Indefinite (Salvation #6)(68)

The door opens, but before I can cross the threshold, my stomach tightens, forcing me to grip the door so I don’t fall to my knees.





36


Quinn





I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. No matter how hard I attempt to engage the muscles, they won’t budge. My body is heavy and everything feels murky.

The air around me is saturated with the scents of rust, dirt, and salt. I try to listen for any noises, but all I hear is the sound of running water. Which tells me I’m alone. I start to recount my training, stay calm, use what is available. At all costs, think through each action because the only control I have is reactions.

I was taken, hit over the head, and drugged. Clearly, someone is tied to Cole and knows who I am. Now, I need to figure out where I am so I can create a plan to get out of here.

There’s the noise of a train which means I could still be in New York City, but I have no clue at this point. Hell, I don’t even know how long it’s been. Hours? Days? There’s no way to tell, but I know I’m hungry, thirsty, and I could really use an Advil.

I move my neck side to side, cracking my jaw because the bastard who hit me definitely didn’t hold back. This guy knew exactly where to hit to cause maximum damage, which wouldn’t be Jackson’s former in-laws.

Not to mention he had already left by the time I got clocked.

There’s a noise outside of whatever room I’m in, but the tingling in my fingertips draws my attention. My arms aren’t tied, and slowly, my limbs come back to me. I try to force my vision to return, but it’s still no good. So, I work on what I can.

I lift my arm a bit before it falls back to my side, but that’s progress.

I hear a low chuckle, and I instantly want vengeance. Whoever is sitting here is watching me, studying my movements, and I won’t be making another mistake. He thinks I’m weak, which I only am thanks to the fucking drugs he gave me.

The next time I move, it’ll be to slit his fucking throat.

I focus on my toes, which are still in my shoes. I move each one deliberately. Each time, the movement becomes more controlled.

Since I’m on my side, the next are my fingers. I curl them, one at a time, until I’m able to make a fist.

Good. At least whatever drugs they gave me are wearing off.

Now, I start to count. Time is the only measurement I can use to start to get a grip.

The next things I can control are the muscles in my legs. And as each moment passes, another piece comes back to me.

“He’s waking up,” the same guy from the car says.

Whoever he’s talking to agrees without a word, just a slow hum.

“Should we knock him out again?”

Again with only a sound, indicating he doesn’t want to do it.

This guy is going out of his way to keep his identity concealed. Slowly, I crack an eyelid open. If I know who I’m dealing with, I can get my ass out of here and back to Ashton.

As soon as I do, something moves, blocking my view. “He said you would do this. You’d start to gather your wits and then you’d try to see. You’re inventorying your situation, but we’re as smart as you are, and there’s no getting out of this until we get what we want.”

So he thinks.

I open both eyes to the blinding light, but I won’t close them. I don’t care how uncomfortable it is.

The guy I’d never seen before takes a step closer, still keeping me from seeing who is behind him and clearly the puppet master.

“Water,” I croak.

“Not yet.”

The person behind him moves, I can hear his footsteps approaching.

Guy in front asks, “Should I bag him?”

My breathing stays steady even though I’m anything but. That was the one weakness I had—being blind was the worst torture. I’d rather be beaten than have a fucking bag over my head.

“There’s no need to,” I say with my throat feeling as if it’s on fire. “I don’t know where I am anyway.”

The orchestrator laughs, and I try to move to catch a glimpse, but all I see are camouflage pants and boots.

He’s either military or got his hands on our gear. If he were a SEAL, it would lend to Jackson’s belief that the problems weren’t stemming from his first wife’s side. If I had it wrong . . .

It means that I could’ve been followed and that what I saw wasn’t real.

What if this is a guy from Jackson’s past military time?

It could be a SEAL or any number of options.

My mind is still a little slow, and it takes me a second to register the guy in front of me has stepped to the side and now has a gun pointed at my head.

I look over at the other guy, the one who is clearly in charge. Our eyes meet for just a second and I freeze in disbelief, not believing this could be true.

“Hey, buddy.”

Then the bag is dropping over my head and a sound that no soldier can mistake rings out.





37





Pain.

Pain like nothing I’ve ever known tears through my body. I scream out, wanting to stop it. Trying to wail against it. Praying for it to stop because surely this means I’m dying.

There is no way anyone can live through this.

The sounds of my screams echo around me.