Page 50 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

He grabs me and slams me against the wall so hard my vision sparks.

“You ask questions you should not,”

he says, his voice quiet, accented, each word deliberate.

“So let me give you one answer.”

His hand clamps around my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes—cold, pitiless.

“I am El-Maati,”

he murmurs.

“And you… are out of time.”

His hand closes around my throat, and he squeezes.

“Access the file.”

Stars explode behind my eyes as his grip crushes my windpipe, cutting off every breath. I let out a strangled whimper, and he loosens his hold—just enough for me to speak.

“She played you,”

I rasp.

“And you fell for it. There is no memory card.”

His face turns crimson before he grabs me around the throat again and smashes my head into the wall. My legs sag, my limbs useless as tears fill my eyes, blurring the rage on his face.

This is it. This is the end. He’s going to kill me. Slowly, probably.

I’m going to eternal punishment, and I’m not ready to face God.

Voices blur in my head—Adena, Brooke, Mick—all tangled and jarring. My chest tightens, breath caught somewhere I can’t reach. I squeeze my eyes shut.

And I pray.

God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Mick’s right, I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I did it anyway. I’m not worthy, I never was.

A whisper of a thought cuts into the pain tearing through my body. But it’s not the ugly voice I’ve known all my life telling me I’m worthless and deserve to die.

It’s calm, peaceful, and fills me with hope.

You are worthy, little one.

Lightning flashes outside, and thunder follows so loud that the window pane rattles. In the midst of the pain, I close my eyes and silently pray to a God I thought had long abandoned me.

God, I’m not one of yours, but I’d like to be if you’d give me another chance.

I open my eyes, anticipating seeing the grimy kitchen, but everything is still encased in darkness. The only light is coming from the laptop.

Shouts echo from deeper inside the house. Everything happens at once. El-Maati shouts back in Arabic and loosens his grip.

I drop my shoulder and slam into him, shoving with everything I’ve got. He stumbles but grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me off balance. Pain explodes at my scalp as I twist, throwing my weight against him. We hit the floor hard.

He curses, scrabbling for control, but I’m already crawling, slipping through blood—Mona’s blood—slick and warm beneath my palms. The back door’s ahead. I lunge for it.

My fingers fumble at the handle, too slippery to grip. I wipe them on my shirt and try again—twist, shove. The door groans open under my weight, and I spill out into the night.

Rain slams into me, cold and punishing. I stagger down the steps, vision swimming, lungs heaving for air.

The street’s just ahead—freedom and backup within reach.

But I don’t make it.

A hand clamps down on my arm, yanking me back with brutal force.

I scream and thrash, but it’s too late. The stench of garlic and sweat hits me like a wall, and Hamza’s voice rasps hot in my ear.

“I will make you talk. And I will enjoy it.”