"Are you guys serial killers or some shit?"
The question echoes away and is met with silence. The walls are plain red brick and a cement floor, probably a warehouse or factory. The runes drawn around the chair I'm tied to has alarms screaming in my head. Protection. Bind. Infernal.
Fuck.
"If your looking for a ransom, I can't write a check with my hands tied."
Caleb's nagging is in the back of my head. Be careful. Don't use in public. Don't use unless you have to. If he could see me now. I can already picture the scowl on his face, it's twisted and he's angry. The picture morphs. His eyes bore into mine. He's terrified for me.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
I dart a glance to my left towards the voice. "Yeah? Well, I like knowing who the fuck I'm talking to. Guess that makes us even." The blood drying in my hair and the throbbing at the back of my skull makes me less inclined to play nice.
"You're pretty mouthy for a kid tied to a chair."
This voice comes from my right.
Ah, there's a face to this voice. Best guess, early thirties and probably an arrogant son of a bitch by the look on his face. He's got military cut brown hair, a worn leather jacket, and a break your heart smile.
"Alright, James Dean." There's an eye twitch. "Now, how about your friend?"
My head leans to the left and I glance back. Nothing… then, boot steps distinct and heavy. This mother fucker is built like a brick shit-house, as fit as Pogue but bigger than Caleb. His face is genuine like someone you would take to meet your mother, but something is off. I can't put my finger on it. There is an edge of danger when you look at the guy for too long. Warning signals are singing in my blood.
"Satisfied, princess?"
"Oh yeah. Now, I feel much better."