Stephanie Tyler - Unbreakable

She’d be perfect. Especially because it didn’t take her long to get up and walk away from the main part of the clinic. He slid past the waiting area where there was too much chaos and not enough security for anyone to notice him and followed her into the back room.

He would recruit Dr. Drea Timmons as urgently and persuasively as possible.

When she whirled around to face him, she looked more angry than terrified that he’d followed her in here and blocked the only exit. The locker room was small and crowded, with a cot in the corner.

This had happened to her before, and he was suddenly oddly protective of someone he was attempting to kidnap.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t try to scream. Simply went to punch him in the jaw, landing a semisuccessful and damned good right cross, but he subdued her in seconds. At that point, she looked suitably impressed and fearful. And then irritated when he drew his weapon.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he started, and she snorted. “I have a friend in need of medical attention. You come with me and I’ll make sure you’re more than suitably compensated.”

Her amber eyes searched his. Beautiful eyes, like a wary lioness. Her hair was long and blonde and wavy, although it was now tucked into a loose ponytail, sans pencil. She’d only managed to take her white coat off before he’d come in, and she wore a plain black T-shirt and blue scrub pants.

“I don’t want money from you,” she said evenly.

“Either way, sweetheart, you’re coming with me.” He pointed to the phone. “Excuse yourself from work.”

“I’m off the clock now,” she told him. “No one’s going to miss me.”

He wanted to tell her that was something she should never, ever say to someone, but who was he to lecture people about doing stupid things? “Come on. I will pay you.”

He released her, a show of good faith.

“I don’t want your money. Donate to the clinic,” she said as she grabbed her bag, stuffed it with supplies like IVs and the like.

“You’ll need stitch kits. Several of them.”

“Blood?”

“Maybe.”

“Bullets?”

“No. Knife. And a rape kit,” he said quietly. The anger dissipated for a brief moment.

“Are you criminals?” she asked.

“No. We’re the good guys,” he told her. Couldn’t tell if she believed him or not, but he hoped she would walk out with him, not alert anyone that she was leaving under duress.

As if to reiterate that point, she turned to him, pointed at his chest and hissed, “This is my choice. Just remember that. Put that goddamned gun away.”

He did.

“Please. My friend, she’s really hurt.” He locked the door and she went to her locker, but not before he showed her that he’d taken her phone and her beeper.

She took her bag out of her locker, along with a black medical bag like the one he’d seen Gunner haul around.

“Is this what you consider something good guys do?” she asked quietly.

He thought about that carefully. “Yeah, it is. Because sometimes being good requires you to do some of the most fucked-up things you’ve ever seen.”

Drea stared at him, blinked. It was like some kind of debate settling itself behind her eyes. “At least you’re honest.”

“Some of the time. At least about that. Come on now.” He led her toward the door. “Do the people who work here know you well?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you talk about your personal life?”

“No. Never.”

She was telling the truth. “Well, you’re about to walk out holding hands with your boyfriend, so we can move past security.”

He put his hand out and she took it. Glanced up at him for a long second before they passed the security guard, who opened the door for him.

“Night, Dr. Timmons.”

“Good night, Ray,” she called, caught Jem’s eye and smiled. He held her hand as they crossed the street. He pointed at the diner and they swerved in that direction until he was sure the guard was distracted by other patients entering the clinic.

Then they moved behind the diner to the motel. She stiffened for a second outside the door, until he whispered, “Avery really needs your help badly. Please.”

He held his breath because he really didn’t want her to do this under the duress of a loaded gun.

“Let’s go, then,” she said, her voice sure.

He opened the door. Gunner stood, not letting go of Avery’s hand.

“This is Dr. Timmons. She’s agreed to help.”

“Drea,” she said. “You can call me Drea.” She moved to the bathroom to wash her hands, kept the door open.

Gunner raised his brows.

“What? She came of her own accord,” Jem said.

“I’ll believe that . . . never.”

“Whatever. Avery getting help’s what counts, right, G?”

