And the room comes alive in a way I wish it hadn’t.
The basement is worse than I imagined in the dark.
Concrete walls stained with old water damage and rust. A concrete floor that’s seen better days, dust swirling in the air now that the lights have disturbed it.
A metal chair sits facing the back of the room.
A cage sits against the far wall.
Empty.
But the kind of empty that means it wasn’t always that way.
I can’t believe we didn’t notice all this before…but then again, we weren’t doing much moving around.
“There,” Cortéz laughs, spreading his arms as if showing off the décor. “Much better. My, my…” he tilts his head, grin sharp and condescending. “You two lookhorrible.”
Knuckles shifts in front of me, shoulders squared, hiding how badly he’s swaying.
“Now, I need you to come with me,” Cortéz says, pointing directly at me like he’s choosing a wine bottle. “We need to have a… discussion.”
“I don’t fucking think so,” Knuckles growls.
Cortéz chuckles.
“Don’t worry, big guy. I have plans for you, too. I just need to get your boy toy ready for my friend. He likes it when I bring him back gifts from across the border. We’ll be going home tomorrow.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” Knuckles snarls. He shoves me behind him, backing us into the wall as if he can physically hold back fate by sheer force of will.
“Itoldyou,” Cortéz sighs dramatically, “you’d get your turn. I just need you to cooperate long enough for Spike to arrive and get his clubmate back alive and in one piece. Your death,” he gestures lazily, “would only enrage him. I’m practically doing you a favor. Saving your life. See?”
“No, I don’t fucking see,” Knuckles roars. The sound tears out of him so violently his entire body trembles, and he collapses hard to his knees.
Cortéz’s eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Hmm. I didn’t notice before, but you’re sick. What is it? The flu?”
“Pneumonia,” I lie quickly. “He should be at home resting. Not down here in this wet basement. Please… let him go.”
Knuckles jolts, fury flashing in his eyes as he forces out, “Eli.”
He tries again to stand.
His legs don’t cooperate.
His breathing is ragged, wet, terrifying.
Right here in the harsh yellow basement light, I watch the truth settle over him like a shadow.
His body is done. He’s held on longer than he should have. And there’s nothing left.
This is it.
He’s about to die.
The realization punches my chest in two. My heart aches, and my eyes burn, but buried under the heartbreak is a guilty, trembling relief.
Because whatever Cortéz plans to do…Whatever nightmare he dragged us into…Knuckles won’t have to suffer it.
He won’t make it that far.
