Ghost War by Mike Grist (Christopher Wren #4)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.7 MB
Mike Grist is a British/American ruins explorer, photographer and author of the Christopher Wren thriller series.
Beaten down by brutal interrogations in a secret ‘deep state’ black site, cult hero Christopher Wren is last to hear about the riots raging across America.
There are no clear leaders. There is just one demand – Release Christopher Wren – and Wren alone knows what it means.
Someone’s trying to spark a war in his name.
Now downtown Chicago is on fire. LA is a war zone. Stoked by a year of division and fear, America races toward mass insurrection. Only Wren can extinguish the blaze, but the ‘Deep State’ will never give him that chance – not when they believe his cult masterminded it all…
It was small. Bed, sink, toilet. A CIA black site off the coast somewhere, probably, not bound by US law. No window, but he didn’t need one. Enough room to exercise, when he wasn’t too weary from the interrogations. Putting him through his paces; the new field guide, not the old one, but stretched to the limit.
Humiliation, stress positions, white noise, dehydration, starvation, sleep deprivation. No waterboarding, though, and nothing more violent than a few ‘accidental’ walling incidents.
He liked it well enough. It gave him no time to think.
Today it was the cold. He sat on the bed, naked and wet on the bare metal frame, and shivered. Sometimes the door opened, someone came in and tossed a bucket of icy water on him. A reminder. They were doing him a favor, really. Holding back the fog. He counted three months since Rogers had put a bag on his head outside his apartment in Great Kills, New York.
It was better not to think about that.
The door slammed open. Wren looked up, expecting another bucket. It came; drenching him. Good.
The door slammed closed. There’d be more questions soon. The questions were always the same, trying to break open his Foundation. The names of his members. The keys to his darknet. Everybody broke in time, of course. Wren was curious how long it would take. They’d be better off just leaving him alone in the dark with his own thoughts; he’d be begging to be let out within a week.
The door opened. He looked up. Another bucket. It hit him, he took it. Core temperature had to be below ninety degrees now. A dangerous line to walk; much lower and his extremities would start to rot alive. Frostbite was a real possibility. He didn’t want that, but so what if it happened?
The door didn’t close.
Someone was standing in the entrance, looking down at him. A blur at the moment, his eyes too frigid to work properly. It took long seconds of blinking.
‘Christopher,’ the figure said.
Wren smiled through the shudders. It was genuine. He was glad to see him.
Humphreys just stood there. Director of the CIA. A big kahuna. Cabinet seat next to the President. Nice of him to make the time. He wore a new black suit, had a tightly trimmed black moustache and short dark hair in a crew cut, hands relaxed at his side; no gun at his hip, no shoulder holster. The Director didn’t need a sidearm. That was just another sign of his power.
Once Wren might have gone for him in a bid to break out, but not now. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. His legs would give out after the first step. Muscles palsied by the cold. Give him half an hour and some ketamine, he’d be game to give it a shot.