back and squint into the blinding light. In my hand my phone buzzes. I hurry backstage and pull it out, but barely have the chance to.
A heavy hand comes down on my arm and hold me in a vice-like grip, steering me forcibly away.
The phone falls to the floor with a crack.
My heart sputters and thuds as a tall, sharp jawed man in a suit drags me away, a tight expression on his features. I study his profile, see the vague outline of a gun underneath his shirt, and a thin sliver of unease races up my spine.
I know him.
The mob clearly didn’t waste any time finding me.
I shove my free hand into my pocket and inhale. “Where are we going?”
Don’t make him angry. Remember your training.
We weave in and out of the groups of people talking over each other and on their phones while my mind races. Once he pushes me through the kitchen doors, I trip, leaving behind one heel. He draws me up to my feet and half-drags, half-carries me until we reach the backdoor.
In the alley, a sleek black limo awaits.
Fear settles in the pit of my stomach as the door opens, the stench of cigar smoke coiling out, and I am brought to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, the man kicks my legs open and begins to pat me down, his large rough hands making my stomach clench. Once he is done, he shoves me into the car and hurries to the passenger seat.
“That was an interesting press conference, Ms. Marshall.”
Through the thin smoke, a bald-headed man with a small scar over his right eye and a cigar in his hand stares coldly at me. He’s smiling like a shark that’s just found its prey, and something about the way he sits against the leather seat demands a sense of fear and respect. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
I fold my hands in my lap and sit up straighter. “Maybe I’m both. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
He pauses, as if I am supposed to know him. “No, I don’t believe we have.”
The car’s windows are tinted black, and there is a partition between the front and back seats, separating us from the driver. My captor leans forward and pours himself a generous glass of whiskey. The amber liquid glistens as he lifts the glass up to his mouth and sips.
His dark eyes watch me the entire time.
I press my legs together and hold his gaze. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Considering you swore your allegiance to the FBI, the conference isn’t what we expected, Ms. Marshall.”
“The least you can do is tell me your name.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And why should I do that?”
“I’m guessing you’re the one I’ve spent the past two years trying to avoid.”
“We’ve sent some of our best men and women after you.” He takes one last puff from his cigar before dropping it in a small ashtray beside him. “Tell me, Ms. Marshall, are you afraid of dying?”
I sit up straighter and hold his gaze. “Isn’t everyone?”
“The FBI has trained you well. Even with what little resources you had on the run, you’re still alive,” he continues, as if he hasn’t heard me. “So, either you have something worth fighting for, or you’re not afraid to die.”