Broken Angel: The Lost Years of Gabriel Martiniere: The People of the Martiniere Legacy

PROLOGUE

MARCH, 2002

Angelica Ramirez Martiniere smiled wearily at the dark-haired newborn boy in her arms. She hadn’t known how she would feel about this child, considering who his biological father was, not even wanting to think about his name. But now that he was here after a long, hard labor, things were different. He looked up at her, trusting, and while he was definitely a Martiniere—there was something regal about this boy. A presence that, thankfully, didn’t remind her of Philip. But not Saul, either. This child was very much himself.

He’s going to be a handful, she thought, and swiftly freed one hand to cross herself.

Her husband Saul, the Martiniere—the title belonging to the head of the Martiniere family and the family-held conglomerate, the Martiniere Group—hovered next to them, beaming. He didn’t seem to notice Angelica’s signing of the cross, focusing instead on the child, crooning wordlessly at him.

He’s a beautiful little boy, Angel, Saul said, stroking the baby’s cheek. "Even if he isn’t biologically mine…he’s still mine. I’ll make him my boy, not my brother’s. He smirked. I think he’s going to be darker-skinned, like you. He is such a beautiful boy—and won’t that just frost Philip’s ass?"

I look forward to watching your bigot of a brother see our little angel grow up. She paused, her throat tightening. Are you going to make any claim on Renate’s boy? It had taken several tries with artificial insemination before her sister-in-law had conceived. Angelica felt sorry for Renate, tied to that arrogant ass Philip.

Saul looked up at her and pursed his lips, frowning, his pride momentarily fading. The disputes between Saul and his younger twin Philip over the leadership of the Martinieres had escalated to the degree that their mother Donna had forced them into a devil’s deal of a compromise. Philip and Saul would each sire a son via in-vitro fertilization, using eggs from the other’s wives. Saul would raise Philip’s son and Philip would raise Saul’s son. The two boys would be raised as potential Martinieres-in-waiting, given management of family divisions to prove themselves worthy of the title of the Martiniere. The boys were, essentially, hostages guaranteeing their fathers’ good behavior.

I don’t think so, he said finally. The smile returned as he refocused on the child, pride returning, as if he were looking at his own biological son instead of his brother’s. "I’ll put my energy into raising our son to be great. I won’t be able to overcome Philip’s influence all that easily with Renate’s son, but— he shrugged. We’ll see what matters most. Heredity or environment."

Philip will probably take credit if our little one does well, Angelica sighed and shook her head. How can you two be so close in genetics and yet so different?

I have no idea, my love. Saul held out his arms. May I hold our son?

Angelica eased the baby into his arms. What shall we call our little angel?

Saul studied the boy. Well, he’s the son of an angel—

Saul! Angelica laughed.

You danced like an angel when you were still performing, my darling. Let’s give him an angel’s name. He’ll need all the help he can get to overcome Philip.

Angelica cocked her head sideways as she thought.

Gabriel, she said finally. Gabriel, after my grandfather—and your middle name Marcus, not just for you but your mother’s father. Gabriel Marcus Martiniere.

Gabriel Marcus Martiniere, Saul repeated. Welcome to the world, little Gabriel. And may you prevail over your biological father. He kissed Gabriel’s forehead. "My boy. My beautiful, beautiful boy. My son."

Angelica watched her husband and her son. Saul smiled at the bundle in his arms, enraptured by Gabriel’s steady stare. A foreboding she couldn’t explain swept over Angelica, and she crossed herself once more.

Please, Mary Mother of God, keep my son safe. Watch over him and protect him. You and all the angels, because he needs all the help he can get.

1 TESTIMONY

JULY 2028

His tie felt tight enough to choke him, even though he’d been careful to give himself plenty of breathing and swallowing space when he’d tied it that morning with trembling hands. Gabriel Martiniere ran a finger underneath his collar to check. Lots of room, enough to accommodate the bulletproof vest underneath, which should be the case with his bespoke suits and shirts.

Nothing more than nerves, then. For good reason. Gabe glanced around the small room that felt claustrophobic in spite of the pale gray walls, light pine furniture, and diffused natural light. It was too damn bright. Sterile. Like he’d died and was going into the light.

You doing all right? asked Anne Wright, the assistant US attorney babysitting Gabe, along with a full complement of US marshals.

Nerves. Gabe was unable to say more than that through the tension in his throat.

You’ll be all right, Anne said, patting his hand. We’ll keep you safe.

