Operation Sea Mink Read Online Free PDF

them would have left the doctors to go after Miller and du Trieux in the first place—but if they had, they’d surely have intervened.
    Losing steam, Miller unclenched his fists and sat on the floor, resting his back against the concrete wall of his cell.
    There was no sense in guessing. He just had to wait and see what they wanted. Either that, or he had to wait for Gray to spring him. He knew there was no way in hell Gray would let this fly for long.
    Miller blinked, closing his eyes against the glare from the lamp that hung from the ceiling over a table and two chairs. He couldn’t bring himself to sit there. Not yet. It felt as if sitting in one of the chairs was admitting they’d been right to quarantine him—that they had a right to question him. He couldn’t concede that.
    The cement felt cold against his back as he rested his head. God, he needed a shower, and for more than just to get clean. A shave would feel great, too. There was a bucket of filth in every pore of his skin.
    Images of angry, starved, thrashing Infected flashed in his mind’s eye, and then Samantha’s hands stroked her long braided hair and he popped his eyes open, lifting his head from the wall to blink away the memories.
    He didn’t want to re-live that escape. Not yet, probably not ever.
    Where was Doyle with his magic paper when you needed him?
    He got back to his feet with the intention of continuing his pacing when the door unlocked and a man entered.
    Miller knew him as Paul Kimball, a leader from Shank. Short and broad-shouldered, Paul struggled to find a uniform that fit. His biceps were so large they bulged against the seams of his shirtsleeves. He eyed Miller up and down, then nodded toward the table and chairs.
    “Miller,” he said.
    “Kimball.”
    Kimball sat at the table and waited for Miller to do the same.
    Begrudgingly, he did. He rested his hands on the table and glared directly into Kimball’s eyes.
    The man’s face barely moved. If Miller wanted to intimidate the captain, it wasn’t going to be easy.
    “Why am I in quarantine?” Miller asked. “I’m not Infected.”
    “We had to be sure.”
    “And?”
    “You’re clean.”
    “Of course I’m clean. What about du Trieux?”
    “She’s clean, too.”
    “I could have told you that. Have you let her loose?”
    “Yes. But she won’t leave until you are.”
    “So?” Miller’s eyes widened. “Why am I still in quarantine?”
    “We have a few questions. Things we’d like you to explain.”
    Here it comes , Miller thought. The third degree. The proverbial thumb screws about Samantha, about his loyalties, about what he knew of the Archaeans. He braced himself while simultaneously trying to appear calm. “What questions?”
    “We found some odd behaviour in your search at the refugee processing office.”
    Miller rubbed at his earlobe and fought back the urge to laugh in Kimball’s face. What the hell was this now? What searches? Miller wracked his mind, filtering through memories of battles, blood, and bombs and tried to recall anything to do with the refugee processing office—and then it came to him: when he thought he’d seen Samantha.
    A few weeks back, after the bomb explosion, he’d gone to the refugee processing office and searched their mess of unfiled, random stacks of forms to see if she’d been brought into the compound. She hadn’t—at least, not as far as he could tell. But he’d asked several of the staff if he could browse through their paperwork, and apparently he’d made an impression.
    Fuck . If he’d known they kept records of who looked through the files, maybe he would have kept his suspicions to himself.
    Were they asking him because they knew about Samantha and the Archaeans? He doubted it. If they did, they’d probably be shooting him in the head for treason after having met up with her again, or ripping out his thumbnails for information.
    This had to be about something else. Sometimes the best defense was a good