Subversion (Julian Mercer Book 3) by G.K. Parks

Author:G.K. Parks [Parks, G.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Modus Operandi
Published: 2017-11-07T05:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

“Where the hell are we?” Loren asked, his eyes darting over the equipment and printouts that covered the desk while Hans hauled him past their op center and into the kitchen. “What do you plan on doing with me?”

Swallowing the annoyed growl that threatened to erupt from within, Mercer pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and placed it in the center of the room. Securing Loren’s hands behind the chair back with a pair of handcuffs, Mercer waited for Hans to bind their prisoner’s legs and body to the chair before ominously circling their potential foe.

“You said you’re a photojournalist. Where do you work?” Mercer asked. He nodded to Hans, and the other man went into the op center and returned with a tablet. Reaching into their captive’s pocket, Mercer removed Loren’s wallet and pilfered through it until he found a photo ID. “Alexander Loren of Miami, Florida.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize that U.S. papers reported on tiny island nations in the Caribbean.”

“It depends.” Loren’s glare could have hardened the melting icecaps. “News travels.”

“Where are your press credentials?” Mercer flipped through the wallet again, tossing out the contents as he went.

“I never said I worked for a paper.”

“Bollocks.” Mercer was used to being stonewalled by enemy insurgents, not tourists in Hawaiian shirts. “The truth. Now.”

“I’m a photojournalist. That’s it. What does that have to do with anything? What do you want from me?” Loren asked, repeating his earlier statement as if it were his name, rank, and serial number.

“This is going nowhere,” Hans remarked, leaning against the counter while searching for usable intel on this paparazzo wannabe. “I’d suggest you fess up.” He rubbed at the sore spot on his forehead from Loren’s failed headbutt attempt. “You already made a sucky first impression, and now you’re doing nothing but pissing us off. I don’t know any photojournalists that would do anything as ballsy as what you tried in the back of the car. Who are you?”

“I’m Alexander Loren.” He sighed dramatically. “I’m nobody. What are you going to do with me? What do you want?”

“We want the truth.” Hans glanced at Mercer who was suddenly intrigued by the broken glass bits littering the floor. “You should know the commander isn’t particularly patient. So I’ll ask once more, why the hell were you snapping photos?”

“That’s just something I do,” Loren insisted.

“Even if you don’t work for a newspaper, you must work for some media outlet. Where are your press credentials?” Mercer repeated, fascinated by the glittery reflection of the lengthier shards.

“I don’t have any.”

“And you expect us to believe that you’re a photojournalist?” Hans queried, snorting. “C’mon, you could have come up with a better lie than that.”

“I’m not lying,” Loren insisted, sounding angrier by the moment. “I swear to god, I’m a photojournalist.”

“No, you’re not. You have nothing on your person to verify your story.” Hans lowered the tablet. “Just name the news station, and we’ll sort this out.”

Loren scowled. “I’m not telling you shit.”

“You will.” Julian lingered closer, sizing up his captive.

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