Gabe didn’t respond. He wasn’t as concerned about physical attack as he was about the preprogrammed Martiniere mind control responses to verbal cues that could cause him harm. Neither Anne nor any of the other Feds seemed to fully understand the implications of the Martiniere programming. They kept brushing off that level of mind control as science fictional.

The Martiniere program wasn’t fictional, as Gabe knew too damn well. Just two words, and he’d be paralyzed long enough for something bad to happen. Even with a bulletproof vest and Plexiglas shielding around the witness stand.

Broken Angel. His uncle Philip had delighted in using psychotropic meds to program those control words into Gabe at the age of twelve, after the deaths of his parents and sister in a suspicious plane crash.

Broken Angel. Those words locked Gabe down so that he couldn’t retaliate during Philip’s beatings, after he’d taken custody of Gabe.

Broken Angel had paralyzed Gabe so that Philip could tie him down before flogging him, and Gabe couldn’t fight back.

His cousin Serg Vygotsky had tried to help Gabe develop resistance to Philip’s programming over the past year, once they had committed to Gabe going public about the Martiniere Group’s illegal abuses of indentured workers. Counterprogramming that Serg had access to through his family’s security organization, Vygotsky Security. And while the counterprogramming reduced his susceptibility to those words, Gabe still reacted. It delayed the lockdown but didn’t eliminate it.

But neither Serg nor Gabe’s other cousin and ally, Justine, Philip’s daughter, were here. And once he was done with this testimony, the marshals would whisk Gabe off into a witness protection program.

However, Philip would be in the courtroom, sitting at the defense table. All it would take for Philip to stop Gabe’s testimony were those two words.

Broken Angel.

His uncle had authorized illegal mind control and manipulation of Martiniere Group indentured workers. Until Gabe had assembled the evidence and turned it over to the Feds, no one could prove what had been only rumor. He had been assigned to implant that mind control programming into indentured Martiniere workers, without their consent. It had taken two years to get the records Gabe needed to document Philip’s authorization of the indentured mind control programs, with Serg and Justine’s help. A little longer to create a worm that trashed the mind control programs, set to activate when Gabe left the labs.

His cousins had been willing to stand with Gabe—but they had too much to lose by testifying.

Gabe didn’t have anything or anyone to lose, unlike his cousins.

Except them.

This testimony came with a price. He’d have to walk away from being a Martiniere.

Worth it, if he could stop what Philip was doing.

Gabe inhaled shakily. The waiting was the hardest part. He’d refused lunch because he wasn’t hungry. Still wasn’t, and it was now almost three o’clock. Something was slowing things down in the courtroom.

Water? Anne poured him a glass, and sipped from it to show Gabe it was safe. His minders had finally learned that Gabe was cautious about contaminants in food and water, after weeks of him telling them that the Martiniere arsenal contained easily administered psychotropic and neurotoxic substances.

My ancestors include the Medicis and the Borgias, he thought. And his uncle embraced that ancestry in more ways than one. There were some old Family traditions connected to that history.

Thank you. Gabe carefully took a small swallow on the opposite side of the glass. Not too much. Just enough to ease his throat. Just in case. He and Serg couldn’t code for the words in Philip’s voice, and if the conditions were right—he didn’t want to embarrass himself.

One of the marshals entered the room and spoke softly to Anne. She nodded.

Showtime, she said. The judge has ruled that, based on the information you’ve provided, Philip will be attending your testimony virtually.

A relief. But still difficult. And Joseph?

He is also attending virtually. Both will have audio cutoffs.

Thank you. Gabe stood up, clenching and unclenching his hands to help him relax. Those precautions still didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be someone in the courtroom capable of saying those words in the correct tone.

But keeping Joey and Philip away from the courtroom was a start. And perhaps he wasn’t risking embarrassing himself if those words got used.

The marshals crowded around Gabe as they left the small room. It opened onto a brightly white, restricted-access corridor that once again made Gabe think about death and going into the light, as they walked toward the courtroom. Doors to other small rooms lined the hallway. He supposed that both Joey and Philip were behind one—perhaps two—of those doors.

The marshals remained clustered around Gabe as they entered the courtroom that was brighter than the corridor—if possible. He was here.

So why did it feel like he was the one on the judgment seat and not his uncle?

The marshals didn’t step away until he was safely behind the Plexiglas. Gabe took a deep breath before swearing in, his heart pounding in his ears. Direct examination would be easy enough, even with the objections from the Family attorneys. He’d practiced enough times with Wright and the lead prosecutor, Terrance Johnson.

