Just as the wave of pain sets in, he strikes my right cheek. This blow is just as violent as the first. My vision fades to white for a second, and the next thing I’m aware of is his two fingers seizing my cheeks in a vicelike grip, and squeezing them together.
“Next time, you will listen to me,” he purrs, his voice sweet again.
I do my best to swallow, my eyes watering from pain.
“Yes, sir,” he says in a mimicking tone.
“Y-yes, sir,” I breathe.
Finally, he lets me go, and I scurry backward, pressing my back against the upholstery of my seat, realizing as I do that it’s also the color of blood.
The entire inside of the car looks like an old, oozing wound.
What have I done?
As I shrink back, my hands touch the fabric of my dress, lying crumpled in a pile, and my thigh presses against a small, hard bulge.
The knife.
My heart palpitating, I watch Gabriel open the car door and get out, his shoes clicking loudly on the pavement. He makes a sign and the other men follow him. Taking advantage of a quick moment in which they all have their backs turned, I slip my hand into the pocket, grab the small metal object, and hide it under my armpit.
Just then, Lazarus slips his hand around my hair like his older brother had done, and tugs on it to make me follow.
The cold night air envelops me, making me all the more aware of my nakedness. I fold my arms around my body, keeping the knife trapped under my armpit while shielding my bosom from their eyes.
Idiot. That’s the least of your worries.
I try to retreat into my numbness, to detach from the situation, but these past few weeks of captivity have demolished what I’ve spent an entire life building up. I feel raw, exposed. Only the touch of the knife against my skin gives me the strength to walk into the gaping entrance of the building.
I take the warehouse in at a glance. It’s an imposing structure of old red bricks, and its shuttered windows and generally unkempt appearance make it clear that the place is abandoned. There doesn’t seem to be any light inside, and as I follow them in, I’m plunged into nearly pitch blackness. I take advantage of the few moments in which the others can’t see me to rearrange my weapon. I press on the little button and wince as it snaps open, its blade cutting into my skin.
Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but getting out of here alive.
There’s a slight buzzing sound as Gabriel flicks on a light switch, and I do my best to study my surroundings while Lazarus, keeping his hold on my hair, forces me forward, across the large, open space.
I’ll need to know this place well if I want to get out of it.
Creaking, rusty metal beams are erected everywhere, as though there was once some effort put into keeping the warehouse from falling apart. But any attempt to care for the structure appears to have been abandoned a long time ago.
The floor is made of rotting planks, slabs of uneven wood, and tangled shrubbery that seems intent on overtaking everything. Small puddles of dirty water make the floor slimy and slippery in some areas.
What with stubbing my toes repeatedly, and grazing my soles on various sharp objects strewn on the ground, my feet are bleeding by the time I’m thrown into a small room, so viciously that I land hard against the back wall, and my knife is nearly dislodged from its hiding place.
Luckily, it stays hidden. At a nod from Gabriel, Noel ties my wrists and ankles behind my back, then to an old pipe, before stuffing a large dirty rag in my mouth that makes me choke and leavesan acrid taste on my tongue. He forces me to hold it in, tying another rag around my face.
“Though she doesn’t seem capable of making any noise, anyway,” he snorts, taking a step back to admire his work.
“She will soon,” declares Gabriel.
“We’re going to torture her?” asks Aaron, and even in the shadows, I notice the cruel glint in his eyes.
“Yes, later. First, let’s see if the nanochip is hidden in her clothes. If it isn’t, we’ll force the information out of her.”
“What if she doesn’t speak?” he questions.
“She will, by the time we’re through with her,” purrs Gabriel. “It’ll be the difference between a slow death… and a slower one.”
The whimper I make sounds muffled against the rag. But the pain of the knife slicing into my armpit, which I’ve somehow managed to keep concealed in spite of my bound position, keeps me focused.
