Let Me In. Donna Kauffman

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      She willed the calm to come over her, a chilling calm that did little to soothe her raw nerves, or ease the acid eating her gut, but she knew that was merely a matter of time. They would smooth eventually. She couldn’t stay angry, couldn’t feel betrayed. Emotions of any kind clouded critical thinking. Critical thinking was paramount if she wanted to solve this problem, and live long enough to solve another.

      When he didn’t speak again, she turned her own lips to his ear. “Only for CJ,” she whispered, curling her fingers into two tight fists. For a brief moment, she let the deep-seated anger, the hatred, the bitter fury and resentment flood through her. She’d never once allowed herself to feel anything so powerful as that toward anyone. Not even her captors. Especially her captors.

      It should have rattled her more than it did. It exposed an alarming weakness. Hatred was a toxic poison that always did more damage to the one experiencing it than to the one it was directed at. In her line of work, that damage was often lethal. But, in that one instant, it felt good, so damn good, to channel all the horror, the fear, and the terror, into one black, twisting funnel of venomous fury and aim it directly at him.

      Captivity had taught her the true nature of the precious gift of life. Her life. She, better than anyone, understood just how mighty a gift that was. One that she had a right to enjoy for herself. So, how dare he? How dare he take from her the one and only thing she’d ever asked for, or wanted, strictly for herself?

      She shouldn’t have given in to the temptation, even for that one, blinding moment, knowing it could consume her whole if she let it. But, for the length of that instant, she didn’t regret it.

      She rocked back on her heels and slowly uncurled her fists, feeling each finger as it relaxed and steadied.

      “I’m in this now,” she said, her voice low, toneless, dead, as she cleansed herself of the last of the dark rush. “You’ve left me no choice.” She ran her gaze over him and mentally prepared herself to do a systematic, thorough check of his clothing, then every inch of his body. Just as she would with any person she encountered in his condition during a mission. She needed answers and she needed them fast. He might not be able to speak, but there were other ways to gather information.

      First, however, she found herself leaning over him once more. She turned his face toward hers, then lowered her own until her lips were a breath away from his. “But understand one thing, Derek Cole. This time, you will answer to me.”

      Chapter 2

      Derek fought the haze. He was in a fairly significant amount of pain, but that was secondary. That he could compartmentalize. It was just basic mechanics. What worked, what didn’t, and how long it would take to repair. The haze…that was different. He couldn’t divorce himself from it, he couldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t bend it to his will. Which was why drugs were often so much more effective than physical torture.

      Controlling his thoughts was still a slippery endeavor. Staying focused could last several minutes, or mere seconds, before his mind would wander off down some path that could be fact, could be hallucination, or some devilish combination of the two. In the past twelve hours, he’d gotten better at distinguishing which was which, but he still couldn’t control the slide in and out. He didn’t know what they’d pumped into him, or how long the effects would last.

      Worse, he had no idea what he’d told them. Had his years-long, intense training, which included subliminal subterfuge, even under duress and drug induced confessionals, held up? Or did they know everything he knew? Which was admittedly damn little, but more than anyone else knew at the moment.

      He didn’t even know who the hell “they” were.

      “Derek?”

      Her voice. Tate’s voice. He felt his thoughts begin to slip away from him again and fought like hell to keep them in check, under his control. He’d missed that voice. Always so crisp, so businesslike, so succinct. He’d fantasized about that voice, about making it break, making it tremble. No…no, that was the drug talking. He’d never allowed himself to think of his best agent as anything more than just that. Only she wasn’t his anymore. In any capacity. Never would be. More’s the pity. But what other choice did he have? What other choice would someone like him ever have?

      “Derek! Do you hear me?”

      Yes. And he wanted it to stop. It was torture, that voice. So close, and yet so far. He’d watched her. For days now. So close, and yet farther away than ever. Torture, indeed.

      “Don’t slip out on me,” she commanded. “You need to hold on. Wake up. Tell me what you’ve done.”

      Done. What had he done? Bits of the past two days floated in and out of the pain-fogged haze that was his brain. He’d failed, that’s what he’d done.

      He grimaced, trying to separate the pain from the haze. Focus past the haze, latch on to something, anything, that was real and solid, then build on that. But all he heard was Tate’s voice. All he saw was her cabin. With her safely in it. And him, forever on the outside, looking in. Keep her safe. But how? How to do his job, and keep her safe? He had to. He’d given his word. He never made promises. Yet, he’d made one to her.

      And then darkness. And pain. And…limbo. No boundaries, infuriatingly elastic limbo. If this was purgatory, he’d rather just go to hell.

      “Derek.”

      “Right.” His voice…had that croak been his voice? Had he spoken, or just wished he had?

      “Stay with me,” Tate’s voice implored.

      “Want to,” he managed. Hadn’t that been the fantasy he’d never allowed himself to indulge in? Striding up to her door, announcing he was out, and would she please, for the love of God, take him in? Fantasy. Hallucination. He would never do that. Never ask that. He had a job to do. Always a job. Always…something.

      “You can’t just come in here and die on my cabin floor without telling me what the hell you’ve dragged me into.”

      Cabin floor. Tate’s voice. The drug, he was hallucinating again. He’d come inside. She’d let him in. Sanctuary. Hers. Now his.

      Someone gripped his chin, shook his head a little. It had the effect of tossing his thoughts like mental salad with a side of pain, and it took him another moment to sort through the jumble. “Don’t,” he grunted. It was hard enough, fighting this battle.

      “What did they do? Is it just physical? Mental? Internal? I don’t want to call anyone in, but if you need extreme medical care—”

      “No.” It was an automatic response, one that was as much an intrinsic response due to his training, as it was an actual accurate assessment of his current situation.

      “I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m up against.”

      Derek gritted his teeth, and worked hard to open his eyes, to swallow against the gritty sandpaper that was his throat, to find some way to surface long enough to figure out where he was. Who was prodding him. Separate fact from drug-induced fantasy. He’d already gotten himself in this much trouble, no need to extend the streak any further.

      He thought he’d managed to blink his eyes open briefly, but it was just as dark as before. Blind? No. No, he’d seen her face. Felt her touch. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Which meant…“Tate?”

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