It had been a long and bloody tedious day of bugger all, DCI Hunt mentally concluded as he stomped up the steps toward his DI's shithole of flat. A plastic carrier bag containing the fruit juice, bread and soup he had sent Cartwright down to the store for, banged against his leg with every step he took. It matched the banging in his temples.
He could have really used Sam today, if he wasn't being such a girl. Antonio Myres was out god-damn-it, and Gene just didn't have time for this. Don't even know why I'm here he thought, bloody Samantha, should be able to take care of herself by now. Still, it was better than going home to an empty house and if he was lucky he might even get a whole conversation out of his DI this time round. Not that he was holding his breath.
Reaching Sam's door Gene decided not to knock encase Sam was asleep, and mentally applauded his own genius at having snatched Sam's keys as he exited the flat after his DI had passed out that morning. Slipping it into the lock, and turning it fluidly, Gene let himself quietly into the apartment.
'Sam?' he whispered in the direction of the bed, 'you awake?' he asked the pile of blankets he could only assume was his DI.
Receiving no answer he dumped the carrier bag on the small area of unit that constituted Sam's kitchen, and moved to shake the pile.
'Oiy,' he said a little louder than before, 'time to wake your lazy arse up Gladys, you need to eat.'
Still being ignored he stripped back the blankets to reveal… no Sam.
Confused, Gene turned around quickly, surveying the small flat, and, in a matter of seconds, quickly deducted that Sam was no where to be seen. Flicking on the light, Hunt's attention was quickly drawn to a broken vase of some description, lying next to a reasonably sized patch of drying blood.
Sam Tyler awoke, feeling cold, tired and sore all over. A particularly painful spot on the back of his head reminded him of the events that had led to his extended 'sleep', and he glanced around quickly, trying to assess whether or not he was in any immediate danger. When it appeared not, he turned his attention to his surroundings. Through eyes half closed against the pain inflicted by even the dim lighting in his tiny room, Sam attempted to take stock of his situation. All he could really tell was that he was facing a wall, tied to a chair, in a fair amount of pain, and with no idea where he was.
The list of injuries in his head had barely even begun to form before a loud noise startled him, and a door to his right opened with a bang, and a thinish, yet fairly well muscled, European looking man strode into the room.
'DI Tyler,' he said, strong Manchester accent ruing the exotic look his genes had passed on, and some how making him all the more intimidating, ' I don't believe we've been introduced. My name is Antonio Myres.'