“You have to stop calling me that,” Gunner muttered.

“I’m going to need some help,” Drea said.

“Not him.” Avery pointed to Gunner. “Please. Just . . . if you can do this yourself . . .”

Her voice was a plea. Jem watched Gunner nearly crumple. He took his friend in hand, forced him to sit watch by the window in the second room so he was far enough away. He bolted the door, boarded the window behind the curtain so it wasn’t visible to anyone from the outside. He rigged it so it was alarmed and handed the small camera to Gunner. He also rigged a makeshift curtain between the bed and the rest of the room, where he could still see Drea and Avery, but there would be some semblance of privacy.

He caught Drea’s eye as he did so. She nodded her approval and gloved up. “If I need you, I’ll let you know,” she said quietly. Calmly. Then she turned back to Avery, her competence shining through. “Avery, I’m going to help you and you’re going to be fine.”

Jem knew he wasn’t the only one in the room who believed that.

While the doctor named Drea was washing up, Avery resumed her stare at the ceiling. She’d been doing that while Gunner was running her IV, grateful that the ceiling wasn’t reflecting back at her. The stark whiteness was a relief, as was the fact that Gunner hadn’t pushed her to look under the pressure bandages.

He’d seen enough, though. Seen the ugly gashes in her skin. Seen the cuts through her beautiful tattoo. All of those marks hurt her more than anything.

Gunner thought he’d heard everything, but he hadn’t.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the exact coordinates on the paper Landon had held up in front of her. Her mind had been swimming, a combination of the drugs and blood loss and fear making her unable to focus for any length of time, especially on tiny numbers that seemed to swim on the page every time she’d tried to focus.

And Landon had laughed. Since he had complete control of the audio, he’d lowered his voice, turned away from the speaker and mouthed, All the information is here, Avery. Come on, don’t you want to help these people, the way James had been doing?

She’d cursed at him, viciously. Her hands had been able to make full fists by that point, but the assault had been too far under way.

He’d held the paper closer. Whispered, “These are exact coordinates of the boat that leaves late tonight. Your drugs will have worn off by then. If you survive this, you’d be in time to help them. Then again, if you’d left James alone to do his job, this wouldn’t be your problem.”

Landon’s words echoed in her ear now. Because of you, there are women and children who are suffering.

And while she knew it was complete bullshit that it was her fault, the fact that she’d had tangible evidence of a cargo ship containing unwilling, kidnapped people that was too late to stop because she couldn’t read the information chilled her.

It could’ve been a lie, but she’d seen the container invoice. The stamp with the approval number as it left Mexico. He’d pointed to the date—read it out loud to her. Taunted her with the arrival time. That cargo ship could’ve been docking anywhere in the world, and it would’ve been coming in right about now.

She’d considered telling Gunner this part of it. It was important, but since there was nothing any of them could do about it, because he and Jem felt guilty enough for something they had no control over already, she decided she was best served living with that guilt all by herself.

Stopping human trafficking was the one thing that made working for Landon bearable for Gunner. The fact that Landon would throw that in his face proved to her how depraved he was.

Drea was watching her. Avery tried to school her expression and figured she’d failed miserably when the young doctor put a hand over hers and said, “It’s okay if you cry or yell or curse. Sometimes it’s better.”

She wanted to, but she glanced past the curtain, could see the open door, although not Gunner or Jem.

In response, Drea turned the clock radio on, low enough to be able to have a conversation, but loud enough that Gunner and Jem couldn’t hear.

Avery realized her fists were balled tightly against her sides. She’d been holding her body so taut against the threat of pain that it ached to move even a little. “He didn’t . . .” She paused, licked her lips. “He cut me. He didn’t rape me.”

She swallowed.

“You were still violated, Avery. You have every right to be angry at what he did to you.”

Her body eased as Drea gave her that permission for the anger that had built to an unbearable level. It was as if the cork had been pulled from the bottle, simultaneously making the anger a living, breathing monster, but easing the intensity at the same time.