Free Prototype by M. D. Waters Page A

tried.
    “No,” he says. “I don’t know why. Why don’t you tell me?”
    I cannot tell him the truth. Mine could quite possibly be the only heart at stake, and I will not torture myself by laying everything out for him to feast on.
    I detach my gaze from his. We have to get back on track. “I know you cannot risk losing the respect of your men by handing me my freedom without something in return. So I have a solution I think we can both live with.”
    Pausing, I meet his eyes to gauge his reaction to my change of subject. If he really wants to, he can press rewind and force the truth from me. I hope he does not.
    He eases back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
    “Major Reid does not trust me, but if I were to help you with Declan . . . Finish what we started more than a year ago . . . Nobody knows him as intimately as I do. You can use me.”
    The last thing I want is to go anywhere near Declan, even if it is from the safety of this resistance hub, but I do not see another option.
    “And in return,” he says, “I get Reid to back off.”
    “That, and I still want to look for my parents. Any help you can provide in the way of computer access would be appreciated.”
    Those bright amber eyes study me as he rubs a hand over his chin. Sweat begins to prickle my brow as I wait. Will he let me stay?
    Let me stay, Noah.
    Finally, he says, “I’ll talk to Reid.”
    My tense shoulders collapse, forcing the pent-up air from my lungs. “That is all I ask.”
     • • • 
    Foster jogs up to me outside my room. “There you are.” Like everyone else has, he eyes my pack with suspicion.
    “I am not leaving,” I say before he can ask.
    Nodding, he follows me into my room, where I toss the bag to the floor at the end of my bed. He lifts the tablet he carries. “There’s something you need to see.”
    His grim expression kicks my heartbeat into a steady jog. “Okay.”
    Foster faces the vid screen on my wall. After tapping a few commands on his tablet, the screen blinks and shows a room I know well. Declan’s office. The direction the camera faces is what Declan called his meeting space, with a couch, chairs, and a wet bar.
    On the wall to the right are a series of winter paintings I had painted and hidden away and that he at some point unearthed. Opposite the paintings is a floor-to-ceiling view of downtown Richmond, Virginia. Sunlight glints off skyscrapers, though I know this is only a real-time projection. There are no windows in his office.
    “Why are we looking at an empty office?” I ask.
    Foster stares at his tablet, where, unlike what shows on the vid screen, the office footage moves at high speed. “Because I’m searching for the right spot. Here we go.”
    The footage now faces a different direction and my gaze falls instantly on Declan. He slouches in his chair, his left hand resting across his desk. He absently spins a glass with a shot of amber liquid in the bottom. Bourbon, if I had to guess. His gray suit jacket hangs open, his tie pulled loose. He stares across the room, barely blinking, let alone showing any hint of emotion.
    “Pause,”
Declan says into the empty room, breaking the silence.
“Go back five seconds and hold.”
    My stomach drops. On the wall opposite him, his computer runs a video feed I recognize, though from a wholly different angle. The footage he has paused is of me resting on the flat of my back on a slanted roof in the central highlands of Mexico. My exposed skin is grimy with sweat and dust. My hair is pulled back tight except for the few strands sticking to the sides of my face. My expression is one of determination, not fear, though I know I had been frightened. I barely remember the short stop after I first climbed on that roof and rolled to my back. It could have been only two seconds. Three at most. Not that it matters.
    “Play,”
Declan says, and rubs his chin. He swivels his chair to face his desk, then sits forward and leans on his forearms. He