Betrayal (A Delphi Group Thriller Book 4)
BETRAYAL
A DELPHI GROUP THRILLER
John Sneeden
To Lyn, Cheryl, Mary, Genette, Deborah, Terry, John, Dan, Paul, Matt, Steve, Jerry, and all the others in the secret book clubs. I can’t thank you enough for your encouragement and support.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Near Maisons-Laffitte, France
PAINFULLY, THE MAN opened his eyes to inky darkness. He blinked twice in the hope of seeing more, but there wasn’t enough light to illumine his surroundings.
Where am I?
It was a simple question but one for which he had no answer. His memory was an empty slate, and even his senses had little to report. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was on his back, his head tilted to the left. Sheets covered his chest, and a soft mattress supported his body.
As he lay there, his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and details began to emerge. The outline of a dull gray rail appeared a few inches away. I’m on a gurney. His gaze shifted upward, and he noted a window a foot above the rail. The blinds were closed tightly, but the lack of light coming through the slats indicated it was night.
Who am I?
It was an even more basic question than the first, and yet strangely he didn’t have an answer. Was it possible to exist and yet not know who he was? Was he suffering from amnesia? He shuddered at the thought.
He shifted slightly, and his knee banged against a hard metal surface. The gurney. Maybe it held a clue to his location. Maybe he’d just gotten out of surgery. If so, his memory loss could be the result of time spent under anesthesia.
He frowned. But if I’m in a hospital, why is it so dark? Even a recovery room had lighted monitors and instruments. None of it made sense.
Hoping to see more of the room, he turned his head to the right. The view in the other direction filled him with disappointment and confusion. He wasn’t in a hospital, that much was clear. There was no IV stand, no private bathroom, and no clipboard hanging by the door. In fact, the only furnishing was a table situated along the far wall. As best he could tell, it was just an ordinary room.
There was a door to the left of the table, but no sounds carried in from beyond. No nurses talking. No hum of equipment. Nothing.
Patrick.
The name surfaced out of the mist of his mind, and he knew immediately it was his own. A sense of relief washed over him. It was something he could hold on to, something he could take comfort in. Who knew, maybe it was a sign that the rest of his memory would return soon.
As if on cue, several words scrolled through his thoughts like the credits at the end of a film: One hundred twelve. Sixty-seven. Mazarine.
Two numbers and a name. The numbers were totally random. One had three digits, the other two. As far as he could tell, neither had any significance. The name was even stranger. It sounded like a race of people in the Old Testament.
His strength returning, Patrick decided to sit up. If he could get off the gurney, he might be able to leave the room and find someone who could tell him what was going on. As he rose, he felt something tug his arms sharply. Alarmed, he shook the covers off then froze at the sight that met his eyes. His wrists were handcuffed to the gurney rail.
The truth branded him like a hot iron: I’m being held against my will.
Patrick sat all the way up, his heart racing. What’s happening? Why am I being held? With his memory a blank slate, it seemed pointless to guess.
Stay calm. Panicking will only make it worse.
He took several deep breaths. As his heart rate slowed, he considered his situation. If he was being held against his will, he needed to figure out how to escape, and he needed to do it while he was still alone.
The window.
Thankfully, there was enough slack in the cuffs for him to reach the blinds. He reached out and lifted one of the slats. A half moon hung in the night sky, illuminating the surrounding terrain. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass. He was on the upper floor of a building, perhaps the second or third floor. It was hard to tell. He saw square patches of light arrayed neatly across the lawn, indicating other rooms in the building were lit.
I’m not alone.
He looked farther out and saw a dark forest looming at the edge of the light. Although the tall trees looked foreboding, they might actually provide cover if he could somehow get out of the building.
Footsteps approached outside the room. Patrick turned and stared at the door. It was the first sound he’d heard since regaining consciousness.
They can’t know I’m awake.
He lay back and closed his eyes. He heard a card swipe through a slot outside the room, followed by a loud beep. Two men were talking as the door opened.
“You’re still here?”
Intrigued by the sound of the voice, Patrick opened his eyes slightly. A blond man stood in the light of the half-open door. Another man with dark wavy hair stood just beyond him in the hall. Both men were in their thirties, and both wore crisp white lab coats.
“Lars claims he’s sick, so it looks like I’ll be pulling a double shift,” the blond man answered.
The dark-haired man laughed. “The second time this month.”
“The third time this quarter, not that I’m counting.”
“I guess you won’t be seeing Sandrine tonight?”
The blond man shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know what she’s doing.”
The dark-haired man lifted an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I’m moving on to greener pastures.”
“As in someone else?”
