I'm testing the waters with this one. I've been dying to write a story like this for awhile now and have waited till the right character and plot came along. This one was inspired by a book I read a rather long time ago that I can't remember the title of. I just remember it being really good. A lot of you have been asking for an Adam centric story and I hope you enjoy this. I'm excited to get this started. Let's do it.

Chapter 1- Not In Chicago Anymore

It was dark. He knew that, or at least that's what his vision told him. He kept blinking, attempting to sharpen his vision but pitch black was all he got. His whole body ached, like when you fall asleep in an awkward spot and awaken to serious sores and asleep limbs. He tried to alleviate the pins-and-needles sensation but discovered restraints were keeping him in a fetal position. The heart rate was beginning to pick up now. He had no clue where was or how he got in this predicament. Breathing exercises were being used now. He'd slowly inhale, hold the breath, and slowly exhale. Freaking out wasn't going to help solve the problem. Down one of his senses, he relied on the usable ones to figure out his location. There was motor sound, like a boat engine. From the sound of the whine, he was on a decent sized boat. His suspicion was confirmed by the sickening bobbing of the floor under him. He was brought back to a memory of the Staten Island Ferry on a family trip to the big city during the Fourth of July. He was super young and stupid enough to stuff his stomach before boarding. Long story short, he wound up puking over the railing in front of a large crowd. Reminiscing turned his stomach queasy and, in no time, he reenacted his ferry memory. Despite his attempt at being quiet, the retching signaled the boat crew of his consciousness, causing a rattling, key turning sound behind him.

"Hey, you're up. And you puked, thanks man." A swift, air releasing kick to the back was his reward. He let out a painful grunt.

"Knock him out," came from another voice. Moments later, a sharp, prick sensation began erupting on the back of his neck. He tried fighting it, but unwillingly gave in to the drug's tempting slumber. The boat kept cruising up Lake Michigan, headed to parts unknown.

He woke again to a new pain source. This time, it was his head hitting a cold, solid floor with a hard thud. Still completely unaware of his surroundings, he remained still, hoping to fool his captors for a bit. The engine this time was definitely a car, most likely a van. What is with criminals and vans? Is there some guidebook that instructs them to buy vans and vans only? Gosh, he must be suffering from a concussion. He made note of the turns and stops. Four left hand turns, five right hand turns, and four stops. His conclusion was that he and his party were somewhere agricultural. Few stops meant few traffic lights. The numerous turns meant he was far away from a major road network. Not to mention the bumps and jostles of the van hinted at poorly paved roads, demolished by heavy trailers and equipment. He was in the middle nowhere with probably no cell coverage, no easy connection to the world. Whatever trouble he was in, it was big and bleak.

The van made it's final stop some fifty minutes after the journey began. Doors were immediately slid open and two strong arms grabbed his body. Oh the screaming pain his legs were in. His instinctive reaction was to double over, vying for a moment to get the blood flowing in his legs. Instead, he got a kick in the back of the knees, causing him to loudly scream in pain.

"Don't fight us and we wouldn't have to do that. Let's go. Get up!" He felt gravel under his knees and smelled livestock. He was on a farm in some remote area in a state he probably didn't live in. He was scooped up off the ground again and dragged over creaky porch steps. A door was opened and he regained his footing on some type of flooring. He immediately picked up the scent of food. It was a familiar smell. He thought it might be beef and wine that's being cooked in an oven. There was a hint of tomato in the air. He also detected music. He couldn't understand what was being sung, but the swelling orchestra and loud, boisterous, vibrato voice gave it away: opera. It was the non-opera voice that was singing along that sent chills down his spine for the first time. Someone was expecting him and they were preparing food. They were glad to have him, bound and all. And the singing was joyous. His presence was planned. What on earth was this nightmare. The two strong arm dragged him towards the voice.

"Ah excellent, you've made it! Place him in a chair over there." The music was turned down as a chair appeared under his body. He could hear another chair being pulled across a floor before stopping, a small grunt followed. The blindfold was finally removed, leaving his vision painful and blinded. Small, frequent blinks revealed his location. It was a farmhouse with a very rundown kitchen. He looked over to the dusty window to see it was indeed dark outside. The paint was peeling from the ceiling and the applicants looked to be straight out of the 1970s. The music was coming from a radio with extra large antennas. There was a worn, wooden table in front of him covered in food and drinks. At the other end was the singing voice, the demon of his nightmares. He was a stout man that screamed a mobster. His dark hair was streaked back and his skin was naturally tanned. He wore a dark button down shirt that was almost bursting in his middle section. The signature gold ring was adorned on his pinkie finger.

"Hi Adam Ruzek, I'm so glad you're hear. Please, have something to eat. I hope you like Italian food." Adam just stared at his kidnapper dumbfounded, wanting nothing more than to rush over and rip his head off. This guy knew his name and yet, Adam couldn't recognize his face. What other major information did this guy have on him, on Intelligence? Adam felt eerily sick.

"Oh, where are my manners. Undo his cuffs." One of the henchmen obeyed the command, freeing Adam's wrists for him to slowly massage. The man across from him began filling a plate for himself, loudly chewing on a piece of bread during the process. He poured a glass of wine for himself before offering the bottle to Adam. A glare was the only response.

"You know, Adam, That's not the proper way to treat a host." That one set him off.

"Host?! Since when did hosts kidnap their company! Look man, I don't know who you are but.."

"-You're right, you don't know who I am. Sure, you and your little team from Chicago have tracked down people who work for me, but you have no clue who you're sitting across from. You've been knocking out pawns, thinking the king wouldn't notice. Well, consider this your greeting from the king." He went back to stabbing his food and loudly chewing. His motions made Adam nauseous.

"What kind of psycho prepares a final meal for his prisoners," Adam replied. The large man began laughing a deep, joyful laugh. Adam was sweating hatred at this point.

"One that wants you to remember this time. Because the next few days will be hell for you. You'll stay up all night, wishing for this time where you could've spill all your little secrets. So eat up, because this is it." Adam felt the blood draining from his body. His skin was honestly crawling. He hoped his dread wasn't showing on his face. His training kicked in. The training they taught you at the police academy to use for these dire situations: interrogation via torture. He blinked and instantly, his fear was swallowed. There was no way he'd let his captors even think they'd secured an advantage over him.

"Take him." In moments, the blindfold was placed over Adam's eyes and he did a reverse trip to the gravel path outside. The party made a right turn and dragged Adam a few yards to a barn. Adam was chained to a ring in an abandoned stall. The blindfold was removed and the stall door violently slid shut, making him jump as he adjusted to his new surroundings. The chain he was connected to had a lengthy line to it, allowing him to move around

It was a chilly evening and he only had jeans and a long sleeve shirt on. He shivered as he scanned the stall, looking for something to keep him warm. His search was rewarded with an old horse blanket and note that read, 'sweet dreams, we begin tomorrow.' He tore the paper with uncontrollably shaking hands. Perhaps the worst part of any situation is waiting, anticipating the inevitable outcome. Adam had no clue where he was, who had him, and if the team had a sliver of a chance to find him before he became mulch for the fields outside. Pure, unadulterated fear was coursing through his veins. No one expects to go through situations like this one. He didn't know which would break first, his body or his knowledge. Despite his attempts to toughen himself up, he'd always return to the belief that he was in his final days. Adam Ruzek, police officer for the Chicago police department, and a revered member of Intelligence, would be found in this stall in some remote area of the country. Obviously, he didn't sleep well that night.