Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 146392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
He’d been roofied, and his cousins would never let him hear the end of it.
“The Jester is a new player in my world, and I would like an introduction,” the German who he couldn’t see explained. “But you know that very well.”
Oh, they were under several misconceptions. “I know absolutely nothing. I am dumb as dirt when it comes to this.”
And he’d been dumb as dirt when it came to Lou. God, now he could see it so clearly. He should have kissed her that day.
Being close to death brought life into sharp focus, and his meant nothing without Louisa Ward.
“I don’t think so, Sergeant Taggart.”
TJ’s gut twisted. They knew exactly who he was, and he’d been targeted. But he couldn’t figure out why. Yes, he often worked with Agency teams, but he wasn’t a spy himself. He was the Special Forces version of a grunt. Oftentimes he barely knew why they were doing what they were doing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
There was the sound of a throat clearing, and then pain bloomed over every inch of his skin as his captor lit him up.
He was never again going to make fun of that chick at The Hideout who liked a Dom to tase her pink parts. That woman was tough. She might be a goddamn national treasure when it came to having a high pain threshold. He needed to talk to her about getting on one of the teams because if she’d been here, she would smile and ask for another.
He just wanted to see Lou again.
Although not getting hit with the prod came in a close second.
Something was going on. Something he didn’t understand, and he had to figure out what these assholes wanted because he wasn’t going to die here. Wherever here was.
His shoulders ached, and his hands had long gone numb from holding his whole body weight.
Why would they think he knew some dude on the Internet who called himself The Jester? Or that he would know what “business” his captor was in.
“Sergeant Taggart, I can do this all day.” The guy’s English was good, but his accent was German and thick. “All week, even. No one knows where you are. I’ve used your phone to send some texts to your fellow team members letting them know you’re taking the week off to spend some time with a woman you met at the bar. My team, you see, is good at crafting a fiction when they need to. We sent pictures as well. No one is going to look for you, so you might as well tell us what we want to know.”
“I would if I had any idea what you’re talking about.”
There was the sound of murmuring, and that was the moment TJ realized there were at least three people in the room. The torture fucker, the one who spoke, and apparently someone who didn’t want TJ to hear his voice.
The actual boss.
He twisted his head around, trying to see into the shadows, but the light was so bright.
“All right, perhaps you might…remember…more if I let you know how much we know. The Jester is what we call, in our line of business, an information broker. I assume you know what that is since in addition to your work for the Army, your team often backs up the CIA.”
He knew exactly what an information broker was. His aunts used to be the best in the business. Chelsea and Charlotte Denisovitch had made a name for themselves selling secrets. But they didn’t anymore.
TJ had to consider the fact that he might know more than he thought he knew. His family still had ties to the Denisovitch Syndicate, though he’d never actually met any of them.
“I work on classified missions, but that doesn’t mean I understand the ins and outs of them. They tell me who to shoot and I do it. That’s all I am. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Oh, we don’t think so. We happen to know that you met with The Jester a mere month ago, and lying about it won’t help you.” There was the sound of fingers snapping and then his torturer moved briefly into the shadows, coming back with a tablet in his hands. He held the screen up.
It was a grainy picture of two men walking down a European-looking street.
But it was clear from the photo that one of the men was him.
The other man’s face was concealed by the heavy hood of his jacket.
“This is you walking with a man we’ve identified as The Jester. You were in Berlin, meeting him six weeks ago.”
Six weeks ago he had been in Berlin, but this meeting hadn’t happened. “I was in debriefs the entire time I was in Berlin. This is a deep fake.”
“I don’t believe it is. I believe you are protecting your real boss, but that will only buy you pain.”