Read Online Play It Safe (The Safe House Series Book 2) by Leslie North - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie North
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van. “Just don’t. We’re going to get out of here and get you to a safe place. Then you can finish that sentence.”
“What if we don’t?”
“What ifs aren’t an option for me.” He slid off the bench, knees to the floorboard. “I know it’s dark, but I need to you to do what I do, exactly as I tell you. No going rogue this time.”
“I promise.”
“Sit on the floor and slide your bound hands under your rear. Thread your legs through the opening your arms make so the zip ties are in front.”
He demonstrated. Mostly her brain was still back on the boob thing.
“In front. Got it.” She did as he instructed. Three advanced degrees and that simple move wouldn’t have occurred to her. She straightened her catawampus glasses.
He rose to his feet, did something with his mouth near the ties, and in one swift motion his arms broke free.
“How did you do that?”
His hands reached for her ties. “These have to be tight for it to work. Sorry.” He cinched them until the plastic bit into her skin, and she felt her brisk heartbeat throb through her hands.
He turned her around, her back to his front and demonstrated the proper arm motion to snap the fastener. “Firm up your stomach. Yank your elbows down like you’re going to strike you hipbones. One fast motion. Everything you’ve got. Ready?”
Angela nodded.
He took a step back.
She planted her feet wide, wanting more than anything to appear stronger and more capable in Samson’s eyes. Determined the ties would snap on the first try, she channeled all her strength into the motion.
The plastic bit into her dermis then released. It took a few seconds for her mind to process that she had been successful, about the same amount of time it took her to realize that Samson may not know the Periodic Table by heart, but that he was a genius in his own way.
“I did it.” She didn’t recognize her voice—so vibrant, so infused with energy.
He didn’t take time to celebrate. Brakes squealed. The van stopped.
For good.
Doors near the cab slammed.
“We just ran out of time.”
Chapter Eight
Samson expected a cold-storage warehouse with impenetrable doors or a sparse, high-tech interrogation room or a pit where they could bulldoze dirt on top of him and make him part of a landfill.
He didn’t expect Julian Simkins’s private office.
After the informal meet-and-greet at their destination, three of Julian’s men probably wished they hadn’t come to work that day. And Samson’s right hand was, most likely broken in several places. His main objective, to keep Angela with him, had been successful, right up until Julian let her loose in a stocked laboratory and instructed her to recreate JNXN. From the crow’s nest of Julian’s office, Samson followed Angela’s movements like a mouse in a cage.
“We meet again,” said Julian, by way of opening old wounds. “Seems if we’re moving in the same circles, we should be on the same side.”
“We’re not in the same circle. Not anymore.”
Angela donned a white lab coat and busied herself with toggling various switches on the machines. She paused long enough to glance up through the wall of windows and make eye contact with Samson. Her eyes were so wide they damned near filled the lenses of her glasses.
Fuck . How was he going to get them out of this?
“I’m not the enemy, Caine.”
Julian’s milky, pallid skin, took on a greenish hue in the unnatural laboratory light bleeding in from below. He moved behind his expansive desk and lit a cigarette—a pretentious fucking gray one with a tiny gold band near the filter. He held the cigarette like he’d picked up the foul habit in the LeMarais district of Paris on leave, summer of ‘06—delicate-like, as if he had sucked off half the guys around.
“I’m the last patriot left in the South African province of which you’re so fond.”
“Patriot?” Samson choked out a
“What if we don’t?”
“What ifs aren’t an option for me.” He slid off the bench, knees to the floorboard. “I know it’s dark, but I need to you to do what I do, exactly as I tell you. No going rogue this time.”
“I promise.”
“Sit on the floor and slide your bound hands under your rear. Thread your legs through the opening your arms make so the zip ties are in front.”
He demonstrated. Mostly her brain was still back on the boob thing.
“In front. Got it.” She did as he instructed. Three advanced degrees and that simple move wouldn’t have occurred to her. She straightened her catawampus glasses.
He rose to his feet, did something with his mouth near the ties, and in one swift motion his arms broke free.
“How did you do that?”
His hands reached for her ties. “These have to be tight for it to work. Sorry.” He cinched them until the plastic bit into her skin, and she felt her brisk heartbeat throb through her hands.
He turned her around, her back to his front and demonstrated the proper arm motion to snap the fastener. “Firm up your stomach. Yank your elbows down like you’re going to strike you hipbones. One fast motion. Everything you’ve got. Ready?”
Angela nodded.
He took a step back.
She planted her feet wide, wanting more than anything to appear stronger and more capable in Samson’s eyes. Determined the ties would snap on the first try, she channeled all her strength into the motion.
The plastic bit into her dermis then released. It took a few seconds for her mind to process that she had been successful, about the same amount of time it took her to realize that Samson may not know the Periodic Table by heart, but that he was a genius in his own way.
“I did it.” She didn’t recognize her voice—so vibrant, so infused with energy.
He didn’t take time to celebrate. Brakes squealed. The van stopped.
For good.
Doors near the cab slammed.
“We just ran out of time.”
Chapter Eight
Samson expected a cold-storage warehouse with impenetrable doors or a sparse, high-tech interrogation room or a pit where they could bulldoze dirt on top of him and make him part of a landfill.
He didn’t expect Julian Simkins’s private office.
After the informal meet-and-greet at their destination, three of Julian’s men probably wished they hadn’t come to work that day. And Samson’s right hand was, most likely broken in several places. His main objective, to keep Angela with him, had been successful, right up until Julian let her loose in a stocked laboratory and instructed her to recreate JNXN. From the crow’s nest of Julian’s office, Samson followed Angela’s movements like a mouse in a cage.
“We meet again,” said Julian, by way of opening old wounds. “Seems if we’re moving in the same circles, we should be on the same side.”
“We’re not in the same circle. Not anymore.”
Angela donned a white lab coat and busied herself with toggling various switches on the machines. She paused long enough to glance up through the wall of windows and make eye contact with Samson. Her eyes were so wide they damned near filled the lenses of her glasses.
Fuck . How was he going to get them out of this?
“I’m not the enemy, Caine.”
Julian’s milky, pallid skin, took on a greenish hue in the unnatural laboratory light bleeding in from below. He moved behind his expansive desk and lit a cigarette—a pretentious fucking gray one with a tiny gold band near the filter. He held the cigarette like he’d picked up the foul habit in the LeMarais district of Paris on leave, summer of ‘06—delicate-like, as if he had sucked off half the guys around.
“I’m the last patriot left in the South African province of which you’re so fond.”
“Patriot?” Samson choked out a
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