Chapter 11: The attack and raid (and if you can spot it), the cover-up...
Some warning. It's a little disturbing.
The clip-cut up before the cold open would be flashbacks to:
The 'thief' leaving Scarlett's apartment through the window, with her shooting at him. The agents circling around her at the charity dress auction, followed by her waking up handcuffed to the hospital bed (Yes it is Jeffries). Scarlett noticing something shimmering out on Lake Redwine before Rhett kisses her—and him jabbing her with a needle.
Question: Who do you think you're messing with girl? Answer: I thought you made up your mind.
"I could hit that."
"What?"
"Her."
"Her?"
"Yeah."
"No."
"I could."
"Maybe with a bat."
"She's a pretty thing, ain't she?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Just don't."
"Oh, come on man, loosen up. We've been waitin' in here for over an hour. I could do it right now."
"Doubt even that."
"She's out cold. She won't feel a thing."
"She wouldn't feel a thing if she were awake neither."
"You wanna say that to my face?"
"I'm starin' right at'ya."
A door creaked opened. A hoarse voice barked something in an indistinct slur. The two men grumbled and shuffled away. The door slammed shut, metal clanking against metal. Scarlett blew out her breath and slowly opened her eyes.
The room was black. A tarry dimness blanketed her vision. She couldn't make out anything but the yellow outline of the door. Muffled voices seeped in with the light. A hollow drip-drip of water echoed in her ears.
She knew it was pointless to try to move. She'd woken up about three minutes ago with a slicing headache, a parched mouth covered in duct tape and her hands and feet bound in plastic cuffs around a cold metal chair. She hadn't even twitched an eyelash when an instinct stronger than her initial confusion had cautioned her to stay still and keep pretending to be knocked-out.
Her heart pounded now, with adrenaline and reprieve. She didn't know where she was or what she was doing here. She only knew that she'd just come three seconds too close to being assaulted and that it was Rhett who'd put her here. A visceral hatred spiked up in her gut and she vowed that if she lived through this night she was going to kill him. Her threat made more palatable by the nerve-frying fear seizing up her muscles and stiffening her spine.
The door started to crack open again and she immediately dropped her head. Light bled through her eyelids and she heard several feet scrape along the floor. Their rough footfalls stopped right in front of her.
"She's still unconscious?"
It was the raspy-smoker voice of the man who'd shouted from the door. He had a nasally accent Scarlett had never heard before; a jarring mash-up of Pépé Le Pew and Mr. Miyagi.
"Yeah, don' know what Butler gave her but it did the job."
"A little too well."
Scarlett sensed the skunky-karate master lean closer and wished she'd opted to earn her black belt instead of skipping her martial arts classes to shop for designer belts. The man's rancid breath blasted into her nostrils, his breathing ragged in her ears.
Sweat sprung out of every pore. He was close, much, much too close. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move.
"Hmmm," murmured the man, drawing away from her face.
Her shoulders relaxed a milli-inch. Her pulse slowed a nano-second. It was too much. She heard the swift whoosh in the air before a wet hand smacked her with the force of a piston. Her head whipped to the side and her eyes popped open. The pain stung from her cheek to the back of her neck. A low whistle rang in her left ear. She barely had time to blink before sharp nails dug into her scalp and yanked her head up by the roots of her hair. She cried out, her scream gurgling wordlessly into the tape.
The door had been left partially open, a cone of light spreading into the room. An ugly man with almond-shaped eyes and loose skin sneered down at her.
"Maybe next time, sweetheart, you will think twice before you try to fool me."
He pulled hard on her hair as he released her, flinging her head back. Scarlett grunted, tears of pain leaking out the corners of her eyes and trickling into her ears. An icy horror shot through her limbs and into the tips of her fingers and toes. Her entire body ached with the cold fear.
This couldn't be happening. Not to her.
Her heart was slamming against her ribs. The terror of this moment, of this unreal reality, barreled faster and faster through her blood. Her body was going into a living rigueur. The shock, the fear and the desperation careened, suddenly colliding and in one, long breath, it all oozed out of her.
This wouldn't happen. Not to her.
