Conrad points to what looks like some tiny crawlspace over the rocks.
“Devin made us aware of this…” He mutters as if that explains anything.
“You have a leak.” I state.
“It’s not well known.” Conrad replies.
“It’s well known enough to steal my wife away through it…”
But how the fuck did they know we were going to be here, how the fuck did they know any of this?
Magnus shakes his head. “Antonio, you need a medic. Now.”
“I don’t need anything until I have her back,” I growl, but my strength is waning. A dizzy spell washes over me and I stagger, my hand pressing harder against the bloody mess of my abdomen.
Magnus grabs my arm, steadying me. His voice is low, urgent, stripped of its usual bluster. “Sit the fuck down. You’re bleeding out. You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.”
The logic is infuriating because it is true. I am no use to anyone unconscious or bleeding to death in this shithole. With a final, furious snarl, I let him and Conrad lower me onto a crate a guard drags over. I glower, a beast forced into a cage as a medic kneels and begins cutting away my shirt.
I stare past them into the darkness. Did she go willingly? Was all of this planned? Was I so fucking stupid I didn’t see any of this coming? Did she pretend the entire time? Pretend to love me, pretend to want me?
She betrayed me, she did this. She looked into my eyes and she shoved a piece of wood into my gut with the clear intent to kill me.
She wanted me dead.
And I can’t blame her.
Time has become a liquid, a thick, syrupy substance that I am drowning in.
It has no beginning and no end, marked only by the lurching of the vehicle, the hum of tyres on a road and the slow, agonizing crawl of my own bodily needs.
Days, I think. It feels like days.
There is a coarse sack over my head, smelling of dust and the faint, disgusting tang of old sweat.
My world is a hazy darkness filled with the sound of my own ragged breathing.
The first day, I was all fire and defiance. I screamed until my throat was raw, thrashing against the ropes that bit into my wrists and ankles. The second day - or was it still the first? - the fire began to gutter, replaced by a cold, gnawing dread. My body began to make its demands known. A dry mouth, a cramping stomach and eventually, the most insistent, humiliating need of all.
I begged. I used words I never thought I’d say, my voice a pathetic croak. “Please. I need to… please, just let me go to a toilet.” The only response was a low chuckle from somewhere in the moving darkness. The denial was absolute.
I held on until the pain was a white-hot knife in my bladder, until my muscles trembled and spasmed with the effort of containment. When the release finally came, it was a hot, shameful flood that soaked my thighs, pooling beneath me on the cold metal floor of the van. The acrid stench rose immediately, a personal hell I am forced to inhale with every breath.
It is the smell of my utter powerlessness.
Now, the van shudders to a halt. The engine cuts out, and the sudden silence is more deafening than the roar. I tense, my aching body screaming in protest. Rough hands grab me, hauling me to my feet. My legs, stiff and numb, buckle but they hold me up, their grip impersonal and bruising. I am dragged over rough ground, then a smoother, cooler surface. Concrete.
A door creaks open, and the air changes, becoming still and vast, echoing with our footsteps.
I am shoved backward, my body landing hard in a rigid chair. Cold metal presses against the damp fabric of my dress. More ropes, efficient and tight, secure my torso and legs to the structure.
Then, the hood is ripped away.
Light, harsh and fluorescent, stabs into my eyes. I blink rapidly, tears welling as my vision swims, trying to assemble the blinding shards into a coherent picture. The world resolves slowly. I am in a warehouse, vast and cavernous. High ceilings crisscrossed with rusted steel girders, where dust motes dance in the beams of light falling from high, grimy windows. The air smells of oil and decay.
Around me standing in a loose, menacing circle, are men. Six of them. Dressed in black tactical gear, their faces hard and impassive. Assault rifles are slung casually over their shoulders. Their eyes are not impassive, though. They are evaluating, cold, and glinting with what can only be a cruel amusement.
My voice, when it comes is a dry rasp, scratched raw from disuse and screaming. “Who are you?” I swallow, trying to summon moisture. “Where is Antonio?”
