A/N: Sorry for the delayed posting and shortness of this chapter, but I've been working on it and decided this was the most powerful thing to lead into the imminent action. Cheers.
Star positions. Landmarks. Buildings. Ground traction. Air quality. He took note of everything, even the way he was dragged by his bound feet so that he was scraped and bruised by the gravel road. How graceful.
It was dark and bitterly cold outside, but he didn't hear the sounds of a city or of nature. The masked men were soon dragging him inside a building that was the stark opposite of what he'd been expecting.
A fortress. A formidable, well-guarded, impeccable stronghold. That was the style of most power hungry sadists, ensuring impregnable and abundant security. Guards, cameras, sensors, locks, communication, control. Of course, Moreau wasn't an ordinary criminal magnate, so he was more subtle, had more foresight. He liked to keep his toys in his basement, if they were important, or just hidden somewhere that no one would ever think to look. He had more contacts than he had enemies.
That's why the professional was taken aback by his new abode. It wasn't a torture chamber, house, warehouse, prison, or impeccably disguised establishment.
It was a barn.
A shed, a wooden alcove, the shabbiest and dirtiest he'd ever seen, and he was a farmer's son. Why the hell would Moreau bring him here? There was nothing except dirt, wooden support beams, and…
And the man himself.
Damien Moreau.
Eliot knew this would take concentration and compartmentalization, but the sight of his worst enemy, his torturer, hit him like a freight train. He shouldn't be this… scared.
If Eliot Spencer was anything, he was honest.
So he faced Moreau with a set jaw and a fire in his eyes that the bastard had never been able to put out.