Reaching deep to a place she didn't even know existed, she grappled for courage and found it. Somehow she found it, hard as clay and strong as wood. Her eyes narrowed. Her heart calmed and she rolled her head forward.
Her sharp gaze darted all around. Rusty pipes snaked along the concrete ceiling and walls. No windows. No vents. No escape. She was enclosed in a block of cement.
She turned her eyes to the men in the room. Two big thugs stood a few feet away, hunkering behind the one who'd slapped her. She glared at him and started to fight against the cords and yell into the tape.
"Now, that's more like what we've come to expect from you Ms. O'Hara," croaked the man. He grinned, revealing a mess of yellow teeth, and snapped his fingers. "Sherman get the tape. I forgot something in the other room."
The nasty-mouthed ringleader spun around and walked toward the only exit. One of the bulky shadows moved, lumbering toward her. Scarlett stopped struggling, panting through her nose. The guy crouched down and the light hit his face. Shock slammed into Scarlett.
It was Rhett.
Disguised in a blond wig and an auburn beard, dressed in tattered jeans and a flannel shirt she knew he'd never be caught dead in. Well that was a good sign. Clearly he thought he was getting out of here alive. Her relief at seeing him ate up most of her anger.
He placed his large hand over her thigh and squeezed gently, trying to convey something with his eyes. She stared dumbstruck at him for a second before nodding infinitesimally. He winked and ripped the tape off her mouth.
The glue tore off a layer of skin. Hairs on her upper-lip she hadn't even known needed waxing uprooted and she exhaled a guttural groan. More stinging tears dripped down her face. Warm fingers squeezed her thigh again. Rhett stood and walked back to his place in the shadows. Even his gait was different, clunky and heavy.
That's when it finally clicked. Rhett was a spy. He was a full-on spy. And now their lives depended on his ability to act and her ability to keep her mouth shut. If their performance bombed, bad reviews would be the least of their worries. Who cared about the art beat? All she could think about were the obituaries.
"You shoulda told me you wanted a piece of her," complained the other man to Rhett when he'd waddled up beside him. "I woulda let you have her after. I ain't the jealous type, bro."
Rhett turned his head but didn't answer.
"I saw you cop a feel when you were over there, Sherman." The pervert jabbed a thumb in her direction. "So look, if we get a shot at her again, I've got your back if you've got mine."
Scarlett used to think the movies exaggerated how fast some people could move. Nope. Some people moved faster. Her gasp was lost in the sounds of the bullet-fast scuffle. Rhett had the guy crushed up against the wall by his throat, his feet dangling an inch off the ground.
"If you look at her again, I'm going to snap your neck."
The man was choking, his eyes bulging. Rhett pinned him harder into the cement.
"I am the jealous type, bro"
Rhett's natural drawl slipped out, textured with a sinister edge. He dropped his hand and the man slumped to the floor, coughing and holding his neck. He scrambled to his feet as Rhett eased back into his at-rest pose, feet set apart and hands folded in front.
"You're crazy!" yelped the man, hacking out a stream of profanities. He limped back alongside Rhett. "Insane!"
Again Rhett didn't respond but just looked at the guy. Their seething slash laconic impasse ended with the entrance of a few more men—the snaggle-toothed slapper and a couple henchmen, judging by the size and stature of them.
One of them held a suitcase and the other was dragging in a rickety table and chair. Scarlett's eye was drawn to the flash of silver as the suitcase lid yawned open. Rows of sharp, silver objects glinted in the dank room. A sickening tug wrenched at her stomach.
"No need to concern yourself with those, Ms. O'Hara," said the now familiar crackly voice.
She flipped her head toward it. The man was standing right in front of her again, Rhett and his partner lurking in toe.
"Unless of course you prove uncooperative."
He smiled, that oily, chipped leer and she lost it.
"Let me go! Let me go! I don't know who you are and I don't want to know. Let me go or—"
"You are in no position to make threats," he interrupted, tilting his head to the side. "Although I do like your—what do you Americans call it—your spunk?"
He waved his hand and yelled something in another language. One of his lackeys brought him the chair and handed him a flat-screen that looked like a suped-up iPad. The burly gopher stepped back to fiddle with the hellish dental tools. Scarlett tried not to look at them.
