Chapter 6 - The Ice Queen's Gambit
Sienna woke up with a pounding headache and the metallic taste of chemical vapor in her mouth. She was bound to a heavy wooden chair in the middle of a vast, drafty concrete room. The smell of rotting grain and wet concrete was suffocatingly familiar—she was back at the Damen Avenue grain elevator, the very place where her new life with Dawson had truly begun.
Victor stood near a rusted window, looking out over the dark river below. Three heavily armed men stood guard near the heavy steel doors.
"You're a very foolish girl, Sienna," Victor said, turning to look at her. "You thought you could play the hero. You thought a little bit of digital evidence could stop an organization that has survived three generations of law enforcement."
Sienna swallowed hard, trying to clear her throat. "The evidence is already in the hands of the federal government, Victor. Even if you kill me, the investigation won't stop. You're already dead. You just haven't stopped breathing yet."
Victor walked over and slapped her hard across the face. The impact rattled her teeth, and a thin trickle of blood began to seep from the corner of her lip. But she didn't cry out. She simply spat the blood onto his expensive leather shoes and looked up at him with cold, hazel eyes.
"Dawson is coming," she said softly.
"I know," Victor sneered, pulling a silver pocket watch from his vest. "And he will bring the decryption keys, or he will watch you fall. Either way, his little dream of a peaceful life ends tonight."
But Sienna wasn't just waiting for Dawson. While she had been unconscious, her fingers had been working tirelessly against the rough hemp rope binding her wrists behind the chair. Her thin, scarred wrists were flexible, and the years of working in high-pressure environments had given her a pain tolerance that most people couldn't comprehend.
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Slowly, agonizingly, she began to slide her right hand through the knot, the rough fibers tearing at her skin, reopening the old, white scars. She felt the warm, slick flow of her own blood. It hurt, a burning, white-hot agony, but she welcomed it. The blood acted as a lubricant.
With a silent, desperate wrench, her hand slipped free. She kept her hands behind her back, waiting for the perfect moment.
