Page 146 of The Lazarus Protocol

She eased over to the right a couple of steps, controlling that side of the room with its low ceiling and 1950s-style “captain’s mess” vibe. “An insurance policy?”

Adam said, “I’m guessing the closet will blow up in my face.”

Montrose smiled. “Explosives aren’t really my thing.”

“Yeah, I know. You’d rather play mind games. Which is exactly what this is.” Adam moved around the table, everything in him—every nerve ending—wanting to override his brain and force his finger to squeeze the trigger of the gun in his hand. But how would that get anyone justice? Montrose would be dead, and no one would know the truth.

Families would never get real closure.

The people who’d covered up what Montrose did, and who he was, wouldn’t face justice for their part in destroying lives.

“What’s it they say?” Adam didn’t give the guy a chance to answer his rhetorical question. “Right. You’re under arrest.”

“This is my favorite part.” Steph sounded amused, but then she was also pointing a gun at Montrose.

The colonel sat back in his chair. “I’m sure you’d rather spray my brain matter over the wall behind me. Put an end to my reign of terror.”

“You’re no better than a serial killer,” Steph said. “You think you’re above the law, and it doesn’t apply to you. It’s a psychosis that makes you believe you can do anything to anyone with no consequences.”

“I’m sure there are a number of people at the CIA with the same…condition.” Montrose looked at her.

Adam nearly shot him right then. “You’re the one going to jail. Forever.”

“Or to a CIA black site where they’ll study you like the insect you are.”

Montrose sneered. “I’ll be their star consultant before you know it. The CIA will be after all my methods. For example. The present I have for you in the closet.” He pointed his fork at the metal cabinet across the room.

“Stand up.” Adam went to stand behind his back. “Hands on your head. Move slowly. Keep all your limbs where I can see them.” He needed a way to tie up Montrose. If he used the guy’s belt, he could disrobe Montrose and subject him to the same humiliation they were all supposed to have felt seeing each other mostly undressed.

All part of the torment.

But today, with his team here, Adam just hadn’t felt the same terror he had before. He could’ve succumbed and given up hope that he would get free. Could’ve allowed his mind to be swallowed up by the fear of what happened before happening again.

Instead, he’d drawn strength from the others and their presence in his life—and on this ship.

“I said, ‘Stand up.’” Adam backed up a step.

The metal cabinet rattled.

Montrose looked at it, still sitting in his chair.

Adam looked at Steph. She lifted her brows and reached for the handle. “Hopefully, it’s not an angry raccoon, or something like that.” She flipped the latch, and the doors swung open.

An emaciated male tumbled out, his hands and feet bound. A gag over his mouth. T-shirt and shorts on. Bruises and abrasions on his body.

“Dad!” Steph fell to the floor beside him.

Montrose whipped his elbow back at Adam. The chair clipped Adam in the knees, and Montrose was on him.

They wrestled for the gun. Montrose’s breath washed in his face, and those memories weren’t so easy to push away. The times Montrose had carved lines in his skin and subjected him to psychological warfare. Keeping him awake for days and making him watch images over and over. Breaking small bones in his hands and feet.

Montrose shouldered him against the wall. Adam wasn’t going to let go of the gun. He held tight to it, repeating the mantra over and over in his mind.

Steph cried out, “Adam!”

Montrose sneered. “He was a good subject, but not as good as you.”

Adam twisted the gun around, lifting it to aim up at the ceiling. Getting it in position.