The slap-happy boss—she wasn't too afraid to notice the obvious hierarchy—sat down, scooting his chair forward. His knees brushed against hers and she flinched back.
"Do you believe in coincidence?" he asked, ignoring her reaction and looking down. He tapped his finger on the screen and his face glowed bright with a techno-blue. "Or maybe you would call it fate or destiny?"
He glanced up at her, banally curious. She glared. She was not about to get low and dirty about religion with this nut job.
"What do you want? Let me go. "
He smirked, lowering his gaze back to his screen. "Perhaps you are too young to know what you believe Ms. O'Hara. Perhaps your parents did not instruct you before they…became expired."
The way he rolled his greasy tongue over that word rolled a shiver down her back. How much did this guy know about her? She flicked her eyes to the flannel-clad, deadpan Rhett. Had he told these people everything he knew about her? Why was she trusting him now? She knew. The have-nots don't even have choices. And she was their new queen.
"My mother was a spiritual woman," her interrogator droned on, sliding his finger back and forth over his screen, his black eyes scanning things Scarlett could not see. "She believed that our lives are written in the skies, a single thread in the great tapestry of the universe. The pattern already set and the design already woven. My father did not share her faith. He was a man of reason, a man of science. He believed a rational explanation existed for everything. He did not believe in coincidence but in probability."
He stopped scrolling. An almost soft look melted some of the hardness in his ugly face.
"You are magnificent," he cooed, gravel in his throat. "Quite extraordinary really."
"You're delusional if you think…"
He flipped the tablet over and raised it in front of her eyes.
Scarlett's sneer trailed off into silence. A bucket of fear poured over her. Her lips started to tremble. Her limbs started to shake. She was staring at a picture of herself. In bed. With Rhett.
She glanced up at the real thing. Nothing but Lumberjack Joe's stonewall expression. Drenched in panic, she sunk her eyes back down to the stolen digital memento from her life. The 'boss' swirled his finger. That memory was not the only one they'd captured.
Snapshot after snapshot of her life: waitressing at Cracker Barrel, lounging on the couch with Carreen, bargain shopping at the grocery store, taking a jog, cooking dinner with Mammy or visiting the factories flashed before her, and to her horror the last contraband image to pixelize onto the screen—her kiss two weeks ago with Ashley.
"Now I am a man much like my father," rasped the boss-interrogator. "And despite what Mr. Butler has been assuring us for months, I cannot believe that by fate or chance you are both the lover to our mole in the CIA and mistress to the mole they attempted to have infiltrate our network without being an agent yourself."
Scarlett looked at him speechless, her quivering mouth a round O. He swiveled the screen back around and set it on his lap.
"So I am going to ask you again, Ms. O'Hara. Do you believe in coincidence?"
All the air zapped out of her lungs. Out of the room. Was any of this true? She chanced a peek at Rhett. Still Mr. Impassive. One thing was certain. This much was true. She wasn't a spy.
"I…I…" She licked her lips. "I'm just a girl.
Her interrogator pursed his mouth and dropped his eyes to the screen. It had returned to the first photo; the grainy image of her most intimate moment with Rhett.
"Whatever you are Ms. O'Hara you are not a girl."
Maybe it was the slimy-Jack Nicholson way he smiled down at the picture. Or the disturbing, cerulean glint in his mad-villain eyes. Whatever it was, it riled Scarlett up. Some of her flippant bravery sparked back to life.
"I don't care what you think, you dirty pervert," she yelled, veins punching out of her neck. "You've been stalking me for how long and you still think I'm some government agent? Did you miss the whole arrest fiasco? Where was your filthy paparazzi crew when that went down?"
"You were arrested by the FBI because, quite accurately, Mr. Butler is under investigation for treason. We have the CIA to thank for extricating one of our most valuable assets from that sticky affair, as well as yourself." He clicked his tongue three times and stood up. "Pity interagency cooperation is not more improved or you might have been spared your night in lock-up Ms. O'Hara. Or you might not have. The agency did pull your strings as well."
"They tracked me after I was arrested," she blurted out, not sure what to believe anymore.
