The warehouse door opens with a rusty metallic sound that makes me cringe, to reveal a large guy wearing a ski mask. Oh. That does not inspire good feelings. He stops a few feet away from me, nose scrunched in obvious distaste at the smell of the vomit beside me.
“Oops?”
The guy scowls. “I’m not cleaning that up.”
“No problem, just unlock the handcuffs and I’ll do it.”
“Fat chance,” the guy drawls, foot tapping as he stares impatiently down at me. “You’re collateral.”
He tosses a bottle of water and a granola bar at my feet, just barely missing the puddle of puke. I reach out for it with my free hand, then glance up at him.
“I’m not good collateral. No one’s going to miss me.”
“Not even Dante?”
My blood goes cold. So that’s the game we’re playing now. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. But I’ll tell you that torture won’t work on me because I like that shit.”
“Weirdo,” the guy mumbles before marching out the warehouse doors.
Jeez. I tentatively sip at the water, then make myself eat a few bites of the granola. Even though they said I’m not going to be hurt, I don’t know when they’ll change their mind. This could be the last meal I get for a long time for all I know. I wonder if they have cameras in here watching me?
I shift around on the cold concrete, letting the handcuffed arm hang loosely at my side while picking at the granola bar. When I shift, I feel the telltale lump of my cell phone in my back pocket. Are these guys total fucking idiots? My phone is still on me. I wonder how long it’ll take Dante to realize that I put software on his phone so that I can track him. And that I also put it on my phone so that he can track me. See, this is what I get for being sneaky. If I had justtoldhim I was being a possessive weirdo, he’d probably already be on his way here to save me.
The warehouse door slams open again to reveal a different guy than last time. This guy is huge, built like a brick house, and he’s carrying a steel briefcase. That’s odd. Suddenly, I kind of regret eating and drinking because I have the urge to hurl again.
The man kneels slowly at my feet, movements precise and military-like with their efficiency. He unlocks the suitcase to reveal surgical instruments. Oh no. I am way out of my league here.No amount of shit talking or sarcasm is going to make this end remotely well for me. Suddenly I really miss Dante and Mason. Although the idea of Mason being trapped in a place like this makes me feel even sicker, because it would probably send him into cardiac arrest.
“Do you want to know what their nickname for me is?” the guy asks with a thick Russian accent.
“Hot stuff?” I say with a crack in my voice.
The guy lifts his head to grin at me. “My second nickname, I guess. I am The Carver, but you can call me Claude. Very nice to meet you, Reid. This will be easy if you do not struggle. Do you understand?”
“Do I look like someone that’s not going to struggle?”
Claude tilts his head like a predator eyeing their prey. “No, perhaps you don’t. But I will enjoy it more if you struggle, okay?”
“I don’t knowanything. There is no point in torturing me.”
Claude hums before tugging a very sharp-looking scalpel out of the traveling torture suitcase. He leans forward a little, gaze sweeping over me in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease.
“Stand,” Claude orders.
I do not stand. His eyes squint dangerously before he grabs my arm and yanks me up. Holding the scalpel against my throat, he presses his hands over me, grunting in victory when he finds my phone. He slams it to the ground, then crunches it under his steel-toed boot. I mewl softly, suddenly realizing I have lost my last fucking hope of being found.
Claude lifts his head and grins through his mask. “I am dealing with fucking amateurs here, but I am not paid big money to allow little mistakes. Now for each lie you tell me, I will cut either a very important appendage off or slice into that very pretty skin. Do you understand?”
My body shakes, but I maintain my glare at him because even under pressure, I am always going to be a little shit. Dante would be proud of me. If he ever knows. God, I hopehe’s keeping Mason safe. Sourness rises up in my throat at the thought of Mason, the thought of leaving him with absolutely no one in this world. I’m going to kill myself through the power of my mind alone.
“No puking,” Claude says firmly, like he’s ordering my body to listen. “It grosses me out.”
“But blood is okay?” I ask weakly.
“Blood is normal human function. Puking is unpredictable with lots of chunks sometimes since they gave you food. Do not do it. Be good boy and hold it in. This will be quick if you just tell me what I need to know.” Claude points at the ground, making his tight long-sleeve shirt ride up to reveal an intricate-looking tattoo. “Lie down.”
I lower myself to the ground with shaky legs. He carefully arranges my limbs so that I resemble a starfish, head tilting this way and that until he’s got me exactly how he wants me. Claude spends a few moments snapping on latex gloves, then carefully slides my shirt up my abdomen. He takes a few moments to stare at the ladder of scars on my stomach, then at the carefully placed lines on my thighs.
He hums, then lifts the scalpel. “This will not feel good because you are not controlling it. My apologies.” He chuckles, ruefully shaking his head at his own joke. God. What a weirdo. “Such a weird saying. I am not really sorry, but it felt nice to say. Do you know who Dante and the others work for?”
