Triumph (The Bellator Saga Book 6) Read online

  Triumph

  Part Six in the

  Bellator Saga

  Cecilia London

  © 2017, Cecilia London/Principatum Publishing

  [email protected]

  Cover art by Luminos Graphic House

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, with the exception of excerpts for reviews and blog postings.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Where liberty is, there is my country.

  Benjamin Franklin

  Chapter One

  Funny, the things people recall. Caroline never paid much attention to appearances but remembered the little touches. The jewelry Jack gave her. The wedding band that hung around her neck. The accessories Christine would pair with her outfits. The way a song or smell or phrase could poke at a memory long suppressed and banished to the outermost reaches of the soul.

  She pulled the watch out of her pocket, running her thumb over the face. Tom Sullivan always wore it. Always. Even when playing pickup basketball with Jess and Jack in his backyard or on the indoor court at Jack’s estate. A foolish thing since it was an expensive timepiece, but he didn’t care.

  Caroline turned it over in her hand, reading the inscription on the back.

  To Tommy. Happy fiftieth birthday. All my love, Dr. Spencer.

  If she tried very, very hard, she could ignore the mocking voice echoing through her mind. The tone Murdock used when he read it out loud. Affection, love, and demonstrations of either of them were trifles to that man. A whirlpool of emotions swirled in her head, threatening to pull her into the undertow.

  “I believe your children are still alive,” Powell repeated.

  A terrible thing, to lose a child. An unspeakable tragedy. The kind that engendered a sympathetic glance from a detached onlooker, maybe a halfhearted attempt at a condolence. Caroline had been slowly processing her sorrow for the past two years, and not in the healthiest of ways. Powell was offering her a lifeline. Or yanking her around again. It was likely the latter.

  Fuck keeping control. She wasn’t about to let grief take over but anger could sure as hell spring to the surface. There was no way this man was getting another goddamn tear out of her. “I heard you the first fucking time,” she snapped.

  “You don’t seem all that happy to hear it,” he said.

  No matter what she did, something always dragged her back into the muck. Caroline remained smothered in the fear that her efforts to cling to sanity were for naught and soon the thread tying her to reality would be stretched tight enough to snap. Powell was a walking deception, a swamp of treachery. He knew her weaknesses, had known them all along. And he was exploiting them.

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  Like it was that easy. Like they’d formed the sort of relationship where two tiny words could somehow overcome hours, days, weeks of torture. Her eyes drifted toward Schroeder, who was leaning against the wall, tapping his finger against his lips. Fuck, he was no help at all. She was on her own. Her assistant wasn’t going to join this battle. Not when he had no dog in the fight. He wouldn’t intervene without good reason. He was watching, listening. Analyzing. He knew what to believe, didn’t he? He couldn’t possibly be buying this harebrained story.

  “Why should I believe you?” Caroline asked.

  Powell sat up straighter. “I have no reason to deceive you.”

  “You have a million reasons to lie, your lack of character chief among them. It’s likely the only way you know how to communicate.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He winced almost every time he spoke. He was uncomfortable. Caroline spotted a bottle of pain pills on the kitchen island. She was tempted to dump them one by one down the drain, just to relish his reaction. “You couldn’t have survived at The Fed without being a devious, slimy little worm. And now you’re playing that tune again. I’m not going to listen.”

  “You should,” he said.

  Ah, the tone of a man who had once tasted the honeyed nectar of unchecked authority. Caroline recognized it well. She’d heard it from cops, from elected officials, from her own damn husband.

  From her torturers.

  Powell had pinned her right arm behind her back. Wrapped his fingers around her throat. Told her he’d snap her neck if she dared even breathe in the wrong direction. Smirked his ass off at Fischer as Murdock pulverized the bones in her left hand. When they returned her to her cell, she’d dreamt of sweet revenge.

  Her thoughts blended together, blurring the line between reality and fantasy, her mind racing with dark illusions of what she would do to her captors if she were armed.

  She’d shoot Murdock in the shoulder first. Just to watch him bleed before deciding where to focus her attention next. Maybe pistol whip him so he knew what it felt like. The guards were big on that particular technique. Oh, and she’d need a stiletto heel to grind into the wound. She liked that idea. A lot. It was dripping with irony, the kind he’d never appreciate.

  She’d gouge Fischer’s eyes out with her fingernails. Kick him in the groin, over and over. Hit him with his own goddamn baton. Call him a motherfucking sweetheart while she did it. He’d hate that.