"Well as I said interagency cooperation is not what it should be. Old feuds die hard."
He chuckled and turned away, moving away to the table with the metal fangs. He picked one up and twirled it in between his thumb and finger. Scarlett's insides crusted up again with icy trepidation.
She looked at Rhett. He had turned toward the door. When was he going to bust out one of those ninja moves again? Any minute would be great.
"You are doing remarkably well, Ms. O'Hara. Quite the charming ignoramus."
Scarlett shot her eyes back to the lone talker. He spun the jagged tool, watching it dance through his fingers. An eerie ecstasy, like messed up clown paint, splashed over his face.
"I almost believe you are a very unlucky young woman." Each syllable dropped with exaggerated perfection. He tossed the knife-like instrument in the air and snatched it with the other hand. "Almost."
He looked at her. Her stomach clenched.
"Malheuresement ma peche your puzzling existence is a nuisance I am unwilling to leave to an almost."
Bam. Several things happened at once. Scarlett screamed Rhett, Rhett yelled something, and the demented dentist-inquisitor dropped to the floor. A loud, whizzing noise started whining. The other men jiggered and jutted around the room, lost in confusion. Scarlett thrashed about her bolted-down chair as white smoke filled the air.
Choking and gagging on the noxious fumes she thought she would have preferred the bleeding to suffocation. Her eyes burned, tears sizzling on the edges of her lids. Suddenly a blurry figure approached her and she felt the whisper of a knife on her skin as the cords were sliced in half. A plastic mask wrapped around her nose and mouth.
"Breathe into that Scarlett," whispered Rhett, yanking her off the chair and throwing her over his back.
She yelped from being treated unceremoniously like a gym bag, her brief yap muted into her oxygen face-mask. She gulped in the wonderful, sweet air. Rhett's arms were cinched around her abdomen and she bounced out of her smoky prison.
The room she entered glared brightly with fluorescent lights and dirty saw dust. Old chairs and tables, rusted filing cabinets and chipped cupboards were thrown helter-skelter all over the place. It all started to spin. Round and round. A swirl-art machine of colors.
The combination of the blood gushing to her upside down head and the blast of oxygen was overloading her brain. She kicked her legs to wriggle out of Rhett's arms. She was not going to black out again!
Rhett had other plans. At first she thought he'd smacked her on her butt and then she realized—no it felt more like a bite. She tore off her mask and started bellowing curse words that would have made her dad wink and her mom cringe.
With her lights flickering off she watched as a stream of men in bullet-proof vests and helmets rained down from nowhere. She recognized one of them as the putz Jenkins who'd arrested her. Flinging one last almighty kick, hoping to eliminate Rhett's chances at reproduction, she angrily passed out. Again.
A booming bass drummed against her brain. Her head started to rock to the beat. Her foot started to tap and her hand started to twitch. It took Scarlett a few seconds to realize: A: She had no clue where the music was coming from. B: Part of the pounding was a massive, cluster headache. And C: Her eyes were closed.
Painfully she lifted her lids and squinted into a red-glowing room. She zoomed up to a sitting position, blinking away the black spots and pressing her palm against her temple. Where in the name of Lady Gaga was she?
Four walls of the gaudiest, most hideous decorations. A smattering of furniture designed by the spawn of Betsy Johnson and Elvis—Vegas Elvis. Maroon lights with dangles of beads on the shades. Turquoise cushions and sequenced picture frames. Seriously. Where was she?
An unseen doorknob clicked. A door she had mistaken for a mere poster of Madonna during the Vogue years opened. She caught a flash of disco, strobe lights before the closing door shut out the party scene.
Rhett—the real Rhett—leaned against the enlarged Material Girl, his face framed by her silver cones. Lipstick was smudged on his collar and his shirt was untucked. It was the same outfit from earlier today—if it was still today. His mouth flipped down and his eyebrow arched up.
"You've had a rotten night, haven't you?"
Scarlett didn't know how to respond. Her exhaustion had entirely digested her rage. She figured it would give her some mental indigestion. Right now she didn't care. She only wanted to say one thing.
"Explain. Now. No bull. No lies."
