Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) by Cate Clarke (book suggestions .txt) 📕

These two had changed her life. They had saved her just as Diana Weick had and would do. When this led to the inevitable end of the Readers, when she prevented the deaths of all those higher-ups in America, they would not think she was so mad.

The boy groaned, his chin coming down onto the back of the toilet, rubbing his cheek along the top so he could look at her.

One flaky piece at a time, she fed him the pastry first. Not wanting to deal with the smell that the other one was giving off yet. But slowly, she helped them gather their strength, gave them water through a metal straw and checked on their wounds.

Much to her mother and father’s disappointment, Amita was not a doctor anymore, but it did look to her as if the burned feet and ankles of the boy were almost healed.

“You have to let us go,” the boy croaked.

Rubbing some ointment on his feet, Amita replied, “I’ve told you. I am more than willing to let you go, but I need to know that you won’t go flying back to America as soon as I snip those zip ties.”

“Why?”  he cried.

“You know why.”

He kicked. Amita grabbed his ankle, and he winced with pain, holding it firmly in place as she slathered more of the ointment onto his feet. The other one just breathed laboriously as she rubbed his back with the same ointment, but his wounds didn’t look the same as the boy’s. The skin here was inflamed, white puss leaking out, yellowing patches of tissue stretching between it all.

“He’s dying,” the boy said, coughing and leaning his head the other way against the back of the toilet.

“We’re all dying, Wesley,” Amita replied, standing up, leaving the infection in the best shape she could manage. There was not much else she could do for him at this point. It wasn’t an option to let them go right now. If she let them go too early, Weick would not accomplish what she’d set out to do. Amita would never receive her true penance.

“You’re killing him!” he shrieked.

“Is that really what you think?” Amita asked as she cleaned her hands in the sink, washing them thoroughly. “I saved him. I saved you. Without me, you would be a box of ashes. Perhaps, consider a little gratefulness for all I’ve done to keep you alive.”

Sensing this was going to be a restless night for him, she put his gag on, moving the white piece of fabric around his neck back over his mouth. They had gone a few days without it—no food meant quiet. These generous pastries meant strength and complaining.

But the father—he didn’t need the gag to keep him quiet. All he could do was breathe, and that was all Amita needed him to do until his purpose was served.

Chapter 10

Wesley Tennison-Weick

He’d never felt this type of anger before. There had been frustrating games of Call of Duty, the occasional baseball or soccer game that got him riled up, but never had Wesley been so absolutely furious with a person like he was with the woman keeping them here.

It had been weeks.

It started with firm hands, yanking him away from his mother and sister, clamping on to him and pulling him through mud and fire to shove him into the back of a car. He had been drugged and starved and in darkness for so long that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to process anything outside of the tiled bathroom wall in front of him.

At the beginning, he’d been so relieved and grateful for his dad’s presence, alongside him in this hellhole. But more painful than the burns and the anger was being forced to watch his father die like this.

This lady had tried to explain herself on more than one occasion—that all of this was temporary, that she was going to let them go as soon as this was all taken care of—but Wesley didn’t trust her. He was going to get out of here.

The Weicks had gotten into this terrible burning cycle of being hostages and captives while Mom went off shooting bad guys. It seemed like Amita Voss loved this cycle and that she was using it to her advantage.

Wesley missed his mom. He missed his sister. Ratanake. Hell, he even missed Laird. He wondered sometimes what his friends at school must’ve thought of his life and if he would ever be able to graduate high school after all of this was over—if this ever ended.

His wrists were rubbed raw, the zip ties forcing his skin together behind the toilet. She had brought them some food finally, and Wesley could feel that stirring strength he hadn’t had for a long time. He needed to take advantage of it.

Pulling it against the toilet, the ceramic creaking against the tile, Wesley tried to work his mouth out of the gag. It was just a piece of spandex, though it had worked quite well at muffling any sounds that they had tried. And from what he could gather, they were high up somewhere on an isolated floor.

What really drove him crazy was hearing her type and do business just on the other side of the door, pretending like this was just a regular thing, keeping hostages in your executive bathroom. Amita Voss was the worst type of unhinged because she was absolutely convinced that what she was doing was right and not completely insane.

With a couple more juts of his lips and chin, Wesley was able to slide his mouth out of the gag. He would have to keep quiet so she didn’t know that he could get out so easily. She seemed to have a crapload of resources, and Wesley didn’t want to have to deal with a higher-grade gag over his mouth for days at a time. Besides, he had tried the screaming. He had tried banging his head against the wall.

The only response he