Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(44)

“Sorry about that. I’ve got a very nervous client on my hands,” he says, rolling his eyes as if we can sympathize.

“You’re not with the military?” my father asks.

Spangler chuckles like he’s listening to children.

“Do you think the government could put together something like this? I mean, it’s nothing fancy, but the budget for half of this place would get lost in committee until the end of time. Congress would dither over which state got the tax breaks. I’m sure a small handful of them would raise a stink about the Constitution, and human rights issues—due process—you know how they can get. Anyway, all that haggling might be good for getting a bridge built, but it’s not very practical when the end of the world is on your doorstep. No, when they need something done and done quickly, they go with private enterprise.”

“Or when it’s against the law,” my father adds.

“Yes, the ugly stuff is usually done by corporations. We’re difficult to prosecute for war crimes, at least in America. Here you can send a soldier to jail for atrocities, but who do you point the finger at when a business does it? Truth is, I find some of it a bit distasteful myself, but are we going to let the world go to hell in a handbasket waiting for bipartisan support? That’s why they need us. We’re in the business of results.”

“We don’t care about your business plan. We want out of here,” my father growls.

“But, Mr. Walker, Lyric is my business plan. Who’s hungry? I’m hungry.”

As if on cue, two women dressed in pencil skirts, white shirts, black ties, and aprons enter with trays. Another woman places a napkin in each of our laps, then sets the table with plastic utensils and a real plate. We’re served roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes with pesto, and string beans and almonds.

Spangler looks down at his and smiles.

“Look good? Go ahead, eat.”

I stare down at my food. I’m not going to lie. I’m tempted to bury my face in it. An old shoe would be more delicious than what they’ve been feeding me. Bex and Dad look even hungrier. Still, they both push their plates away. It’s an act of strength and defiance like I’ve never seen, and I have never loved either of them as much as I do right now. I look back down at my plate, and as casually as I can, I fling it at Spangler. The china crashes to the table in front of him, and the food splatters his face. I catch my father’s grin as Donovan cleans himself.

The waitress returns with another plate of food and sets it in front of me like nothing has happened. Before she can take a single step, I chuck it at our host.

“Dammit, Lyric,” Doyle says. He’s got his face buried in his hands.

A soldier steps in from the hallway with his gun ready, but Doyle commands him to leave. I suddenly don’t feel so brave, but I have no regrets.

“Lyric, the temper tantrum is wasteful, and really, that kind of behavior is an obstacle to getting what you want,” Spangler says. “Someone bring her another plate.”

“Maybe you should put it in a doggie dish,” I say.

He takes a deep breath.

“Yes, I had my doubts about that approach. It was the client’s idea, a bit dramatic, but you know that old saying, “The customer is always right”? I tried to explain that you wouldn’t be broken. I knew it the second you started your yoga practice. That’s defiance. I quietly cheered you.”

My waitress is back with a new plate. When I reach for it, the waitress does the same. She’s much stronger, so I throw my hands up in surrender. She gives me a little look of triumph, but when she turns her back on me, I toss the plate and hit her right in the shoulder.

Bex laughs.

“Maybe Ms. Walker will have something to eat after our chat,” Spangler says, dismissing the irate waitress.

“What do you want?” I say.

I feel my father’s hand on my leg, his way of saying to tread carefully.

Spangler flashes me a strained smile.

“I’ve watched all the footage of that day in Coney Island. I not only saw what you can do, I saw what you tried to do. You’re not the terrorist they have painted you as. You’re a hero, and I’m offering you a second chance at it,” he says. “Before you can do that, I realize we have to start over. No more solitary confinement. No more whatever it is they are feeding you. I’ll free your mother. I’ll let the prince and the Triton girl out of their tanks. In return, you have to accept my job offer.”

“Job offer?” I cry.

“Saving the world, Lyric. You’ve seen the news. This country is on the verge of collapse. The attacks by the prime and his army have all but crippled our defenses. It’s maddening to everyone involved that a few thousand barely intelligent creatures have managed to decimate the greatest military power the world has ever seen. In the time you have been here, things have gotten much worse. Just yesterday, the air force dropped a small nuclear device into the water outside Norfolk, Virginia, in hopes of reclaiming a base. They used a low-grade weapon, a ‘bunker buster’ is what they call it. They’re meant to take out a village or a cave system, not to fight an amphibious army, but that’s how desperate things have gotten. Want to guess how it turned out? The prime smacked it back like a tennis ball. It leveled eight city blocks and destroyed the base entirely. Casualties were low, but no one will live in Norfolk for fifty years. That place is poison.”