Rhett dragged his hand through his hair and sighed. He swaggered over to her—he never could walk without some kind of Saturday Night strut—and slumped down beside her on the kitsch-in-a-kit futon. His tired eyes ran up and down her.
"You must be hungry." He pointed behind her. "That food's for you."
She glowered but glanced behind at a large paper bag. Suddenly the scent of melted cheese and delicious grease filled her nostrils. She snatched at the bag and dug inside, stuffing fries into her mouth at ravenous speeds as she unwrapped the burger.
"You haven't answered me," she said, spewing flecks of food everywhere and not even caring. She tore her incisors into the fluffy bun and juicy patty. Ahh. Eating could be as good as—she eyed Rhett—as anything.
"There's a drink at your feet—two in fact. A coke and a water. You should drink both. You're dehydrated. The drugs will do that to you."
Her wolfish attack on her meal slowed. Her eyes thinned into slits.
"You have two seconds to start explaining or so help me Rhett, I will…" She couldn't think of anything bad enough. He supplied the threat.
"Kill me with your bare hands, dice me into tiny pieces and feed me to one of Aunt Pitty's cats?"
"Worse. I'll feed you to Aunt Pitty—and in that shirt you were wearing tonight."
He coughed to cover his laugh.
"Last night, actually Scarlett," he corrected, clearing his throat and his face smoothing into some of the kindest lines she had ever seen. "It was last night, or technically, very early this morning."
She swallowed her last bite of burger and dusted the salt off her hands, never breaking his unreadable gaze. Clearly he needed some prodding. What she wouldn't give for one of those big, old, cattle ones right about now.
"Are you CIA or are you a criminal?"
He looked down at his hands, tapping the tips of his fingers together. No answer.
"Was that Jeffries—the FBI agent who interrogated me for like five hours—that I saw before you drugged me?"
More tapping. No answer. Yup. A nice, long metal prod would be ideal.
"Who was the psychopath that tried to kill me tonight—that you kidnapped me for—that you let smack me—"
Rhett whipped his head around and shot his arm out. Scarlett recoiled and flung her arms up over head. Her shield reflexives were still on high-alert.
"Scarlett, put your arms down."
For the first time tonight—or today—or whatever time it was—Rhett sounded mad.
Slowly she lowered her protective pose. Here eyes were wide. Her head throbbed from the fast movement and rush of adrenaline. Rhett's mouth was wrinkled in a disgruntled frown. Without saying another word, he lifted both hands, placing one on her shoulder and the other gently against her cheek. Although his touch was soft, she grimaced at the pain.
"I'm sorry I couldn't stop him then." His voice slipped out as a whisper. His fingers brushed lightly along her bruised jaw. Those dark eyes locked with hers. "I can't explain everything Scarlett. I can't explain anything. Not yet."
She didn't know why but suddenly she only wanted one thing from Rhett. And it wasn't an explanation. Her green eyes shimmered strangely in the reddish gleam. Her head still rocked to the music. Her throat still shrunk with thirst.
"Where are we?" she asked.
Rhett's hand caressed her jaw, trembling.
"A strip club. A safe house."
Scarlett accepted this news in silence. Poof! Like a bunny had just popped out of a hat. Suddenly her surroundings magically made sense. She inhaled. Her expression warmed. Her body relaxed.
"So, we're alone? Actually alone?"
He slid his other hand into her hair, watching the dark chestnut wrap around his fingers. He wasn't paying attention to the subtle shift in her angle, in her mood.
"Yes."
She leaned towards him, floating her lips alongside his ear.
"If you stick me with a needle again, I'll eat you myself."
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and smirked. Reliable, unemotional Rhett. Nothing ever got to him.
If Scarlett could have seen his face when she started kissing his neck, she would have known how wrong she was.
Note- I thought I would divulge more but it just didn't fit. Still, there are some clues. And well, hopefully, some clarification. Thanks for the reviews. Now the next chapter...I've been wanting to do that one for awhile. I think you can guess which it is. Cheers to those who've stuck with me. This chapter wasn't easy to write, especially in consideration of some recent news here in the States, but I wanted to show Scarlett coming through and not losing her 'spunk.' Survivors are as survivors do.
