"The air smelled like dust and burnt out cigarettes, and Kevin reasoned it must have been a motel room. He simply prayed that somebody would find him, the faith he'd thought he'd abandon suddenly coming back to him. His partner would find him, he was sure of that." – Chapter 4,The Second Parallel
Kevin Ryan could feel a migraine emerging, a pulsing line of fire which sent waves of pain down from his head to his chest. It was hard to breathe, the heavy scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke making it impossible to escape reality. The Irishman craved fresh air, the freedom of a breeze across his inflamed wrists, and the escape it promised.
His wrists and ankles were bound tight against a chair, the nylon chafing his pale skin. He struggled with tiny movements but the colourful fibres left a burning sensation as they crisscrossed madly across the exposed area. Eventually, he resigned, slumping against the back and accepting that he was trapped.
A heavy cotton mask covered his face, creating beads of sweat on his forehead as it trapped his stale breaths. Heavy footsteps made their way across the carpet, and Ryan felt his pulse race. Fear seemed to creep up on him, shadowing him from behind and tightening an invisible noose.
Suddenly, the door swung open, letting in a welcome burst of fresh air. Kevin reveled in it, and soon it was gone, absorbed by the brewing undercurrent of dust and grime. Another member approached the Irishman, and the noose grew tighter. The dizziness and nausea which had haunted him made a surging reappearance, and he swallowed deeply.
Cold metal met his temple, and he froze. The muscles of his neck went rigid, as he strained to escape the barrel of the gun. Sweat beaded down his neck, and he held his breath in fear. This was it, he reasoned, and he prayed.
He thought of Javier and Jenny, and his friends at the precinct. Jenny would cry, releasing sobs as she buried her head in their pillow. Her blond hair would fall around her face, creating a curtain and hiding her grief. He didn't quite know how Javier would react.
He might drink himself into a stupor, pouring the alcohol down his throat until the world went fuzzy. He might respond completely sober, shutting himself into his apartment, leaving only for work. Kevin hoped it would be neither. He wanted his partner to be happy, freed from the bounds of his grief.
Ryan was pulled from his ponderings as the mask was harshly removed. The moist cotton was hastily shoved onto a table, and Kevin scanned the scene before him. Jerry Tyson stood before him, a smug smile spreading across his face. The shining lens of a camera looked back at him, red light blinking in sadistic teasing.
A cord connected the camera to an open laptop, the silver casing reflecting a rough image of the battered detective. He wondered idly if this was for blackmail or for show. The Irish detective didn't put it past Tyson to kill on camera. The murderer was a sportsman.
Tyson teased the team, playing them into swallowing his innocence. The sad smiles were done which such ease that they had to be real. Ryan had been just one of the gullible few, and like the women which Jerry had conned, Kevin knew he would die by the hands of this man.
He swallowed harshly and shut his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of pain. It was difficult, surrendering to the very thing he had so far defended. His entire life he had fought against the darkness. He put those who had forced it into jail, and protected the innocent from its depth.
Now he had to walk into the inky shadows of the afterlife, alone and watched by those he cared about. Unshed tears prickled from behind his eyelids as Kevin Ryan prepared himself to kill something he had always held dear – hope.
He barely realised the red light of the camera turn green – they were filming.
