Riders (Riders, #1)(2)

“I should’ve asked before,” Cordero says when my water break is over, “would you prefer that I call you Gideon or Mr. Blake?”

I was right. She’s not military or she’d have called me “Private Blake.”

I swallow again, my throat feeling better. “Ma’am, I’d prefer you untied me and told me where I am.” I instantly want to punch myself for the ma’am thing. She’s detaining me. Screw manners.

She doesn’t answer, so I try another question. “Are we still in Norway?” Nothing again. I look to the guys at the door. “Are we back in the States?”

“I can’t give you that information at this time, Gideon,” Cordero says, deciding for herself what to call me. I’m eighteen, probably half her age, so I can see why she didn’t go with “Mr. Blake.”

“Why can’t I know where I am? Why all this?” I nod to myself. “I’m not going to run. I called you guys, remember? For help? How about cutting me free?”

“When I’m done questioning you, you’ll be released.”

“Released?” It’s so messed up, I have to laugh. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No?” She leans forward, her gaze narrowing. “You inflicted millions of dollars of damage on Jotunheimen National Park. You don’t think that’s wrong? American taxpayers are paying for that damage. The American public paid to bail you and your friends out of that mess. You’re lucky the media hasn’t caught on yet. You almost caused an international incident. You do realize that? Until I know exactly what you were doing in Norway and why you chose to destroy acres of pristine parkland, you aren’t leaving this room. I mean that, Gideon. You might as well get comfortable.”

“You think this is about damaged land? About money?”

“If I thought that was all this was, you wouldn’t be here.”

I’m not sitting here and playing this game. “You really want to know what this is about? I’ll tell you. Pure evil is out there. We’re in trouble—and I don’t mean American taxpayers. I mean humanity. I mean everyone. And you’re looking at one of the only people who can do anything about it. So what do you say you untie me?”

“Not happening, Gideon,” she says, disregarding everything I just said. “And before you become belligerent again, let me tell you. Losing your temper won’t help anything.”

This is a huge waste of time. I need to get out of here. Find the guys. Get the key back. “Where’s Colonel Nellis?” I trust my commanding officer. I want to talk to him, not a stranger.

“This incident has gone above the jurisdiction of the US Army,” she says.

“Who are you with? The Defense Department? CIA?”

“Let me spell this out for you. I ask questions, you answer them. That’s how this works.”

There actually wasn’t any spelling in that, but whatever. I’m done with this. Time to bring the wrath.

I reach for my anger, for my sword, for Riot.

I get nothing. I’m powerless. The drugs have neutralized everything. I’m completely zeroed.

It makes no sense, none, so I start yelling. She’s making a huge mistake. I’m one of the good guys. She has no idea who she’s talking to. Everything I say sounds scripted and insane but it’s true. It’s the truth.

Cordero checks her watch. “Seems it’s about that time again.” She looks over her shoulder at the guy with the Beretta. “Get him under control.”

Beretta slides a small black pouch from a cargo pocket. He pulls on latex gloves and takes out a hypodermic needle as I keep yelling and thrashing against the bindings, getting absolutely nowhere.

The bigger guy, Texas, comes around my chair and puts me in a rear chokehold. “Relax,” he says. “Relax.”

Which is the last thing I’m going to do, but then stars flicker against the pine walls and the room dims, then I dim. I’m not yelling anymore, I’m passing out.

Beretta sticks the needle into my forearm and depresses the plunger. A slow burn spreads through me. My face goes numb. My muscles relax. I relax.

I don’t want to relax, but I relax.

Texas releases me and I suck in air. Gulp it down. Oxygen is the best damn thing ever created.

Beretta shines a penlight into my eyes.

Bright light.

Doesn’t feel good.

Close eyes.

I’m vaguely aware that I reacted too slowly. Reactions shouldn’t happen in steps. Unless it’s only one step. A single, self-contained step.

Yeah … that seems right.

“The kid’s cooked,” Beretta says as he peels off the gloves. He and Texas step back, posting up by the door again.

Keeping my head up becomes my new goal. It’s not easy. Reminds me of balancing a basketball on my finger. While trying to process information through it. Except my head isn’t actually a basketball, it just feels like one.

Yep. The kid’s cooked.

Cordero unfolds her hands. She drums her fingers on the table, watching me. “Ready to talk now?”

“You have no idea how big this is … what’s happening. You have no idea who I am.”

It takes me a second to realize that the words hanging in the room are mine.

Not good.