The Medusa Deception

Chapter 26

MARCONI REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS on his back. His head pounded and his breathing was restricted. A large man wearing black fatigues and a face mask was sitting on his chest with one hand firmly around his neck, ensuring his cooperation.

He tried to lift his arms to relieve the pressure on his throat, but his arms were pinned at his sides. His lungs burned. His mind raced. Maybe there was still a chance. If they wanted me dead, I'd be dead. What they had in mind for him though, he had no idea.

He felt his left leg lift up, jostle and drop to the ground - the night air suddenly cold on his bare foot. Then the same thing happened to his right foot.

Marconi glanced around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and the blur from the concussion. Beyond the man pinning him to the ground, he saw the silhouette of another man. With one hand he held something in the air. A fine thread of silver emanated from its shiny tip, like a spider web floating in the moonlight. The man disappeared from view.

There was a sharp pinch between his toes. His eyes widened as he realized with dread what he'd seen, a syringe. Shit! Mustering all of his strength, he jerked his leg back. The needle painfully ripped through his flesh, spilling some of the liquid over the jagged wound.

"Damn it!" the man cursed. "Restrain him!"

The man sitting atop his chest squeezed until Marconi's airway was cut off while the syringe was inserted between his toes on the other foot. The injection site - commonly used by addicts to conceal their habit - would, no doubt, arouse the most suspicion.

Marconi felt the effects of the drug almost immediately. He hoped enough of the liquid had spilled so the dosage wouldn't be lethal. The warmth of the drug crept up his leg into his gut. He felt a rush; his heart rate quickened and the pain eased. When the feeling reached his arms, his muscles relaxed and went limp.

Still restrained, the man at his feet wrapped Marconi's hand around the syringe, placing his thumb on the plunger - their final task in the set-up. Marconi didn't struggle. The damage was already done.

The man on his chest got up and brushed the loose dirt off his pant legs. He looked down at Marconi and around him, as if assessing the scene. He bent over, picked up one of the discarded shoes and tossed it. Marconi heard a splash. Then another. Driving away in his Mustang, they left him on the ground, the empty syringe at his side.

Marconi waited until they were out of sight, then rolled to his side. His face scraped along the dirt as he curled into a fetal position. His nostrils and lungs filled with fine, powdery earth. He choked and coughed.

Gritting his teeth he rolled onto all fours. His coordination and strength were diminishing, but he hadn't yet lost all of his reasoning. He found the syringe and clumsily snapped off the needle portion by jabbing it into the earth and wrenching it sideways. He pocketed the cylinder. Maybe it'd help with his diagnosis if he could get treatment in time. That was a big if.

Shifting to a sitting position, Marconi groped around in the dim moonlight, found his socks and managed to pull them on. He had no idea where he was. It was an unpaved parking lot, surrounded by trees, somewhere close to water.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his head in a fog. A wave of dizziness hit. He teetered and swayed, nearly pitching face first onto the dirt. His limbs were numb.

Feeling no pain, a pleasant rush washed over him. Focus, he thought, trying to find some motivation, reminding himself of the terror he should be feeling. His situation was dire. He needed help and it wasn't going to come to him. He had to get it, or die trying.

Marconi squinted and looked around, slowly so as not to upset his delicate balance. He listened for sounds of civilization. Far away noises seemed to come from every direction. He shuffled toward the water. The banks looked somewhat familiar. The sanitary and ship canal, perhaps?