A/N: Helloo again! What a pleasure to see you all again.. lol. This chappy is pretty short, and the gang isn't in it yet, but hang in there! They're on their way! Let's continue on with the disclaimer..

Zach: Yeah, this loser without a life doesn't own the Gallagher Girls series. *sexy smirk*

Me: OMG ZACH GOODE SMIRKED AT ME!

I sit there, shackled to the wall, for hours (6 hours, 5 minutes, 13 seconds) before something happens again, other than me being completely helpless and unable to move, that is. I have not drunk anything for God knows how long (although I suspect between 17 and 14 hours have passed since they captured me), and it is taking a toll on my body. My throat is dry – the heat, even though it's humid, isn't exactly helping, either - and my headache has spread to the rest of my body. The only areas left untouched by it are my arms, which are starting to go numb. I don't know whether or not to be grateful for the lack of feeling.

Anyway, once I notice footsteps once again coming my way, I try to look a little less pathetic – but then I remember, it's too goddamn dark in here for it to matter.

At least it wouldn't. But then, the doors open, and this time, it's more than a beam of light that escapes into the room, and it does not go away. I squint, allowing my eyes some well-needed time to adjust, but before I can open them fully again, a smashing impact throws my head into the wall. The back of my skull connects with the concrete wall, and I can taste blood in my mouth. The same sticky substance is now running down my neck, and it brings even more warmth I do not want to my body.

At least it's pain. I've been trained for this, hell, I've even experienced it before. The fact that I can't remember it is irrelevant right now.

Anything is better than being trapped here, doing nothing, and not being able to do anything about it.

I clench my jaw, turn my head back the way it was before, and open my eyes. The light comes from seven flashlights made of sturdy, black plastic and metal, and they all have a mass of ca 100 cubic centimeters. The men holding them are dressed in typical guerilla fashion, dark green cargo pants, combat boots and black wife beaters that show off their many tattoos. Windows are covered in black fabric just as I assumed; I knew I would never be wrong about something like that. My eyes shift to their leader, and I almost yell, the shock is so overwhelming.

That, that . . . man . . . that's…

I thought his name was Rafael!

"What the hell, Grant?"

Grants lookalike chuckles, a terrible, cold sound, and takes a few steps towards me, just like he did earlier (the henchman that hit me before stands a foot to my right now), and fixes his brown, almost golden, eyes on me.

"Oh, so you know my brother, do you?"

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. It's not Grant. It's not.

Good. Because, if it were, I swear to God I would have broken out of my chains and beat the shit out of him.

But it's not, so I let my greyish blue eyes pin his with an unflinching stare. He doesn't even react, just puts one foot in front of the other so he is even closer to me than before.

"I said, do you know my brother?"

I sit there, paralyzed, trying to speak but no words come out of my mouth. Desperately, my lips move against each other, my tongue performs the correct movements, and I will my throat to vibrate, but I remain silent. Frustrated, and pretty damn angry, I struggle against the thick metal links that keep me rooted to the spot, but I only succeed in making it twice as painful for my body.

Rafael sees this, and his golden-brown orbs narrow into thin slits, not unlike mine when they tried to adjust to the, by comparison, bright light.

"Puta," he mutters, before making some kind of gesture with his right hand (it is shockingly similar to a salute, only he chooses to wave his palm instead of just holding it to his forehead). Seconds later, the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth once again, and I gag.

"Yes, I know your brother," I manage to hiss at him before the red fluids almost choke me, and I have to spit them out. They land on the floor in a pool of scarlet, and I watch, mesmerized, as it spreads, staining the floor below it.

A harsh kick to my stomach pulls me back into reality. A rough hand adorned with several rings that dig into my skin forces my head up, and I am met with Rafael's morning breath, even worse than it was 6 hours, 6 minutes and 37 seconds ago. I try to pull away, but the back of my head is restrained by five long fingers twisted into my hair.

"Good. But we have some more pressing matters at hand right now," he says quietly, threateningly, and I can't help it; I shudder. His lips curve up into a triumphant smirk.

"Like – what?" I spit out, my voice full of hatred. He merely moves his thumb to caress my cheek. I can't help but compare him to Zach – beautiful, no, hot, Zach, whose touch makes me shiver with want, not disgust, and whose smirk is a gift from the gods.

What?! I can't help the fact that he is the physical embodiment of sexy!

"Oh, I don't know, what would you like to discuss?" The way his breath fans out over my face makes me want to puke. He is the most revolting man I have ever met. "Oh wait, now I remember! How about –" he pauses here, trying to add some theatrical suspense that reminds me of Bex. " –how you killed my good friend Catherine Goode? Now that, that is something I would very much like to discuss with you." He accentuates the last part with a few swift hits that robs me of my ability to breathe, but not think.

He knew Zach's mother?