The Belial Stone (The Belial Series #1)(15)

Tom could hear shovels striking the ground as they walked through the enclosure. The men were too far down in the ground, though, to be seen.

Other men in tattered clothes moved quickly through the enclosure: pushing wheelbarrows full of dirt up the ramps, emptying them at the dirt mounds, and then quickly making their way back down into the trenches again.

Tom’s group was led to an undisturbed part of the landscape that was marked with orange grid lines spray-painted onto the ground.

Gregory cast a scathing look across the men. “You will dig here. If you are slow, if you refuse to work, or if we don’t like you, you will be replaced.”

Tom had no doubts what that meant.

“And if you hit anything solid, and I mean anything, you stop immediately and call over a guard. Do you understand me?” Gregory pinned each man with a glare.

Timidly, they all nodded back.

With a grunt, Gregory turned away and handed them over to the man who’d slammed Tom in the back with the butt of his rifle.

“Line up, maggots,” the guard barked as he pointed to the ground in front of a wheelbarrow to his right. The men quickly complied.

“Your restraints will be clipped and you will grab a shovel. Then you will immediately go to the area I point to, and start digging. Do you understand, maggots?”

The men nodded, although most of them still maintained a bewildered look on their faces.

As the line moved forward, Tom watched the man standing silently behind the wheelbarrow piled high with shovels. The man stared at the ground, and never once looked up. It seemed like an incredible effort for him to stay standing. He was emaciated to the point of being skeletal.

Tom couldn’t even tell the man’s race or age due to the dust that covered him and the skin that sagged from his face, distorting his features. He looked like a concentration camp survivor. Although, Tom thought, looking around, the term “survivor” was probably optimistic at this point.

Each man approached the wheelbarrow and a guard cut off his restraints. He retrieved a shovel and was shoved towards a spot to begin digging.

No one said a word or made any protest. When he reached the front of the line, Tom took his shovel just like the rest. He was directed with another inmate to begin digging in a section at the outer rim of the gridlines. Tom looked around for a moment as he reached his section.

“What are you waiting for?” bellowed a guard, kicking a man on the other side of the grid in the thigh when he did not begin digging fast enough.

Tom quickly turned his attention to the ground and began to dig. And he didn’t stop for hours. The sun was actually sinking in the sky before he even looked up again.

His back ached, his hands were a mass of blisters and cramping. He still didn’t understand why he was here, but there was one thing that was one thing he knew with absolute clarity: He was a slave.





CHAPTER 11



Syracuse , NY



When Laney rounded the corner of State Street fifteen minutes later, her hands were still clenched around the steering wheel. It had become painful, but she couldn’t release her grip. Logically, she knew her attacker should be down for the count, if not dead. But she could still see him coming for her. She expected to glance in the backseat and see him pop up.

The sight of Rocky pacing along the sidewalk in front of the Syracuse Police Department helped release some of the tension. They’d met in graduate school, and bonded over their mutual love of martial arts. Laney had been teaching the class and Rocky had been taking it

A car tried to pull into the spot in front of the building and Rocky stepped in front of it, her trademark gold hoop earrings swinging. With her long dark hair, curvy figure, and small stature, the driver did not take her for a cop. Sweeping her dark navy blazer back, she pulled her badge off her belt and waved him on. The man gave her the finger and Rocky slapped the back of the car, yelling something Laney couldn’t quite make out. A small laugh escaped her lips, the knot in her stomach loosening even more.

Spying her, Rocky waved her to a stop. Putting the car in park and pocketing the keys, Laney let herself be pulled from the car and into a tight hug. And even though she was a good head taller than Rocky, she felt safer.

When Rocky pulled back, her dark eyes full of concern. “You okay?”

Laney nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Rocky seemed to understand and didn’t ask any more of her. She led her across the sidewalk and into the bustling station. They walked past the front desk, where an elderly woman in her bathrobe was loudly demanding someone find her cat, Lovey. The sergeant behind the desk buzzed them through, with an eye roll for the old lady.

A number of police officers gave her a familiar nod as she passed. Laney had been to the Syracuse Police Department plenty of times. She’d done a handful of research projects for the city: on racial profiling, gang initiations, use of force. Never, however, as a victim.

After the third officer’s gaze shifted from familiarity to concern, though, she glanced down at herself. Her clothes were splattered with dried blood. She blanched. “Oh my God.”

Her knees went weak. She reached out to the wall for support, but Rocky got there faster. She put her arm around Laney’s waist. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.”

Rocky led her through the locker room door and stopped at her locker. Spinning the combination, she yanked it off.