Cross-examination worried him. Rolland McKenzie, the Martiniere Group’s lead attorney, knew Gabe well—Rollie had been the administrator for his inheritance, before Gabe turned twenty-four. Rollie McKenzie was aware of too damn much, including those two fatal words. Had spent a lot of time drinking with Gabe.

Rollie might be the one to use the words to stop his testimony, even though it could threaten his legal license. If Philip threw enough money at him, then Rollie might just do it. Barring Rollie from the courtroom wouldn’t change things. Philip could train any of his attorneys to use those words.

Gabe just had to hope that Serg’s countermeasures would be sufficient protection.

The first few questions from Johnson went smoothly, with minor points of clarification from Rollie McKenzie. Gabe relaxed and kept his focus on Johnson, not on Rollie, not on the cameras, not on the screens where Philip and Joey glared at him. Maybe this testimony wouldn’t be as traumatic as he feared.

And then it happened.

Objection! Rollie bellowed before Johnson could finish a question about an instruction to Gabe directly from Philip. The witness’s credibility is a broken an—

Objection! Johnson cut off the rest of the word.

But Rollie knew the right inflection of tones, and he’d said just enough. Gabe’s throat tightened and he swallowed hard, unable to move. His breath came quick and fast, and try though he could, he couldn’t break free from the lock. His vision distorted into pulsating shapes and colors, the bright light of the courtroom lancing hard into his head. Voices echoed around him. He swayed in the chair and grabbed at the sides of the witness box to keep from wobbling.

They got another psychotropic to me! This was worse than previous incidents he’d experienced. Whatever that substance was, it managed to renew his programming to circumvent what Serg had done, triggered by that partial code phrase. But how? Food? Water? All that had been monitored and checked.

Clothing—ah. Clothing. Possibly his underwear. Clothing, damn it.

Mr. Martiniere. Mr. Martiniere. The judge’s voice seemed to come from far away. Are you all right?

Gabe struggled to move, to speak without slurring and sounding drunk. Finally, he managed a faint rasp, despite the flashing colors and blaring voices around him.

No. I’m not.

At least this demonstrated what he had been warning them about. Hopefully.

But speaking triggered more reactions. Spasms wracked Gabe’s body and he fell out of the chair. He dry-heaved, grateful that he hadn’t been eating or drinking much over the past few days. Even then, his sphincters released and he couldn’t keep from wetting himself. Then soiling himself. He rolled toward the jury box, carpet rough against his cheek, gasping. At least this might be enough of a vivid illustration to convince the jurors of what mind control could look like when used to shut someone down. But oh God, it hurt.

His head pounded. He gagged. Agony throbbed through him. Would it ever stop?

More chaos, lots of noise, and then marshals took his arms. Helped Gabe to his feet. Guided him, staggering, swaying, and stinking, out of the courtroom, down more corridors, until they were in the basement and eased Gabe into the van they had used to bring him to the courthouse.

His body quivered with involuntary spasms. Oh God, this was a bad lock. Gabe had heard whispers in the labs about a new psychotropic drug before he went to the Feds—one that reduced resistance to code words. It included a feedback mechanism that augmented the effect of the code words once triggered, and caused hallucinations. But as of three months ago its existence had only been conjecture.

No, what was happening to him sure as hell wasn’t a lab geek speculation. This was real.

Shit.

They finally reached the secure compound where he was being held.

Underwear, he croaked, at last able to speak. Psychotropic. Administered that way. Scan. Need safe clothing.

It wasn’t until Gabe had stripped everything off and showered that he felt close to normal. His head pounded and he hurt all over, but noises didn’t blare at him and lights didn’t strobe anymore. One of the marshals provided him with a t-shirt and sweats—they’ve been scanned, Mr. Martiniere. We’re scanning all your clothing right now. You were right about the underwear.

Gabe reeled and couldn’t walk in a straight line as he went into the living area, his legs barely able to keep him upright. Multiple people waited for him.

Going to bed, he mumbled, waving them off. My head hurts. And he was embarrassed as hell by what had happened. Best to sleep it off right now. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

He took as much acetaminophen as he dared to counter the aches. It felt like his worst hangover times three. Once the acetaminophen kicked in, Gabe dropped into a restless sleep. He roused when someone tried to climb in bed with him.

Go ‘way! he snapped.

Anne Wright stroked his chest under his t-shirt, her hand slowly slipping lower. I can make you feel better, Gabriel, she crooned, fingers tracing the skin just under the top of his sweat pants.

