Page 7 of Undertow

The elevator stutters to a halt, and I step out first. Within seconds, I’m facing a direct view into an ostentatious penthouse. But my gaze slices through the grandeur surrounding me and locks on the endless blue vista beyond the glass walls. People pay a fortune to torture themselves with views like this.

My fists clench against the sudden rush of panic. I can’t show my fear. One misstep, one display of weakness, and I’m done.

I push myself forward, projecting every ounce of confidence I don’t have.

“And the prodigy arrives!” A distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair rises from one of the leather chairs, his arms open in a deceptive greeting. The razor stare shadowed by thick brows tells the real truth, however. I only saw him once before, but this image has been embedded in my brain.

You don’t forget Satan when he’s staring you down.

Today he’s dressed like he just finished on the golf course. A quick scan reveals six other occupants—two women and four men—in addition to the three of us. No exits except the elevator behind us. Weapons? Five I can see, which means there are at least a dozen I can’t.

“Mr. McArthur, so good to see you again,” I say, moving toward him. I block the violent memories of our only other encounter.

His smile sends a shiver through me. It’s not deceptive like Abe’s, but insidious, like he revels in the power his facial expression has over you. As with our last encounter, his eyes shift from my head to my feet in open appraisal.

Also, like that day, the chills freeze to ice when his smile slides into a grin. There’s nothing I like about the way he’s looking at me. Or any of them, for that matter. Covetous, domineering.

I’m a possession, like the cars in his garage.

Abe’s earlier comment about Scarlett McArthur thunders through my head when I sense her intense gaze from the couch. I don’t acknowledge it, but Ifeelthe unspoken secret I never asked to keep. We barely know each other.

Liar.

I shake off the memories to focus back on my present mess.

Based on her outfit alone, the other woman in the room must be McArthur’s wife. Her cold expression makes her an extension of her husband, which should cause every living organism on the planet to shudder. She studies me now, sliding her gaze up and down my body like I’m an animal at auction. The examination makes me uneasy, and I distract myself by evaluating the rest of the room’s occupants.

Two of the men I recognize: McArthur’s right-hand captain, Merrick, and another regular soldier named Ben. The remainingtwo unknowns mirror the grave expressions of their associates. They all have that same intense concentration that tells you nothing would make them happier than having a reason to pull their gun.

I know what it feels like to have cold metal pressed against your skull, the pinch of restraints on your wrists as a fist smashes into your face.

It’s why I’m here.

“Roman Shaw. The chameleon. The all-star utility player for our organization. By all accounts, you’ve been exceeding expectations since you’ve joined our ranks.” He shakes my hand, then holds on as he continues. “Things have worked out quite well for both of us, haven’t they? How are you enjoying your time as McArthur royalty?”

His grip tightens to a painful level as he searches my eyes. I will myself not to flinch.

Royalty? A prisoner, and he knows it.

“It’s been great, sir.” More lies, but words are power. Horde them for your arsenal. Share only what’s necessary for survival. Another lesson learned hard and brutally.

His smile turns sinister with a secret only he knows. “I believe you may have been right, Scarlett.” He casts a dramatic look at his daughter. The young woman returns an irritated frown he seems to enjoy. “Want to hear a funny story?” he asks me.

I swallow my anxiety at the strange question and uncomfortable attention of everyone in the room. Pretty sure no one wants to hear the story except the man who’s about to tell it.

“We spent a month discussing this job. We labored over the logistics and the best way to make it work. And you know what cemented the plan?”

I shake my head when he pauses for a response.

“You don’t? Come now, Shaw. You must.”

“Me?” I force out.

His grin widens, which tells me that was the answer he wanted. “Actually, no. We chose you for the job, but weren’t sure how to use you. All these strategic minds”—he waves around the room—“and you know who finally solved the riddle?”

“Daddy, is this really necessary?” Scarlett whines.

McArthur’s eyes brighten with disturbing amusement. “I think this young man would be flattered to know the origins of this masterpiece.”