Chapter 27
Our truck made a lurching three-point turn and we jetted down the secret road, a second SUV behind us. My body was too frozen to fight, my thoughts too muddled to argue. The cave sounded like no place I wanted to visit, but I'd surrendered to Sam's control. Not like I'd had a choice, given my state.
"Hope you're on good terms with Boss," said the driver, "because we're all about to get our balls ripped off."
Sam checked the man's image in the rearview mirror. "My call, my problem. Cave's closer than the compound, so chalk it up to security, if anyone asks."
We headed straight for what looked like the side of a mountain. At the last minute, a yellow strobe light fanned across the snow banks and we ducked into a steep hollow. A garage-style door swung open, the outside panels plastered with fake pines and brush, the inside revealing a construction of thick iron with crisscross welding. Sam wasn't wrong calling this a cave. The mammoth room brightened with fluorescent lights as we tucked into a corner with room for a half-dozen more SUVs. Armed men in fatigues scattered across the space, a few muscles stepping up to manually shut the heavy door, the others coming to see the terrorist exiting our SUV. When they saw a petite blonde, they seemed disappointed and brushed off the guard duty to Sam.
"Hang in there, Jules. Gotta plan to get you warm fast." Sam scooped me into his arms, holding me tight but not still. My body was in full throttle, the hypothermia in full bloom. Even through my mental fog, I wondered what tactics Sam could possible use to unthaw this ice block body and whether he'd be willing to perform them in front of the men. "Make a hole," he called to the cluster of agents, and we marched toward the locker room, which had its doors already propped open.
"Yo, Fields." An older man with long, gray hair spun around his wheelchair. He'd been spotting at the bench press for a bare-chested agent lifting one well-endowed barbell, an agent who struggled getting the weights back into their brackets with his spotter distracted. The older man's face was narrow with small eyes, but his shoulders looked like he could bench press two agents, one for each bicep. Like a meaty Willie Nelson, minus the schnozzle. With one arm, he helped the man secure the barbell into the brackets, while yelling, "Don't remember issuing an invite back here, Fields. You're on the wrong side of the mountain."
Sam kept walking. "And you're biting the hand that feeds your men, Marshall."
Took me a second to realize Sam meant me. I curled into his chest, unable to handle more contention. I could barely understand where we were, let alone why Sam was picking a fight.
Marshall zipped toward us, fast as a wasp, and cut off our escape into the locker room.
Sam stopped with a jerk. "Don't got time for bullshit power games, Marshall."
Marshall's wrinkles deepened as he examined my blue lips and vibrating arms, touched my ice-encrusted pant leg. "Get her in the tub." He wheeled back, and Sam rammed through the doorway.
"Shut your eyes, baby," Sam whispered as we cut through a locker area into the open showers.
Agents yelled, cussed repeatedly, covered themselves with towels or cupped their hands over their goods. Tall men, short men, bulky men, lean men. My eyes took in their muscular frames, but my mind short-circuited on caring. I felt flat, unmoved. Certainly not aroused. These were the secret men I'd been feeding, nurturing. At least two dozen agents resided in this "Cave" from what I'd seen since our truck was admitted. Now I understood why there seemed more faces passing through my kitchen than I could keep track of.
We cut through another door into a cul-de-sac. The final room contained a plus-size hot tub and a sauna along the side wall. Sam nodded toward the sauna, and an agent I didn't realize was following us ran ahead and cleared the space for entry. I felt relieved not to see anymore naked agents I'd have to serve ham and eggs to later.