No. Ice clutched at his gut. She had been flirtatious during their interviews and he’d played along. Mistake. "I’m not interested. Go away. I hurt."

"I’m disappointed in you—angel."

Fuck. He was in a world of hurt right now. She even knew the correct tone. Thank God she was stupid enough to say the second word and not the priming word. Gabe shot up and grabbed her face firmly with both hands to keep her from saying the full code.

"You do not use that word around me, he said harshly. Lilith." The counterword that Serg had devised for him. And now he knew how he had been betrayed. He just didn’t know how Philip had gotten to Wright.

Wright froze, her face paling.

So they programmed her as well. That’s a relief. But not unexpected. Philip wouldn’t give someone like Wright this knowledge without holding some sort of power over her.

At least she was sufficiently ill-prepared to think the partial code was adequate, and didn’t understand the relationship between the two words. If he’d still been under the psychotropic’s influence, saying part of the phrase might have worked. Now the partial just served to fuel his growing rage.

"Doesn’t feel so good on the other side now, does it, Lilith? Gabe whispered, his voice sharp, malign, and full of every damn compulsion he’d learned from his grandmother Donna, the Matriarch of the Martinieres, creator of the mind control foundations. Part of him reveled as Wright flinched from that code. She’d feel it for a few days. Marshals! he bellowed. I’ve got trouble here!"

A gamble, because they might be just as twisted as Wright. God, he hoped not, because he was as good as dead otherwise.

Fortunately, they weren’t. But from the glare Wright gave him as three marshals hustled her out the door, Gabe knew he’d made a potent enemy.

Gabe made it through the next two days of testimony without further incident. Gerry Rothman replaced Anne as his babysitter. Gabe went straight from the courtroom to the plastic surgeon, and then to another secure site to recover. After that, it was back to work with weapons and fighting practice.

Part of being a Martiniere, even though he was now Daniel Garcia, independent investment analyst.

The witness protection program located him in a nondescript, furnished house on the edges of Tucson, Arizona. Most of his clients were online only, which kept life simpler. Gabe joined a gun club to keep in weapons practice, but shunned the social gatherings affiliated with the club, and stayed clear of their political activity. After several trials of martial arts studios, he settled on a gym instead to work out and keep in shape, with home practice of the forms he’d learned with Serg. Not perfect, but at least he didn’t have to deal with sketchy people.

Despite his caution, Gabe couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. Tucson had a lot of indentured workers, and the red and black Martiniere trefoil logo was a common ID tattoo, both permanent on the back of people’s necks, and temporary, on their hands. Perhaps that was what bothered him.

The gym and the gun club were Gabe’s refuges. Even there, he felt as if his every move was under observation.

He went to ordering what little food he ate online and having it delivered, to avoid being watched in the supermarket. Testing the food for what possible adulterants could have been slipped into it before eating it. Sneaking around to find a black-market pistol that was allegedly untraceable, and rigging up his own concealed carry holster. Driving far into the desert for pre-dawn jogs, carrying his weapon, and even then spooking worse than a green horse just under saddle at the slightest reflection or movements. Fighting back an instinct to swing his pistol toward someone else on the range when he was at the club, if he felt their eyes on him. Leaving the gym if the only exercise machines open were in the center instead of next to the wall. Or if someone came along and used free weights next to him.

And he’d catch them watching. Was it really this bad, or was he imagining it? But eyes were on him at the gym—someone abruptly looking away when they realized he saw them in the mirrors. Quick turns away when they were at the club. Vehicles that matched his routes through traffic, pulling away when he turned onto secondary roads, but later drifting past his house. Never stopping, but driving by slowly, several times.

Maybe he shouldn’t have relied on Federal witness protection. It might have been safer to risk Vygotsky Security and possible leaks to Philip. He could trust Serg, at least.

To distract himself, Gabe focused harder on going through the motions of life as Daniel Garcia. Daniel didn’t date, didn’t socialize, didn’t do anything to attract attention. Daniel noted the slap-on-the-hand financial penalties doled out to the Martiniere Group in his newsletter when US vs Martiniere Group settled out of court. Daniel advised his clients to be careful about investing in companies that relied heavily on indentured workers supplied by the Group.

Striking back at Martiniere Group clients through investment recommendations was the only means Gabe had to affect the Group, since it had always been a family-owned conglomerate and not open to public investors. It was the beginning of some sort of strategy. And, surprisingly, it earned Daniel some media attention for being a maverick.

