Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 145402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 727(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 727(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
His father was dead. Nathaniel would agree to anything right then. "I won't tell them."
Stuart nodded. "Then we are leaving."
They helped him down the tunnel to the garage. The stairs up were dangerously steep and narrow, and the opening at the top was barely big enough for a man's body. Stuart's people vanished out the open garage door as fast as they could go, but Stuart stayed behind a moment with Nathaniel. Nathaniel stared out at the darkness, looking for the feds who had to be watching all of this from a safe distance. For now the street was calm and empty, but there was no way the neighbors had missed that shootout. In another minute, maybe two, the neighborhood would be crawling with police and the press all over again.
Stuart guided him to his knees and put his hands behind his head. "We will come back for you when we can. I promise."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the night after his team. Nathaniel stayed on his knees and bowed his head to wait. It didn't take long. Feds melted out of the shadows like ghosts, guns out and dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear. Nathaniel was too small to be his father, but the cover of darkness helped the illusion. They didn't realize anything was wrong until they yanked him to his feet with rough hands and strident voices. Nathaniel finally tipped his head up to look at them, and the agent closest to him trailed off mid-sentence.
"You're too late," Nathaniel said, even as someone radioed EMS to rush on-scene. "My father is dead."
"Your father," the agent said stupidly. Six men tore off down the hole so fast they almost fell, and Nathaniel heard their boots echoing off the tunnel wall as they ran to check the house. He didn't realize he'd looked down at the opening until the agent snapped gloved fingers in his face. Nathaniel met his searching look with a cool stare, and the man repeated, "Your father?"
"My name is Nathaniel Wesninski," he said, "and my father is dead."
It wasn't at all funny, but a second later he was laughing. It sounded hysterical but he couldn't stop. Hands caught his shoulders and pushed his head down. A gruff voice ordered him to breathe but Nathaniel couldn't. He grabbed at his knees for balance. Pain lanced up his arms from his abused hands but he couldn't let go. The adrenaline of an unexpected firefight and the relief of being alive were breaking him apart, and Nathaniel finally lost the battle with his unsteady stomach. Someone held onto him while he retched onto the concrete floor. Nathaniel spat in a vain attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. "I'd rather not cuff you in the state you're in, but I will if I have to. Are you going to be a problem for us?"
Nathaniel struggled to look up and focus on the man's face. "I've been a problem for nineteen years. I'm too tired to be one tonight. Just get me out of here."
An ambulance pulled up to the curb. It'd gotten here fast enough Nathaniel guessed it'd been waiting down the street out of sight. Despite his reassurance, he had a three-agent escort down to the paramedics. They had the stretcher out and on the street by the time he made it there, and Nathaniel lay down on it without a fuss. They strapped him in for the ride and lifted him into the back. An agent rode with them; Nathaniel assumed more would follow. He didn't care anymore. He closed his eyes and let the paramedic get to work.
-
When Nathaniel opened his eyes again, he was on his back in a hospital bed and soft sunlight was filtering through the curtained window. Ropes of plastic tubing streaked out from underneath his blanket and the drugs made his head feel like cotton. He was awake, but pleasantly detached from the pain.
He had two guests he didn't recognize, but he knew in a glance they were feds. They had that air of smug authority men often carried when they thought themselves more powerful than they were. One sat on a stool to his left. The other had claimed the better of two chairs near the foot of the bed and was going through paperwork. The door was closed to give them privacy but Nathaniel assumed someone was standing guard outside.
A handcuff locked one of Nathaniel's bandaged wrists to the bed frame. Nathaniel rattled it and said, "Really?"
"We're not taking any chances," the closer man said. "As soon as the doctors clear you we're moving you to our field office. But don't think you have to wait for an official setting to talk to us. We're ready to hear everything you have to say. Special Agent Browning," the agent said belatedly, and gestured to his partner. "This is Special Agent Towns. We're going to be your handlers."
"My handlers," Nathaniel repeated. "I am not your property."
"But you are in our custody."
"Are you arresting me?"
"Right now we're acting in good faith and assuming we will have your full cooperation. If we need to take a more aggressive approach, we will do so. We've got a string of offenses we could charge you with, starting with the fake IDs in your wallet and escalating to your mother's current whereabouts. Just let us know if we've got to play hardball."
Nathaniel made a rude noise. "You couldn't at least use an Exy idiom? I hate baseball."
"Right now what you do or do not hate is of little concern to us," Towns said. "We only care about the truth."
"I'll trade you truth for truth," Nathaniel said. "My teammates were caught in a riot last night. The Palmetto State Foxes," he elaborated, though he was sure the agents had pieced at least that much together since picking him up at his father's house. "Were they hurt?"
"Eighty-six people ended up in the hospital, including three of your teammates," Browning said. "They were treated and summarily released. Minor injuries. They were lucky. A couple people ended up in the ICU."