Intentions only get you so far.
And all the good intentions Michael had harbored when picking up this case couldn't erase the image of his client's wife being thrown, half conscious, into the filthy, viscous water of a south Florida swamp – victim of a mix up and a mistaken identity and too many documents with only a last name on them for identification. Now victim of forty-eight hours of torture for information she didn't know.
Michael hoped he wasn't too late, but as he waded into the water – trying to keep himself concealed, close to the compound wall, where the guards couldn't spot him – as he saw Bree's body floating face down, blood staining the water, his hope started to evaporate.
She was still warm in his arms, though she was completely limp. That was a good sign. As he dragged her into the back of Sam's Buick he checked for a pulse – still there. Another good sign. But she wasn't breathing.
It took less than a minute of CPR before she started coughing up water, gasping for air, and slowly her breathing returned to normal. For a few minutes her eyes came open and she registered her surroundings. But her expression was so clouded with pain Michael didn't ask questions, he just waited until she fell back asleep and started checking her injuries.
There were rows of burns down one arm – only six, only second degree – but still enough to need urgent treatment. Her ribs and stomach were dappled with bruises – holding true to form for the general progression of most interrogations.
Rough up your target, if that doesn't work try something methodical.
There were a few other injuries. But nothing that would have killed her if it weren't for the swamp water now flooding all her wounds. She would need a lot of antibiotics.
But that wasn't Michael's primary concern – his primary concern was that when she'd come awake those few times – behind the pain he'd seen a terror – not a terror because she thought she was still with her captors – fear of him – of Sam. Something wasn't right. And he needed to figure out what. He checked her arms again, and he saw, through the blood and burns and mud, needle tracks. Then he saw that the zipper on her dress had been torn open.
They'd drugged her and abused her.
It'd likely be a while before she trusted anyone with Y chromosome.
Except maybe Jack.
Except maybe their client, her husband, who'd inadvertently gotten her into this mess.