That recommendation lost him a handful of investment clients. Indentured agricultural labor supply companies were damn popular amongst investors these days.

Thanks to Philip’s promotion of indenture.

Still, he gained some clients to replace the ones he lost, thanks to that media attention. Gabe deferred follow-up requests for coverage when he started feeling more eyes on him. After a couple of weeks, it seemed to fade away, Daniel Garcia appearing to be a flash-in-the-pan nobody. Letting it drop went against all of Gabe’s competitive instincts, and yet—the rise in attention had attracted observers. He didn’t dare encourage it any further—which pinpointed the problems with that strategy for attacking Philip. Too much risk, not enough gain.

Gabe needed to figure out another means of striking back besides this. But his life was on hold—and Gabe wasn’t sure how to fix it. He didn’t dare get back into agricultural robotics research, even for investment purposes, because the Group and its subsidiaries were so deeply involved. One of his clients wanted to know more about investing in agricultural microbial application startups, and it was a welcome excuse to return to a familiar subject, even if it was just his minor at the University of Paris.

All the same, he was just marking time. Spinning his wheels. Not getting anywhere with stopping Philip, after that brief little flurry of media attention.

Most of all, Gabe was lonely. Growing up as a Martiniere had meant being part of a bustling, large family with very little time to himself. Even when he’d been at Northview Military Academy during his teens, there’d been other students to hang out with.

Not so in this solitary life. Loneliness was a dangerous vulnerability—and he knew it.

But he just didn’t know who he could trust.

Gabe forgot that it was social night at the gun club when he went to shoot on the Friday before Thanksgiving. If it hadn’t been such a frustrating day, with poorly behaving internet, he would have left the moment he saw the number of cars parked in the lot. He was able to ignore the social activity and fire a few rounds at the mostly-empty indoor range. As he left, he heard a familiar voice that sent chills up his back.

Gerry! Anne Wright called. Range’s open now.

Be right there, Gerry Rothman answered.

Gabe hurried out, but not before he spotted Anne. Her eyes met his. A predatory smile spread across her face.

Hurry up, Gerry! She moved toward Gabe.

Fuck. She knows my codes.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, then strode to his car without breaking into a run, planning to call Serg as soon as he got back to the house. Screw this damn witness protection hellhole. He should have gone with the Vygotskys to begin with.

Before he opened his car door, someone grabbed him. Gabe fought that person off, until several others joined in. He glimpsed a Martiniere red and black trefoil indenture ID tattoo on the hand of one of his attackers.

"Broken Angel," Anne hissed, the tone slightly off but still accurate enough to lock him down. Damn it, she’s learned. A needle stabbed Gabe’s arm as someone yelled a warning.

And then everything went dark. But he thought he heard Serg’s voice bellowing commands.

Gabe lay still when he regained consciousness, keeping his eyes closed. No restraints on his wrists or ankles, which was a surprise. What had happened? Where was he? On a bed. Another surprise. Wearing what felt like sweats, not the jeans and polo with light jacket that he’d worn to the gun club. Bare feet, not even socks. Someone had taken the time to undress him, put him in lighter clothing. Most unusual of all.

He ached, but not as badly as he’d expect given those last memories. The sound of breathing not his own—someone was in the room with him.

Who?

Lingering, faint cat-piss stink of meth cooking. What the hell? He couldn’t think of any of the Martiniere labs he’d worked in that smelled like this, much less having a bed in them. So possibly he wasn’t secreted away in one of his damn uncle’s labs. Even if this wasn’t the best bed in the world, saggy and lumpy, Philip wouldn’t give him this much comfort. Or have his clothes changed.

Faint sound of traffic, occasional voices from outside, clang of footsteps against metal rungs. No soundproofing, so again, not likely to be in a lab. Distant blare of a Spanish broadcast of some sort, too far away for him to easily follow the words, especially with his head pounding.

He couldn’t gather much else about his surroundings without opening his eyes. Gabe blinked fuzzily, doing his best to feign confusion. Though it was hard to focus, objects around him unclear. He glanced toward where he’d heard the person breathing. Even blurred, Gabe caught his breath as he realized who sat there.

About time you woke up, Piotr Vygotsky, Serg’s father, growled.

Gabe inhaled deeply. What did it mean that Piotr was here and not Serg? And what had happened to his attackers?

He glanced around, worried. They were in a cheap motel room, at least from the layout of mirror, dresser, television, two double beds, window, and bathroom. Door opening to outside, not a hallway entrance. Round table canting at an angle by the window, under an ancient hanging light that put out a yellowish glow, a little bit of daylight spilling through orange curtains that didn’t quite close.