  She’d cut off Powell’s balls with a knife. No, a dull, rusty razor blade. Snap his arm in two. A nice compound fracture, the blood dripping down from the bone as he pissed all over himself from the pain. See how he liked it then.

  Then she’d move on to less pleasant things. Things she’d only read about in horror novels. Terrible ways of suffering they’d never contemplated before. She enjoyed imagining her revenge. Making them all scream and beg for their mommies. Adjusting her plans just in case they fucked up her other hand. She still had her legs. Her feet. Her teeth. There were so many things she could do to them if she only had the chance.

  She could toss his pills. Get rid of that soft pillow in his bedroom, the sheets, the blanket, the many modern conveniences that made his unpleasant existence less intolerable. Grab something nice and sharp from the butcher block and rock it teasingly back and forth in front of him. Render him impote
nt with one stab, one hack, one well-placed knife toss. No one would judge her for it.

  Except she’d never be able to live with herself if she followed through. Goddamned conscience.

  “You’re not getting another minute of my time. I’m out.” She spun around, motioning toward Schroeder.

  “Wait!” A plaintive cry. How pitiful. “Please,” Powell said quietly. “Please listen.”

  He wanted something. He couldn’t be benevolent if he tried. “Why?”

  “Because I need your help. Surely you can respect a fair trade.”

  She’d been living a largely empty existence for almost two years, plagued by memories of the loved ones she’d left behind. The ones she’d seen die. And he considered his lies fair trade?

  “I’m not here to barter with you,” Caroline said.

  He stared down at his hands. “You’re a better person than you think you are.”

  Flattery. Getting him nowhere. “I know exactly who I am. You, thankfully, do not.”

  “You worked for justice and fairness your entire life. You believe in hope. And you won’t let go if a shred of it remains.”

  Oh, fuck him. He must have read whatever psychological analysis The Fed had done on her. But she was weary, too focused on not letting her vengeful thoughts manifest into action. She’d humor him for thirty seconds, tops. “Your point?”

  “You’re leaving for The Hague soon.”

  Hadn’t anyone told him he was along for the ride? What a strange transition. “I am. You’re going too.”

  “I assume I’m not a friendly witness.”

  “You are not.” Caroline tapped her foot on the floor. “You’re a potential defendant.”

  “You’re going to provide testimony. Not just about me. About everything.”

  They’re going to know exactly how deplorable you are, yes. “Probably.”

  “They’ll listen to you.”

  Of course they would. “I assume so.”

  “You’ll tell them what you saw me do.”

  Jesus, he didn’t have the guts to come out and say it, did he? What a fucking failure of a man. No wonder he was so good at taking unconstitutional orders. “You want them to give you consideration, and you want me to help,” Caroline said.

  “A good word couldn’t hurt.”

  She knew the process. The ICC reserved its prosecutions for the most culpable actors. Powell’s involvement barely warranted an entry in Santos’ sadistic catalog, and the tribunal wouldn’t do much except refer him to lower courts for charges.

  But he didn’t know that. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and it was cold in the room. Powell was terrified the tables would turn and he’d be the one in a dark cell. Caroline could play him like a fiddle if she wanted. “I have no good words for you.”

  “You could find a few if you tried hard enough.”

  Wasn’t he an eager little beaver. She couldn’t tell if he was sucking up or asking her to perjure herself. “You want me to tell them you’re a nice guy?” she asked. “That you’re misunderstood? That you didn’t hold me down while Murdock shattered my hand, that you didn’t participate in psychological and emotional and disgustingly personal physical torture? I’m going to tell them the truth.” Caroline fingered the watch again. “If this information was so important, why didn’t you tell someone the instant you showed up in the infirmary? You were interrogated for hours, right?”

  Powell lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

  Good. He should be ashamed. “And during all that time, somehow this critical bit of intel escaped your recollection?”

  “I didn’t – I was confused-”

  “Bullshit. You were holding it back until you needed it. Your conscience must be completely clear now.”

  “So you do believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Powell sighed. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Does it do any harm for you to check? You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t have an inkling that I’m being straight with you.”

  Damn him for reading her so well. Unless he was guessing. Broken clocks were right twice a day. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  He struggled to adjust his sitting position. His discomfort was evident. “You don’t owe me anything. All I have are apologies and they don’t count for much. I did what I had to do. I tried to make up for it.”

  Oh, that was the richest load she’d heard in a while. “By what? Downloading a few files onto a flash drive? Being sent to some bullshit rest home in Nevada? How many other prisoners did you torture? Did you pull the trigger on any of them or leave that to Fischer? Tell me, Mr. Powell. Tell me how you made up for the lives you ruined, for the lives you took, for the lives you continue to dishonor daily.”

