The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(42)

“Don’t worry about me. I wouldn’t dream of messing up your surprise.”

Mark stood there facing the lockers, although he couldn’t have seen very much even if he had his eyes open, with as little light as the keychain flashlight provided.

A slight noise behind him brought goose bumps of anticipation to his arms and neck. What could the little vixen be up to? His imagination supplied a variety of intriguing answers to that question as he waited.

The large canvas ball bag came down over his head, arms, and waist so fast and with such force that by the time he realized that it wasn’t Colleen grappling him, he found he could barely move, much less fight back. Several sets of strong arms tackled him to the floor as he struggled against the canvas, but it might as well have been a straightjacket. He felt a knee on his back and another on his neck as yet another person pulled some sort of strap tight around the outside of the bag, binding his arms tight against his side.

“What the hell? Get off me, you *s,” Mark yelled, although the sound came out muffled.

“Dream on, punk.”

Mark recognized the voice. It was Doug Brindal, senior star quarterback of the Hilltoppers football team, ex-boyfriend of one Colleen Johnson. A trail of little dots started to connect as a light dawned in his mind.

He felt his body lifted by four sets of hands, no doubt some of Doug’s good buds who had volunteered to lend a hand. His head banged hard against a corner as they carried him along, and he heard the doorway back into the gym swing open. Something screeched, and he was thrown down hard on a metal rack. From the hard, curved lumps and narrow rods he felt pressed against his chest, it could only be one of the wheeled basketball racks.

He yelled again, but this time a chorus of laughter was all that greeted him. “There’s nobody here to hear you but us, Smythe. No teachers or coaches to save your sorry ass from getting a lesson you’ve had coming all year.”

“You tell him, Doug!” Mark recognized this new voice as belonging to another senior member of the football team, Bob Fedun, a hulking 230-pound defensive tackle. “Every basketball wimp needs a lesson, and you seem to think you’re somewhere above your true station in life.”

Mark focused, channeling all his enhanced neural pathways, coordinating his muscles into one concerted effort. The bag bulged, accompanied by the sound of canvas thread popping at the seams, but the straps that had been looped around the outside held.

“Hey, watch it,” Doug yelled. “This cheap bag is starting to rip. You guys hold him tight while I give this strap a couple more wraps around his body. That’s it. Now slide him back this way. I want him hunched over the end of this thing like he was humping this line of basketballs. That’s right.”

Unable to get any leverage, Mark felt himself being tied firm. His feet were pulled apart and tied just above the wheels, while his upper body was bent forward along the line of the rack and strapped down tight against it, his arms pinned to his torso.

Doug’s panting voice came close to his ear. “Okay. Give me that knife.”

With a loud ripping sound, the top of the canvas bag was torn away from around his head.

“You son of a bitch,” Mark spat out. “If you don’t let me loose, I’m going to—”

A vicious pull on his hair jerked his head up so that he could see the knife blade inches from his throat. “You’re going to what? Kick our butts? I don’t think so, Smythe.”

The others laughed loudly.

“Tape his mouth,” Doug said. A long strip of duct tape accomplished the task.

The gang worked rapidly. Pulling his pants down around his ankles, they pulled out a large permanent marker and carefully lettered the words FOOTBALL RULES, one word on each butt cheek.

Doug pulled Mark’s head up by the hair one more time, grinning into his face. “I believe you know my girlfriend.”

Colleen bent down, her beautiful, full lips just inches from his own.

“Did you really think I would dump Doug for you, just because you can play a little basketball? Don’t get me wrong. You’re cute, but get serious.

“Doug’s father was number one in his class at Cal Tech. He got his PhD in chemistry by the time he was twenty-three. He started his own company and made his first million before he was twenty-five. Now he runs a division at the lab just because he likes it.

“Your father, on the other hand, doesn’t even have a master’s degree. He’s just a technician. Do you really think I would slum over to your side of the tracks?”

Her laughter was musical.

Doug let go of Mark’s hair. “Okay, enough of this. It’s showtime.”

The wheels of the rack squealed as it was pushed rapidly across the gym. A door banged shut as they left him alone in the dark locker room.

Mark continued to struggle against his bonds but to no avail. There were too many straps and too much tape to allow him to break free, and the duct-tape gag made it difficult to breathe, much less yell loudly enough to be heard.

After what seemed like an eternity, but which must have been only an hour, distant sounds in the hallway alerted Mark to the arrival of the first wave of students. There was no mistaking the unique crescendo of squealing laughter, yells, and banging lockers of a school hallway in full-throated cry.

Almost as soon as the sound began, the door banged open and his tormentors were back, wheeling the cart out into the gym and toward the hallway door.