“Let’s just say Camille is on my radar now.”
The dark-haired man’s eyes widened. “Camille? Sandrine’s roommate?”
“She was her roommate but moved out several months ago. She was having the same issues with Sandrine as me.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the chronic whining about every aspect of her life. The never-ending sense of entitlement.”
“So you two have already split?”
“Not yet. I just need to find the right time to break things off. She’s going to go ballistic.”
The dark-haired man nodded toward the open door. “How is Ten?”
Patrick tensed in response to the question. He’s talking about me. I’m Ten.
“Just giving him another injection to get him through the night. His programming starts tomorrow.” He nodded down the hall. “What about Eleven?”
“Her programming is going well so far. In fact, we may—”
A loud beep cut him off. Frowning, he pulled a phone from his lab coat and read something on the screen. After putting the phone away, he said, “Looks like we have an issue on the second floor. Three is having another relapse.”
The blond man waved. “Have fun.”
“Of course.”
Lea
ving the door ajar, the blond man entered without turning on the lights. Patrick closed his eyes tightly and remained perfectly still. He’d expected the man to approach the bed, but instead he walked to another part of the room. Curious, Patrick opened one eye and saw the man was bent over the table. His arms moved, but it was hard to tell what he was doing. A few seconds later, he straightened and turned slightly, a hypodermic needle clutched in one hand. He mashed the plunger, and a few drops of liquid oozed from the needle’s tip.
Patrick knew what would happen next. The man would inject him with more of the powerful sedative, enough to keep him under for the remainder of the night. He also knew his programming started tomorrow, and whatever it involved, it couldn’t be good. People weren’t restrained unless they were being subjected to something bad.
As the man turned, Patrick closed his eyes and considered his options. Should he wait until morning and then try to get away? Clearly, that wasn’t the best option. There might be more than one person coming in the morning. Not only that, but there would undoubtedly be more people in the building.
No, this might be his last chance to get away. He had to act now.
The man arrived at the bed. The room was silent save for the sound of the man’s breathing. Patrick wanted to look but didn’t dare risk being seen with his eyes open. He would wait for the first touch, then…
The man pulled the covers off the top half of his body, and his hand grasped Patrick’s forearm tightly. Patrick smelled antiseptic as the man wiped the spot he was going to inject.
“Just one more little prick for you,” the man whispered to himself.
When the needle touched his flesh, Patrick sprang like a leopard. He reached out and grabbed the man’s arm, yanking him over the gurney rail. Patrick hooked an arm around the man’s neck, cutting off his attempted shout.
The man flailed and kicked, but his struggles were in vain. Patrick held him in a vise-like grip, his muscles tightening with every move. A half minute later, the man’s body went limp, and Patrick loosened his hold. Is he dead? Patrick pressed two fingers against the man’s wrist and detected a weak pulse. He was still alive.
Where did I learn how to do that? Strangely, he felt as though he’d performed the maneuver hundreds of times before.
Patrick used both hands to pull the man onto the gurney. He reached into his pant pockets and found a set of keys. Hopefully, one of them would unlock the restraints. He inserted the first two, but neither fit into the slot. He searched through the other keys and found a third one that seemed to be the right size. Much to his relief, it slipped in easily, and the cuff clicked open.
After freeing himself, Patrick lowered the gurney rails and slid onto the floor. He was one step closer to freedom but knew the task would only get more difficult from this point forward. People were being held here against their will, which meant there would likely be cameras, checkpoints, and armed guards.
He searched the man’s coat and found a penlight, an iPod, and a money clip. He held the money clip up to the window and saw it was filled with euros. I’m in Europe. It was a start. At least he knew what continent he was on.
He unbuttoned the man’s coat and found two items looped around his neck—a stethoscope and an employee badge with the man’s picture on the front. He flipped the badge over and noted a single metallic strip on the back. It was exactly what he’d hoped to see. That strip might be his ticket out.
Before leaving the room, Patrick removed the man’s shoes, pants, and lab coat. Obviously, the clothing wouldn’t hide his identity at a checkpoint, but it might prevent someone from recognizing him at a distance.
After changing into the new clothes, Patrick cuffed the man to the gurney and stuffed a sock into his mouth, a simple move he hoped would buy him a few minutes. His preparations complete, he crossed to the door and eased his head out. The corridor was dimly lit. To the left, the hallway stretched into the distance, with several other halls turning off to the right. Muffled voices came from somewhere in that direction. As best he could tell, the speakers were in another room or right around the corner.
With that route eliminated, he looked right and saw a door about twenty yards away. Based on its position at the end of the hall, he guessed there was a stairwell beyond. It was exactly what he had hoped to find. He would take the stairs to the bottom then slip out and make a break for the woods.
