The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(50)

“Holy cow,” I mumble, impressed by the engineering. This is some Batcave-level stuff here.

I don’t have time to stop and admire the workmanship. If they didn’t hear me coming in through the hatch, this had to make a noise or trigger an alarm.

I turn the knob on the next door and burst into an outer hallway. Empty. The floor is bare concrete, and the walls are unpainted drywall.

I turn and spot another staircase going up. Most of Turtle Isle is around thirty feet above sea level. I should be reaching the surface soon.

I go up the second set of stairs, prepared to find myself in another empty corridor smelling of concrete and dust.

Did I die back there? Is this how hell works?

I’m right, except this hall reveals sunlight ahead and to my right. I run down the hallway and enter a large room with blinds covering windows on either side.

There’s nobody here.

I take a peek through the blinds and realize the source of my confusion. Bonaventure’s house is down the street. This isn’t even a separate building on his estate; I’m in an entirely different part of the neighborhood.

Clever bastard. That’s why the police couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t anything to be found.

This house probably belongs to a separate owner completely unconnected to him. The feds wouldn’t search here if they had no reason to.

Speaking of cops, Solar has to be worried sick about me. I run to the opposite side of the room and spot him still on the boat.

I try tapping, but he’s too far away.

Think, Sloan.

I run upstairs and find a bedroom that faces the bay and walk out to the balcony.

I wave, but he doesn’t see me. I run back into the unfinished bathroom and find a mirrored medicine cabinet lying atop a crude sink.

I can take it with me since it hasn’t been mounted yet.

Back on the balcony, I use the cabinet mirror to reflect the sun back at George. It takes about three seconds before he catches the reflection and realizes it’s me.

He makes some hand gestures, pointing to the street.

Does he want me to go there? Why doesn’t he just pull the boat up? I furiously point to the seawall farther up the island from this house and run back down to the first floor.

I open a sliding glass door and run out on the patio. George hasn’t moved the boat. He’s just standing there with his fishing rod, watching.

What the hell, George? I’m about to point to where he should pick me up, but I check up when I hear the sound of boots stomping on grass.

“Freeze! Police!” shouts a hyperaggressive voice.

Before I’m tackled to the ground, I spot at least a half dozen armed officers in full body armor.

George continues to ignore me as I’m restrained and slapped into handcuffs.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

DREDGE

I’m scared. This interrogation room isn’t in the federal building in Palm Beach, and it’s not the FBI, DEA, or sheriff’s office. I have no idea where I am.

After cuffing me on the lawn, the Palm Beach police, who arrested me, kept me down until a paramedic came and patched up my leg.

A green raincoat was thrown over my swimsuit, and I was shoved into the back of an SUV with blacked-out windows. A metal divider separated me from the driver, and another partition blocked the rear of the vehicle. The seat was the same hard plastic they use in the back of police cars.

It was a vehicle designed to transport suspects without letting them know where they’re going. Nobody tugged a hood over my head, but it was the same result. After a thirty-minute drive, we pulled into a parking garage, and two armed guards wearing full body armor took me up a service elevator and down a hall into this room.

This room . . . with its black metal walls. It’s like Darth Vader’s bathroom—minus the toilet.

My best guess is that it’s some spooky, federal-level detention center. Could these be the DIA contractors George mentioned? It’s the kind of place you take suspected terrorists, Russian spies, or heads of cartels.

What worries me the most is that I have zero idea who’s in charge. You hear about special CIA and FBI detention centers—and I know they even exist in our country. It’s not always that sinister. Some suspects are extra risk. Sometimes you need to interrogate someone away from where their friends know they can be found.

And sometimes this kind of place can be the waystation to another, longer-term secret prison. That kind of thing used to be crazy—then September 11 happened.

Am I being paranoid and freaked out? Hell, yes.

Nobody has spoken a word to me since I was caught—technically I was never even arrested. I’m pretty sure it’s not because they forgot.

The door opens, and two men enter. One is a white guy with short, prematurely graying hair. The other is black with a shaved head. Both appear to be in their early thirties and are wearing suits. Although they’re dressed like stockbrokers, they move like they’re ex-military.

“Sloan McPherson?” says the white guy. “I’m Chris.” His tone is clinical. “This is Dr. Pierson.”

I want to ask them questions, but I’m afraid if I start talking, I’ll slip up. I keep my mouth shut.

“Are you Sloan McPherson?” asks Pierson.

“I want my lawyer.”

“It’s a simple question. Are you Sloan McPherson?”