Twenty
Ten minutes later, five guards marched us down a brightly lit hallway that smelled faintly of cigarettes. The leader stopped outside a room labeled DETAINMENT and unlocked it with a key card he produced from his pocket.
“Inside,” he said gruffly, shoving open the door. The guard holding my elbow steered me none too gently inside, and Mom followed.
The room was a small square of hopelessness.
A flash of red. And then:
Dimensions: 10 ft. by 9 ft.
I swallowed a horrified giggle. Perfect. And now I knew the exact measurements of hopelessness.
The flimsy folding metal table sitting in the middle bore the jagged scars of a knife or key or other sharp instrument across the top and was accompanied by four plastic chairs better suited for a patio, two on either side. A video camera angled down from the ceiling in the back left corner, its blinking red light confirming its functionality. No desk, no decorations, nothing that carried enough heft to be used as a weapon.
“Sit,” the leader barked.
Our guards escorted us around opposite ends of the table and slid the two chairs back, the scraping sound making my guard wince. I sank into my chair, watched Mom do the same in hers.
They didn’t even uncuff us to take our fingerprints. A guard just came up behind us and ran our fingers over some handheld scanner.
Absently I pushed against the cold metal that caged my wrists, feeling the chain tauten between them.
Tensile strength: 495 lbs.
Instead of reassuring me, the information only intensified the uneasiness gnawing at my stomach. Any escape attempts would put Mom in danger. I couldn’t chance it.
One guard left, while two guards remained in the room, with four more outside. The longer we went unquestioned, the harder the pounding in my ears. Not even bothering to talk to us had to be a very, very bad sign.
With the two guards there, we risked only minimal, bland conversation over the next few hours. Waiting. And waiting. Finally the door opened. One look at the dark-suited man who cautiously rounded the corner, his gaze sweeping over our positions and the room methodically, told me we were in trouble. This guy acted like a professional, much more so than the airport security. But who was he?
Target: Located.
I clenched my hands behind my chair. Stop it. Stop, stop, stop.
Mom’s entire body stiffened as the man pulled a CIA badge out of his suit pocket. Then her head fell forward. I turned to comfort her at the same time as the man said, “Hello, Nicole. We’ve missed you.”
We’ve missed you.
My head jerked back to the man, while my balled hands started to tremble. Mom . . . Mom knew this man. Which could only mean one thing.
The government had found us.
The man’s brown eyes swept from Mom to me, and our already slim odds of escape shrank to almost nothing.
“Nicole Laurent, you are wanted on the grounds of espionage and theft of military property. You and the MILA are to board a plane back to U.S. soil, effective immediately.”
Mom slowly lifted her head. Her lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared straight ahead.
He smoothed his fingers down his navy tie. “Did you really think you’d get away with it? You’re a scientist, Nicole, not an agent. Too much lab time, I guess.” His gaze shifted back to me, and he shook his head. “If you were having difficulties with the project, you should have asked to be reassigned.”
Mom’s laugh rang hollow. “Right, Frank. Like General Holland would have allowed it. Besides, it wouldn’t have fixed anything. What we’re doing—what you’re doing—is wrong. Look at her. Look. Tell me what you see? A machine, or a scared teenage girl?”
The discomfort caused by Frank’s thorough inspection made me squirm. I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, but the handcuffs prevented me.
“It doesn’t matter what I see, you know that. It’s not my decision either way. Just like it’s not yours.”
“You realize how illegal this is, Frank? We’re not on U.S. soil,” Mom said.
He shook his head and retreated to the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back to Mom. “I’m sorry it had to go down this way, Nicole.”
When the door shut, the lock clicking behind it, Mom glanced at me. “Remember what I said,” she whispered. “When we get to the compound, no emotions.”
I looked away, at the plain white wall to my left. Otherwise, the tears welling in my eyes would have revealed the truth: we weren’t at the compound yet, and here I was. Already failing.