After checking in the other direction one more time, he stepped out and moved quietly toward the exit. About halfway down the hall, he noticed another door on his left. A sign next to it read 11.
Eleven.
The number reminded him of the conversation between the two men.
“What about Eleven?”
“Her programming is going well so far.”
Eleven was the other person they had spoken of, and it was reasonable to assume she was being held there against her will.
He paused, unsure of what to do. Should he try to help her? Even if she was awake, she was probably under heavy sedation. Maybe he should leave her where she was and focus on escaping on his own. Once he made it to the nearest town, he would alert local authorities.
No, contacting law enforcement was out of the question. For all he knew, the government might be behind the work being done here. The facility could be involved in some kind of state-sponsored experimentation. At this point, he couldn’t take any chances. Until he gathered more information, he couldn’t trust anyone on the outside.
His decision made, Patrick stepped over to the door. An electronic reader was affixed to the wall, so he removed the badge he’d taken from the man. Hopefully, the magnetic stripe would provide universal access to all the rooms. If it didn’t, he’d have no choice but to leave her behind.
He swiped the badge through the slot and waited. After a short pause, a small light on the panel turned green, and the lock clicked in response.
He let out a sigh of relief. It worked.
He grasped the handle and turned it slowly.
It was time to meet Eleven.
Chapter Two
THE ROOM WAS dark, so Patrick left the door cracked as he stepped inside. From what he could tell, the interior looked just like the room he’d been held in. A small table sat to the right, and on top of it was a tray filled with small glass vials and syringes. It didn’t take a doctor to know what was in the vials.
Across the room, a gurney was pushed up against the wall. He could see someone was lying on top of it, covered by a mound of white sheets.
It’s her. Number Eleven.
Patrick stepped farther into the room. The sheets rose and fell in rhythm, evidence she was sleeping soundly. How would she react when he woke her? He had on the white lab coat, so she would probably assume he worked there. If she spoke loudly or called out, it might alert someone down the hall.
It was a chance he’d have to take if he wanted to help her get away.
He padded quietly over to the gurney. A shock of blond hair protruded from the covers. It was a short bob cut, probably one they had given her when she was first brought in. He leaned over her and examined the soft lines of her face. She was young, probably late twenties or early thirties. She had porcelain-white skin, dark eyebrows, and a button nose. She was certainly feminine, but Patrick could also sense a toughness about her, even in sleep.
A door closed down the hall, followed by footsteps. Patrick froze in place for a full minute, but the sound faded into the distance.
He had to wake her now. It was only a matter of time before someone came to this end of the hall. He pushed her shoulder gently. She groaned and drew the covers around her more tightly, like a teenager refusing to get up for school. He nudged her again, this time harder.
“No, not now,” she mumbled, pulling a sheet over her head. She spoke English with a distinct American accent.
Another door closed in the hall, this time closer. Patrick’s pulse quickened. At some point, they’d find the man he’d tied up and sound the alarm.
The time for gentle persuasion had passed. Grabbing her shoulders, he shook her roughly. Her eyes opened immediately, and she turned in his direction. When she saw him standing there, she drew back, her eyes lit with fear.
He held up a hand. “I’m not—”
“Please, no.”
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
She used her arms to push herself into a sitting position. “Leave me alone.”
“I’m not one of them,” he whispered.
She wasn’t convinced. “Get out.”
He was trying to help her, but she wasn’t making it easy. If she continued to speak loudly, someone would eventually hear her. That left him with only one choice. Moving quickly, he clamped a hand over her mouth. She tried to squirm free, but her drug-weakened limbs made it difficult for her to fight back.
He leaned closer and whispered, “They were holding me too.”
She stopped moving. His words seemed to calm her. She studied him closely, as if trying to determine whether he was telling the truth. He held her gaze and waited patiently.
A few seconds later, her eyes softened slightly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I promise.”
She stared for a moment longer then nodded.
Patrick pulled his hand away slowly, ready to clamp it down again if she shouted. She remained silent, so he lifted his hands in the air. “See, I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her pretty eyes blinked as she tried to shake off the effects of the sedative. She glanced toward the door then shifted her gaze back to him. “Who are you?” Her voice was raspy, probably the result of a dry throat.
“I’m Patrick. What’s your name?”
She coughed twice then said in a clearer voice, “I’m Danielle.”
“Nice to meet you, Danielle. How do you feel?”
“Groggy.” Her brows pinched together in confusion. “So you’re being held too?”
He nodded.
She gestured toward his unrestrained arms. “Then how did you…?”