Slow Burn(107)

    I grimaced, fighting tears.

    When I looked at Griffin, his mouth was bloody from where he’d bitten the man. He looked like a vampire.

    Finally, though, I got him free.

     He dashed across the room to a sink and shoveled water into his mouth. He spit. More water. He spit again. He did it twice more. “Doll, get over here and wash your hands.”

    I couldn’t move.

    “Trust me, it will help.”

    I willed myself to go to him. The water did help. My clothes were still bloody, but it was good to have it off of my hands. Griffin used a paper towel on my face.

    “It’s on my face?” I might be hysterical.

    “Not anymore, not anymore,” he said. “You’re fine.” He took my hand. “Let’s go.” He was already dragging me across the room, back to the duct. He boosted me up so that I could climb back in.

    He came up after me. “Shit.”

    “What?”

    “I wanted to put the grate back, but it’s way down there. They’re going to know where we went.”

    “Should we—?”

    “No, just go. They can always check the cameras anyway.”

    I crawled, Griffin right behind me, showing me where to turn.

    “Where are we going?” I asked. I hoped we were going to an exit somewhere. I wanted out of this place, away from my father who wanted to make me an assassin, away from the body of the man I’d killed.

    “Quieter,” he whispered.

    “Sorry,” I said in a softer voice.

    “We’re going to Caldwell’s office. That’s the plan.”

    We were still following the plan? “But...”

    “Nothing’s changed, doll. Things are going as well as could be expected.”

    “My dad?”

    “They’re going to hear us talking,” he said.

    I got quiet. But the plan was to kill everyone who knew about Op Wraith that also headed it up. That included my dad, and he wasn’t dead anymore. Was Griffin going to kill my father? I didn’t know if I could handle that. He was horrible, but he was my dad.

    There were voices drifting through an upcoming grate, and Griffin had me halt. Together, we eased up on the room. I looked down into it. It looked like a regular office room, carpet on the floor, a desk in one corner, overstuffed leather chairs in front of it.

    There were two people in the room. One was a man in a suit, the other was a woman with her hair pulled into a severe bun on top of her head, her makeup artfully applied. She was beautiful, but there was something hard and frightening about her.

    “Damn,” said Griffin. “That’s French. If she’s alive, it means Knox didn’t get to her.”

    The man was on the phone. He must be Caldwell. “Look, I’m not sure I want Griffin dead. He’s really first rate. Why don’t we just wipe his memory?” He put his hand over the receiver of the phone and addressed the woman. “How far back does the stage one memory injection wipe out?”

    “Up to a year, sometimes two,” she said.

    “Leaving intact his early memories, then,” said Caldwell. “The ones we can use.”

    French nodded. “Exactly.”

    Caldwell uncovered the receiver. “So go back down there, Thorn, and tell him not to kill him, just wipe his memory.”

    Thorn? He was talking to my dad? And it was about Griffin.

    “I don’t care that you want him dead. Do as I say,” said Caldwell. A pause. “What do you mean your daughter’s missing?” He sighed heavily and listened. “Okay, well, I’m going to have to come down there, aren’t I?”

    “I don’t think so,” muttered Griffin. He removed the grate and leaped out of the duck onto Caldwell’s back.

    Caldwell dropped the phone and went sprawling.

    Griffin’s hands encircled Caldwell’s neck, squeezing.

    The woman, French, clapped her hands together. “Oh, Griffin, it’s so good to see you again. I’ve missed you.” She reached into her purse.

    Caldwell’s fingernails scrabbled against the carpet.