Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Thirteen.

The next time you peel open your eyes, pain sears through every inch of your head. From what, you aren't entirely sure. Since you've been drugged, only bouts of brief consciousness have come and gone, and those moments of lucidness are drowned in a foggy haze. You don't recall hitting your head, but then again, your senses ceased to be helpful when they dosed you. There are flashes of Carlos and the muffled sounds of the ongoing party, but from there, you are drawing a blank.

They must have relocated you elsewhere in the compound because now only an eery silence unsettles you to the core. From what you can remember from your gathered intel, hundreds of people are in and out of this place daily, so this quiet surrounding you feels unnatural. Perhaps they wanted you moved as far from the bustle of the event as you could get, deeming your presence a liability to their well-planned evening. There's nothing like an undercover narc to come in and ruin everyone's fun. The thought pulls a humorless huff from your lips, the movement reigniting the ache in your skull. OK, no laughing.

Soreness sings through your other limbs, and it dawns on you that you are roped to a metal chair, hands, and feet bound firmly with cable ties that bite into your skin. Perfect. Dim lighting allows your eyes to adjust easily, the walls coming into focus as the drug-induced murk dissipates from your brain. You are tied up in the middle of a concrete room. A singular exit lies to your left, the hallway beyond dark enough that it doesn't provide much regarding your location. There is a rickety-looking desk before you, its scuffed surface blank beside some unfortunate-looking scratch marks deep through the center. That doesn't bode well for you at all.

A failed attempt at wriggling your hands together has you groaning in frustration, but the deep-seated anger is more with yourself than with the situation. Something had gone very wrong tonight. Your well-developed lies fell flat, their purpose altogether irrelevant the second Carlos revealed he knew you hadn't come here alone. Had he known this entire time? How deep did his knowledge of your team's objectives and locations run? Were they also bound in decrypted rooms much like this one? Of course, in a situation of genuine peril, your concern is for those you care most about rather than yourself. Suppose you had unknowingly walked into this trap, then OK. You can live with the consequences of that, but your friends? Your heart races painfully at the thought of anything horrible happening to any of them. Please let them be alive.

"Morning, Princess." A man drawls from the shadows of the hallway. That voice and its subtle accent are becoming familiar in a disheartening way. Foolishness bred the hope that maybe you'd just imagined all the crap that led to this moment, but here comes Carlos to bring reality crashing back in.

"This isn't a great start to our friendship." Your voice is gruff from the dryness that plagues your throat. It begs you to question how long they left you unconscious. There is no way to keep time when you're locked away behind concrete walls and drugged out of your mind.

Carlos lurks on the threshold to the room, arms crossed before his chest, body leaning casually against the doorframe with an air of amused boredom. He slowly eyes rake across your trussed-up frame, the corner of his mouth lifting to a smirk.

"Like I said, it's insurance. Don't take it personally," He takes a step towards you, releasing an overdramatic sigh, "I don't want to do this, but you haven't given me another choice."

The closer he draws to you, the more the dim lighting washes over his long frame to reveal the unseen details. That same pistol familiar with your back is tucked into the waistband of the jeans he has changed into. His formal attire has vanished entirely, replaced by a simplified outfit of a black v-neck and denim, the sleeves of tattoos wrapping his bare arms now on full display. He obviously has no reservations about his informal approach to conducting business. It isn't comforting. It means he is self-aware and doesn't need the overly scary, overplayed bad-guy persona to be genuinely terrifying.