CHAPTER TWO
1332 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Ilse crouched by the doorway, the rough grain of the frame against her cheek. The scent of smoke and gunpowder lingered on the air. She could feel her adrenaline pulsing and she kept her firearm gripped in both hands.
The g*n still felt awkward in her grasp. It was too heavy, and she never quite knew where to point it. Now, though, as she gripped it, she forced herself to focus. Another huffing breath, summoning what nerve she had, and then she burst through the ajar door, shoulder first.
The door slammed open as she catapulted into the dark room. No lights—the windows blocked out and boarded up. She frowned, aiming towards sudden movement.
Shit. Just a rotating fan. More movement.
She tried to whirl to her left, but it was too late.
Someone tackled her from the side, sending her clattering to the ground. She huffed, shoulder throbbing in pain where it hit the concrete. She scrambled, trying to maintain her weapon, but the man on top of her was far stronger. Fingers grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. Another hand tried to cover her mouth, holding her down.
As she struggled in the dark, her head on concrete, her hair swishing across her sweaty forehead, other memories slowly surfaced... Memories she'd long wished she could forget.
Little Hilda Mueller... She could feel the way her father held her down. The way he'd screamed in her face, spittle speckling her small cheeks. Could feel the way her ear had bled and the way her other siblings in the dark watched and whimpered. She'd grown up in a small house in the Black Forest of Germany, along with her brothers and sisters—tortured by her father before escaping as a child. A horrible past—one she'd been fleeing most of her life. But now, for the first time, she wasn't running. She was preparing.
Ilse's eyes flashed, snapping back to the present.
It took her a moment to realize her aggressor now had her g*n and was pointing it against her forehead. The aggressor breathed heavily, one arm extended where he pinned her wrists above her head. He pointed the g*n at her forehead and then whispered, “Bang.” He lowered the g*n, shaking his head and released her. “Nice try, Beck, but you let incidentals distract you.” The man got off her, calling out, “Lights!”
Suddenly, the small, concrete room was illuminated by bright fluorescent bulbs. Half the back wall was missing, replaced by glass, allowing the instructors to watch the trainees from the viewing platforms. This glass partition faced the back portion of the large warehouse they practiced in. The FBI training center had shooting ranges in the warehouse and an obstacle course complete with a towering wall along the southern end.
The small stone house, with the boarded windows had a couple of civilian cardboard cut-outs turned towards the glass viewing booth. Ilse had been faced with the civilians in previous training exercises.
This time, though, when faced with a live body, she'd choked.
The man above her extended a hand. Agent Alvarez had a handlebar mustache and silver-streaked bangs. He waited expectantly until she gripped his rough palm and then he helped her to her feet, reaching out to dust off her shoulders.
“What happened when you saw the fan?” he said. “You made it pretty far.”
Ilse just sighed, rubbing at her nose, and trying to suppress the flash of memories that had surfaced during the exercise. This wasn't the first time she'd frozen during the physical combat session.
Instructor Alvarez crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Probably pushed a bit too hard,” he said. “It's a tiring exercise, I get it. Maybe best we take a break before another shot.”
Ilse could feel her stomach twisting, could feel the glare of the lights around her beating down on her. The last thing she wanted to do was to admit to Alvarez that it wasn't tiredness but trauma that had distracted her. PTSD wasn't exactly considered a strength in the FBI agent's handbook.
Alvarez glanced at her, his bushy mustache bristling. He stared at her from beneath his dark eyebrows. “Don't worry about it, Beck,” he said. “It's just one test. You aced the mental portions yesterday if I hear right from Gracie.”
Ilse tried to smile, but the expression died on her lips. She gave a hesitant little shrug. “I guess so,” she murmured.
Her eyes trailed towards the viewing room beyond. She spotted a couple of men and one woman watching the small room. When her gaze landed on a lanky, thin-framed man wearing a baseball cap, she went stiff.
Agent Tom Sawyer had been watching. She hadn't realized he'd arrived yet.
Sweat-slicked, panting, her memories still swirling about, Ilse felt sick to her stomach. Agent Sawyer had pulled a lot of strings to get her this far. He'd called in more than one favor, and from what she'd heard, Sawyer didn't have too many friends left in the agency.
And now she was going to ruin it all.
Tom met her eyes, dipping his head once. She winced, but instead of waving in greeting, she just shrugged apologetically and glanced away. When she looked back, Tom was talking with the other man inside the viewing platform. Ilse knew this fellow was Supervising Agent Rawley, one of the head honchos at this particular training facility.
Agent Rawley wasn't as tall as Tom, but he was well proportioned, like a college athlete, despite his silver hair. He had a muscled frame and wore half-framed glasses perched on his Roman nose. Rawley exchanged another few words with Sawyer, and Ilse's heart hammered.
If anyone would've known what she'd actually been thinking, trapped on the floor, it would have been Sawyer. He knew she froze up sometimes. Did he know what she'd been thinking? Would he be able to guess? Was he telling Rawley right now?
Ilse felt panic setting in, felt her hand close around the hem of her sleeve. Just then, Supervising Agent Rawley pressed a button by the window. A crackling voice filled the house over a speaker system.
“Dr. Beck,” Rawley said, his silver eyebrows low over his piercing, blue eyes. “I'd like to speak with you, please. In the back office.”
Alvarez winced and gave her a comforting little pat on the back. “I'm sure it's fine,” he murmured beneath his breath. But his tone suggested the opposite.
Ilse let out a long, gusting sigh. She'd been worried this day would eventually come. She'd tried her best in the physical assignments. And while she was fit, and even trained ju-jitsu, she sometimes froze up when in high-stakes situations. The mental portions of the training and assessments had been easy enough.
But now, the static of the speaker still crackling in the air, Rawley's blue gaze fixated on her, Ilse felt like a bug beneath a microscope.
Would the supervising agent fail her in front of Sawyer? Perhaps not. He seemed tough but fair in his dealings with the agents under him. Perhaps that's why he'd called her to the back office.
To fail her in private, to help her save some face.
But still, failing, of either variety, simply wasn't an option.
Breathing heavily, the sweat against her arms now cold all of a sudden, Ilse turned towards the door, exited the small training house and began to maneuver through the warehouse towards the offices in the back. Rawley hadn't emerged yet from the viewing room, which meant she'd have to take the long walk on her own and then wait in isolation for the supervising agent to follow.
She couldn't fail. Not with everything on the line...
But right now, it didn't seem like she had much of a choice.
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