Page 4 of Shadow (Marinah and the Apocalypse #1)
Marinah
T he temperature inside the vehicle had spiked at least ten degrees in the moments before King leapt out. I’d heard stories about Shadow Warriors and how their body temperature rose when they were angry. My father had mentioned it, but feeling that heat flood the car was a far cry from merely hearing about it.
King’s reaction to learning I was the new Secretary of Defense wasn’t what I had expected. Laughter, maybe. Scorn, definitely. But this? This raw, unfiltered rage? It was something else entirely.
It was hard to shake the feeling that the U.S. government had withheld some critical piece of the puzzle from me. Bottom line, I was expendable. I had known that long before I took the oath of office, but acknowledging it didn’t make this nightmare any less real. My one brave moment had turned into exactly what I feared it would be: a disaster.
The driver slammed his foot on the gas, and the car jerked forward, leaving King behind. Neither of the men in the front seat acknowledged me. It was as though I had vanished, a nonentity in this suffocating heat.
Left with my thoughts, I tried to fill the silence. “How long until we reach our destination?”
Nothing. No glance, no grunt, no indication they had even heard me. I sank back into the upholstery, sweat slicking my suit as the old car bumped along the uneven road. The lack of air conditioning was punishing, and I could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down my back.
My gaze drifted to the two men in the front seat. They were massive, easily as large as King, their broad shoulders barely contained by the confines of the vehicle. The oppressive silence made me want to provoke them just to see if they were human or monsters, regardless of what my father had told me. I resisted the urge to belt out a bad rendition of Monster Mash, though the temptation lingered.
This car, like everything else in Cuba, was a relic of the past. I’d read about what the island had been like before the war, how the government’s isolation had essentially frozen it in the 1950s. Despite its antique exterior, the engine hummed with surprising smoothness, a small marvel in this place where time stood still.
But no engine hum, no relics of the past, could distract me from the sinking realization that I had just ignited a national incident.
First official day on the job, and I had already managed to screw up. Not exactly the start I had been hoping for.
The half-open windows did little to combat the oppressive heat inside the vehicle. Sweat stuck to my skin as I shrugged off my suit jacket, tossing it onto the seat beside me. For good measure, I huffed loudly when I settled back into the seat, though it went ignored by my silent escorts. Still, at least I was off the plane. Small mercies.
We drove for thirty minutes before entering the city. The streets were a chaotic blend of contrasts. Some were lined with crumbled ruins, while others boasted untouched, vibrant buildings. The pockets of bright color caught me off guard. I had expected a wasteland, not this strange juxtaposition of destruction and life.
The driver suddenly veered right, the vehicle lurching as we passed through a gated entrance flanked by two guards. They stood motionless, dressed in the same leather straps and silver buckles as my escorts. If the stock market still existed, I’d have seriously considered investing in those materials.
Snarky observations in my head were my one refuge. They didn’t make me braver, but at least they let me pretend I wasn’t completely spineless. I took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to push away the gnawing self-doubt clinging to me like the heat.
Inside the gates, the world changed entirely. The lush greenery, vibrant flowers, and tropical air felt surreal. It was so far removed from the stark, decimated world I had left behind that I was momentarily stunned by its beauty. The scent of fresh blooms filled the air, intoxicating and unfamiliar after so long.
The vehicle ground to a stop, and before I could gather myself, the driver yanked me out with a rough grip on my upper arm. He was as tall as King, his face leaner and less striking but still carrying the same commanding presence. His meaty hand clamped around my arm, keeping me upright as he dragged me forward toward the large structure looming ahead.
I barely had time to take in the grandeur before the double doors swung open and he released me with a shove that sent me sprawling to my hands and knees. Pain shot through my scraped palms, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation burning in my chest.
The shove was unnecessary. I was well aware of who was in charge here.
“Stand up, or I’ll carry you,” he sneered in a biting voice.
So much for a pleasant welcome. My legs trembled as I pulled myself upright, gritting my teeth against the ache radiating through my body.
“Come,” he ordered, the word delivered with the same curt snarl as King’s commands.
I adjusted my skirt, doing my best to salvage some shred of dignity.
Who was I kidding?
Anyone behind me had just gotten a full view of my rear end, complete with white, military-issue granny panties. The humiliation was overwhelming, but what was a Secretary of Defense to do?
Tears wouldn’t fix this. Screaming at the top of my lungs had some appeal, though. The echo through these cavernous halls might almost have made it worth the effort.
Instead, I gritted my teeth and trailed behind him through the white stone corridors like a scolded child. The path twisted sharply, with corners barely a few yards apart, and I nearly lost sight of him. Picking up my pace, I skipped a few steps to catch up, almost tripping on the last turn. My hand shot out to steady myself against the wall, and I cursed the shoes I had been forced to wear. These things needed to go.
Finally, he stopped in front of a door and held it open. For a split second, I thought he was showing me some courtesy. Then I stepped inside and realized the truth: it was a small, empty room.
The door slammed behind me with a solid, ominous thud. I was alone.
The stifling heat from the car was nothing compared to this. The air in here was thick and oppressive, with no windows or vents to provide relief. I checked the door, jiggling the handle out of sheer stubbornness, but of course, it was locked.
The room was about eight by eight and painted a medium green throughout. I paced the short distance from one wall to the other, and my gaze drifted upward. A skylight provided the only source of light and amplified the sweltering heat. Sweat dripped down my spine, clinging to my already sticky clothes.
They couldn’t possibly mean to keep me in here for long. The heat alone could kill me, and I desperately needed water. My throat felt dry enough to crack, and every step I took seemed to make it worse.
After a few minutes of pacing, I realized moving only raised my body temperature and intensified my thirst. Defeated, I slid down the wall at the far corner, my back pressing against the green paint as my butt hit the floor.
I sat there, staring at the door. Waiting.
Wicked thoughts of killing a Shadow Warrior, or maybe two, ran through my overheated mind. With no watch to track time, I resorted to counting by threes as I tapped my foot against the floor. At two thousand, frustration boiled over, and I threw a shoe at the door. At five thousand, I hurled the other.
Neither action brought satisfaction or results.
Desperation drove me to make imaginary pictures by connecting the slightly cracked paint on the walls. I managed to conjure a large-nosed man and half a camel before giving up. My creativity had officially hit rock bottom. Picking at the dried blood on my knees kept me occupied for another ten minutes.
The only consolation for this hellish heat was that I was too dehydrated to need the bathroom. Even licking my lips had become futile, my tongue dry and rough like sandpaper.
Eventually, dizziness set in, spinning my head and twisting my stomach into uneasy knots. I considered pounding on the door or screaming until my throat gave out, but the effort seemed pointless. Exhaustion crept over me like a heavy blanket, draining what little energy I had left.
Defeated, I slid my upper body onto the Spanish tiles, letting my cheek press against the blessedly cooler floor. The relief was fleeting, but it was enough. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the oppressive heat and the dull ache of thirst.
No one touches her.
The words flitted through my mind, unbidden. King’s order.
Did being manhandled out of the car and tossed into this oven count?