Force Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Okay, Chapter 2! I'm sorry for leaving you on a cliff hanger before, but it had to be done. This next chapter is about the same length, but a little more dramatic. Review, and feed Wendell!

The world was a fuzzy mess of colours and smells. Cold concrete, coffee and mould. Connie tried to shift from her current position on her side, but found that she was bound at the wrists and ankles. Her throat was blocked with a piece of cloth and covered with duct tape. She was on the ground, the freezing floor raising goose bumps on her legs beneath her skirt. She groaned softy, jumping when a man began to speak in a light Cuban accent.

"Ola, Chica," he breathed, walking slowly toward her. Connie bent her head at an awkward angle to see his face; it was one of Hector's friends. Her stomach dropped. He was from the gang. The 3rd street Assassins raped, tortured and beat women within an inch of their lives before leaving them alone for a day and then doing it all over again. They always left their victims alive—Connie had interviewed some of the survivors before Hector Phillipe's arraignment. "I see you are awake."

His voice was sweet and melodic, how heroes in harlequin romance novels should talk. His voice was staggeringly out of character with his appearance, however; a black hoodie and matching jeans over a white wife- beater and a red bandana wrapped around his forehead. "You may be wondering why you are here, Chica— you are part of a—plea bargain, let's say."

The group of men seated behind him on a folding table and chairs laughed menacingly. Connie struggled in vain against her bonds, the plastic ties cutting her skin. "Your Senor Cutter has my boy Hector, and I want him back, you dig? So we are going to trade you for Hector."

Connie was sputtering now, fighting the piece of fabric clogging her throat. If he doesn't take this off soon, I'm going to choke myself. Her mind flashed to her predecessors; Claire Kincaid, killed by a drunk driver; Alexandra Borgia, kidnapped and murdered. Her name couldn't be added to the list.

Thankfully, the young man bent down in front of her and roughly ripped off the packing tape covering her mouth. Connie gagged against the cloth threatening to block her wind pipe, gasping for air. That was removed too. She rolled onto her stomach, resting her cheek against the cold floor. Eventually, she had enough breath to croak, "Mike Cutter would never trade me for a murderer."

The men laughed again. The kid who'd been talking—Jose, she now recalled—turned her roughly over and produced a knife from his pocket. This is it, she thought. Soon another ADA will hear my name at a job interview, just another dead predecessor. She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear making its uneven trail down her left cheek. She waited for the worst to come.

Instead, she felt a sudden lack of pain as the bonds around her arms were cut. Jose peeled the plastic cuffs out of her wounds. Connie's arms flopped to the floor unceremoniously, slapping on the concrete. She let out a harsh moan as the blood rushed back to her fingers. Jose grabbed her roughly by the waist and hoisted her off the ground, planting her forcefully in a folding chair. He quickly bound her wrists to the arms of the chair, making Connie wince and whimper in pain as the new plastic rubbed in her fresh wounds. The tie clamping her ankles together was tethered to the cross bar of the chair by one of the other men.

"Just you wait, Chiquita," Jose whispered, covering her parched lips with his own. "Senor Cutter won't have any choice."

**********************

In Manhattan, Mike Cutter swore violently at his ringing telephone. He squinted in pain as he turned on his bedside lamp. He'd been having a pretty good sleep; some dream about going to a Mickey Mantle baseball game with Kathryn Hepburn. The red numbers on his clock glowed 2:15. Growling, he sat up on one elbow and picked the phone up off its cradle.

"Cutter."

"Ola, Senor Cutter." A soft voice said. Although the caller sounded non- threatening, Mike was instantly on high alert. He threw the sheets off of him and sat on the edge of his bed, the phone pressed to his ear. He knew that voice.

"Yolande?" he asked. "How did you get my private number?" Jose Yolande was in charge of initiation of the 3rd Street Assassins gang.

"It was on sweet Consuela's cell phone, Senor." Mike could hear some laughter on the other end, then a soft crackling, and another voice came through the telephone.

"M-Mike?" Connie asked. She sounded confused, tired. His heart began to pound painfully in his chest.

"Connie? Where are you?" he asked, not realizing he was yelling in his panic.

"I don't know. They took me from the...the parking garage." He heard a moan of pain, and then some ripping fabric. Connie screamed, but it faded quickly to a gasp.

"We want Hector back, Senor, or Consuela will be having fun with us." Connie had shown him photos of the Assassins' work; broken, bloody, shells of women left outside in the elements after every pledge had had his fill of her. "Bring him to the Brooklyn Bridge by sunrise." Then the line went dead.