Agent (Book 1)

Chapter 20-Nolan

20

Nolan Hood

Agent: 21

Mission: Not Applicable

Location: Unknown

Date: September 2nd

Time: 1200

The moment I finally resurface, there are shackles binding my wrists.

At first, I try to slip back into the depths of unconsciousness, letting it carry me out of this nightmare, but my heart pumps faster, and more blood rises to the bandage. I would've put a hand to it, in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but my arms lay immovable behind my back. It takes all my effort to fight it off long enough to remain still.

There are voices echoing throughout the dank room, and I open my eyes just enough to peer at the people in front of me. One is Scar Face, I see right off of the bat. The second, a boy I don't recognize, but his face is young, only fifteen perhaps, and he's got sandy ringlets reaching over his shoulders. I'm too tired to pick out many more details, so I close my eyes again, and slow my breathing.

I cringe at the mistake. While my eyes were open, I'd moved my arms a bit for a better look, and the shackles have moved against each other. A sharp squeal grows in my ears as the surfaces collide. My heart sinks.

At first, I think they might not have noticed, too wrapped up in their conversation. But their voices cut off abruptly, and I can feel the disheartening eyes boring into mine. I force my lids apart, with effort, and stare at the both of them with as much hate as I can muster. All that comes is a grimace. "Ah, gotten enough sleep have we?" Scar Face says, something between a growl and a giggle surpassing his lips. A giggle. It's hard not to shiver.

He crosses his broad arms and smiles, exposing his yellowed front teeth. "Didn't I tell you I'd get my answers eventually?" He asks, puffing out his lower lip so that he's pouting. The shackles on my wrists clank as I attempt to yank my hands out of them. I've only pulled them forward an inch before the chain catches, slamming my body back into the wall. My side is making my head begin to pound again.

Neither of the two react to me; Scar Face nods to the blond haired boy and leans back against the wall, still smiling. The boy (in The King's signature red) nods back and strides forward, cloak swishing against the floor. He is muscular, I can tell that much from the way his shoulders are set. He is leaner, like me, and his blue eyes are piercing. Nails. So this is what Scar Face meant for me, I think dryly. Torture.

Surprisingly, the idea doesn't really frighten me, and I let my head fall back with a sigh. There is no fear...all I want is to get it over with. The sooner it's done, the sooner the misery has passed.

The blond boy lowers himself in front of me, allowing his sandy locks to brush against my cheeks. "Before I start, I think it's only fit that I tell you a few things, yeah?" His voice is dry and crackly, but no less frightening. The taste of his breath is like copper, blood. "First—"He starts.

I don't have time to prepare myself. His knuckle has found my face, dazzling my ears with a sickening crunch. My vision runs red for a moment, and I can taste blood spewing from my nose. It feels misshapen, twisted to one side. Broken, I bet.

"There'll be lots more where that came from if you try any funny business. You answer every single question I give you as best you can." He leans back just enough to wipe the hair out of his face. "Okay then," he says.

"What is your real name?" He asks, licking his chops once—twice—like he's got an appetite for landing another knuckle in my face. More blood is spewing from my broken nostrils, and I clamp my mouth shut to keep from swallowing any. Unlike him, I do not enjoy the taste of fresh blood.