Whose side is Piotr on? Gabe wondered. Serg had been feuding with his father, and then there was the Martiniere indenture tat that Gabe had spotted on one of his attackers.

But this wasn’t a place that Philip or his supporters would frequent.

It was the sort of location that Piotr favored when doing an extraction. Gabe had participated in enough practices along with Serg during the security training that all Martiniere heirs were required to undergo.

Is this an interrogation or an extraction? Piotr preferred chemicals for interrogations, not beatings. This could easily be an interrogation. And where were they? Tucson? Somewhere else?

Gabriel. Damn it. Say something. Piotr sounded worried. He wouldn’t sound worried if this were an interrogation, would he?

Gabe tried to speak but his thick, numb tongue didn’t want to cooperate. In. Terro. Gation? Or? He started to cough, gasping for breath.

Piotr darted over and raised Gabe to a sitting position, pounding his back until Gabe stopped coughing.

They hit you with a worse sedative than I thought, damn it. Here. Slide back. Piotr helped Gabe scoot against the headboard built into the wall. He stuffed pillows around Gabe to keep him upright and went over to the big dresser under the wall-mounted television. Gabe now noticed the duffles and bottles on the dresser. Piotr poured something sparkling into a glass he pulled from one duffle and brought it to Gabe. Drink this.

Gabe eyed the drink. Bright red. Bubbling. Safe?

Poisoning is not Piotr’s usual methodology, he reminded himself. That bubbling red drink was the carrier for a number of Piotr’s potions. And if Piotr were interrogating him, then Gabe was screwed anyway because Piotr would be interrogating him for Philip. In that case, there would be something to make him talk in the drink.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Gabe reached for the glass with a trembling hand. Piotr helped steady the glass as Gabe drank, then set it on the built-in nightstand next to the bed.

Tingles prickled his tongue and throat, but at least Gabe could move his tongue.

Not damned. A relief.

Piotr surveyed him again. Better?

Gabe nodded, not wanting to speak yet. He felt stretched thin, wobbly and weak. Worse than when the psychotropic had been triggered during his testimony.

Now. As for your question. You tell me. Interrogation or extraction? Explain your reasoning. Piotr leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, a gesture reminiscent of so many training sessions that Gabe blinked back wetness in his eyes.

No. He mustn’t show weakness. This could be an interrogation, after all.

Could be either, Gabe said, slowly because part of his tongue was still numb. Location—cheap motel. Could be interrogation. You. Using chemicals. Me. Body condition. Suggests interrogation.

Piotr nodded. Go on.

Saw. Feds. Before attack. Anne Wright. Gerry Rothman. Recognized me. Saw. Martiniere tat. On attacker. Gabe swallowed hard. Wright. Froze me. Code phrase. Before shot. Possibility. Cooperation between. Martiniere Group and Feds.

That is one way to look at it, Piotr said. And case for extraction?

Gabe gestured toward his glass. Piotr filled it. This time Gabe was able to hold the glass on his own, his hands steadier. After he finished drinking more of that non-alcoholic bubbly red stuff, his tongue seemed to have shrunk back to its normal size and the numbness was fading. But it was still hard to talk for more than a few words at a time.

More likely. Extraction. Warning yell. Before shot. One of my attackers. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to remember. Think. Was person. With indenture tat. Yelling. Gabe opened his eyes again. No restraints. Worry in. Your voice. And Feds. Would be here. If interrogation. The pieces fit together. This explanation made more sense. Extraction, not interrogation. And Piotr had intervened just in time, because Gabe didn’t think that Wright and Rothman had anything good in mind for him.

Piotr nodded curtly. And your conclusion?

His voice was firmer, more confident as the numbness wore off. Extraction. But why? Betrayed?

Another nod from Piotr as he picked up his phone and punched a button. All clear, Sergei, he said in Russian. Come on in. He sighed, continuing in English. I know that look in your eyes, Gabriel. You had to convince yourself more than anything I could say to you. I was also not certain what your cognitive condition would be when you woke. I needed to do my own assessment, and this was the most effective means to fulfill both of my goals.

Bright light flooded the room as Serg entered, carrying a bag that smelled like barbecued ribs. Gabe winced away from the glare, throwing one arm up to cover his eyes. His stomach growled.

He is still reactive! Piotr snapped at Serg in Russian. Use your head!

"What did they use on