  He hung his head. “I haven’t. I’ll never be able to repent for the damage I’ve done. If I can reunite you with your family maybe I can feel like I did something worthwhile, you know?”

  Too bad he hadn’t told her that months ago. Too little, too late. But she’d have their men reassess their intelligence, make contact again with a few of their Canadian insiders. No. That wasn’t enough. She’d have to go to Ottawa herself to investigate. Powell knew too much for it to be a complete lie. “Maybe.” Caroline gestured toward Schroeder. “I think we’ve heard enough, don’t you?”

  He straightened. “I suppose so.”

  Powell stood up and walked over to her. “Commander-”

  Schroeder leapt forward. “Don’t move.”

  Powell couldn’t do much damage. Not without her striking first. “It’s okay, Captain,” she said. “Let him speak.”

  The injured man shifted his weight. Maybe she could give a quick strike to his ankle, see if it was enough to make him fall. Was that conduct unbecoming an officer? Probably.

  Powell grimaced. He was in pain. Fuck him ten ways to Tuesday. He deserved it. “Ma’am, I just-”

  Deference. That was something. Too bad he choked on the words. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t intend to be a hero.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because you’re not.”

  “Please check on what I told you. I promise it’s worth something.”

  She’d have to see what Schroeder thought of their exchange. “I will.”

  “About The Hague-”

  “Until we leave, the conditions of your home arrest remain the same.”

  Powell looked disappointed. “Understood. There’s just one more thing.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

  She wasn’t sure why the question rankled her, but it did. More so than any pejorative, any insult, any physical damage he could have done. She’d spent months being a person she despised, a person she didn’t recognize. She’d almost destroyed her marriage, convinced she wasn’t good enough for the man who spent every day trying to prove that she was. Forgive him? Was he out of his goddamn mind?

  The close proximity was too much, the impulse too raw and real. She brought her knee to his groin and Powell doubled over.

  “No,” Caroline said shortly. She tilted her head at Schroeder, who motioned for the guards to help their prisoner to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  *****

  “Did you have to kick him…there?” Schroeder asked once they got back to the office.

  “Oh. You saw that?”

  “I might have. I might also forget I did.”

  Fast and loose Schroeder was her favorite version. “Maybe kneeing men in the balls should be my signature move.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the kind of conduct we should encourage.”

  “I didn’t punch him.”

  “Yes. There is that.”

  Caroline laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do it to you.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that.” He paused. “Should I be worried about that?”

  “You’re fine.” She glanced around the room. “Jack’s not here anymore,
huh?”

  Schroeder grabbed a piece of paper off his desk. “Says he left for the day.”

  No doubt to do something romantic and well-intentioned for her. She felt a little flush of guilt for going to see Powell behind her husband’s back. No matter. She’d be able to explain it well enough. “What did you make of that conversation? Do you think there’s a chance my children are in Canada?” she asked.

  He sat down, kicking his feet up. Damn, a couple of months and he was close to being downright casual in her presence. “I think there’s something to it.”

  “Can you get us to Ottawa?”

  “I can streamline the process. I’m sure we can set up a meeting with the Prime Minister. The time is right, and the ICC investigation may give you one more weapon in your diplomatic arsenal.”

  That was the least of her concerns. She wanted to get her ass to Canada right fucking now, though she knew damn well that doing it without going through the proper channels would spell disaster for everyone. No, she couldn’t be impudent. She could be patient. Maybe. “What do you think Jack will say?”

  Schroeder smiled wryly. “I suspect he will not be quite as inclined to believe Mr. Powell as you or I. And he won’t be thrilled about our field trip.”

  Denial was just as effective an avoidance tactic as anger. “I may have to work a little magic.”

  “Are you prepared to accept the outcome of any investigation if the answers aren’t what you hope them to be?”

  “Right now we don’t have many answers,” she said. “Just a lot of theory and guesswork.”

  “True. Frankly, it makes sense for you to go to Canada anyway. They could be our biggest ally, particularly if the U.N. gets on board.”

  Ah, yes. She had forgotten. The U.N. Security Council was taking a hand in the ICC investigation. Good news for the rebellion. Once the U.N. was involved, they approved jurisdiction for any potential charges against the Santos Administration. Support for legal proceedings could mean support for troops, training, weapons…the possibilities were endless.

  “Maybe we can end this war without firing a shot,” she said.