Page 62 of Unmasked Anarchy
This is bad.
So fucking bad.
He flicks his cigarette into the corner, then squats down, face a half inch from mine.I smell nicotine and aftershave.“All you gotta do,” he says, “is sit pretty and wait.”
“They’re smarter than you think,” I hiss.“They won’t fall for your pathetic plan.”
He stands, laughs, and this time the sound is real—rich and poisonous.“Tough act,” he says to the wiry man, who grins.“No wonder the clubs are obsessed.”
He heads for the door, and the wiry guy follows, not another word is spoken.He has said all he needs to say.I think about the plan.He’s left a trail.He wants them to come, and they will.Every single one of them, and likely, other chapters.So many bodies, all walking straight into the kill box.I feel the fear, raw and physical in my stomach, but I shove it down.
I need to think.
I can’t let this happen.
If I could get free, even for a second, maybe I could flip the script.Warn them, at least.But the knots are cruel, the chair solid.The room is completely empty.There is nothing.Nothing for me to use for escape.I scoot the chair an inch, two, then give up as my arms start to tingle numb again.
Think, Sable.
It doesn’t matter how much I wrack my brain, I can’t think of a way to get out of here.These men are smart, they would have thought every possible scenario through.They’re not going to fall for the old sickness, or fainting trick.They’re not going to leave weapons that I can cut myself loose with.
My stomach drops.
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this alive.
Worse, I don’t know how I’m going to save the club.
Both of them, for that matter.
~*~*~*~*~*~
THE NEXT MORNING, Iwake to a clatter in the hall.My neck is cramped, my hands swollen, and my back is soaked in cold sweat.I must have eventually passed out last night.My mouth is dry and my throat burns.I flex my fingers, wincing, and force myself to take account: still tied, still hopeless, but still alive.
The door bangs open and a young man walks in.He isn’t much older than me, maybe twenty-five or six, but he already has the face of someone who’s had it punched one too many times.Acne scars on his cheeks, hair buzzed too close to the scalp, shirt stained with something brown.His eyes flick over me, and he shows nothing.
Not a single thing.
“Get up,” he grunts, voice hoarse like sandpaper.Then with a single motion, he cuts my ankles free before hauling me to my feet.My legs wobble, my entire body tingling as the blood rushes back in.I sway, my feet feeling like they are the size of balloons.
He pulls me, but I tumble to the ground, my body not ready to work.
With a curse, he hauls me up again.
He’s not experienced.I can see it in the way his hands tremble, the way he keeps inching away from me, like I might bite.I want to bite.I want to rip a chunk out of his arm and spit it in his face.Instead, I force myself to stay on my feet and shuffle after him.The rope at my wrists is too tight, but I twist them, feeling out for the spots where the knot gives a little.
We move out of the room and down a hallway that smells like gasoline and mildew.The man walks slow, anxious, eyes darting at every shadow.At the end of the hallway, a gust of cool wind hits me full in the face.We step outside, but it isn’t completely, instead we are in a large, open barn.
He steers me through the barn, boots crunching over old leaves.I keep my head down, but I scan everything—the spray-painted tags on the wall, the busted light fixtures, the brown glass shards scattered near the entrance.There, on the ground, is a broken beer bottle.The perfect shard of glass to cut my ropes.
If I can get to it.
We’re almost past it when I make my move.I stumble hard, pitching forward and twisting sideways so I hit the ground on my ribs.The air goes out of me all at once.He curses and starts forward, but I’m already rolling onto my back, bound hands reaching for the glass.It bites into my palm, but I curl my hand around it, holding tight.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”He shakes me, hard enough that my teeth slam together.
I say nothing.
Glaring, he shoves me closer to the middle of the barn.That’s when I see it, there in the middle of the space.An old, rusted out chair.Next to it, is a duffel bag.Heavy, lumpy, wires snaking out of the zipper.I don’t need to ask what’s inside.I already know the answer.
