The Risks

August: Chapter 20

I OPENED MY eyes and squinted against the light. Two bulbs hung from the ceiling above. They weren't bright, but my eyes needed time to adjust. I was sitting in a chair. No, not sitting, tied to a chair. My wrists were bound to the wooden arms with thick, coarse rope.

I groaned softly, trying to understand what was happening.

"Claire." A whisper.

I looked to my left. Jesus fuck -was that Parker? He was tied to a chair exactly as I was maybe four feet away. There was blood on his face -too much blood. It looked mostly dried now, coagulating around a gash above his eyebrow, his cheek, his mouth. Past him was another guy, probably our age, tied in the same fashion. On his left, a young woman.

The guy had tanned skin and curly, sandy blond hair. His head was lowered, eyes squeezed tightly and his mouth in a horrified grimace. He had blood running from his nose and mouth. Like Parker, he looked like he'd been beaten brutally. The woman's face was hidden beneath dirty, brown hair. She sat still as stone with her head bowed. I wondered if she was asleep.

In front of us was a metal door and a broad man that stood beside it. He had short, dark hair and dark eyes. He held an assault rifle against his chest with bloodstained hands. There was a metal box by his feet and a fold-out table beside him. He made no eye contact with any of us.

I moved my gaze back to Parker. "What's going on?"

The metal door before us opened slowly. There stood a man, tall and in his thirties maybe. He had light eyes, so light that it was unsettling. He had light brown hair, grey by the temples that was styled into a clean fashion. He, himself was clean. No dirt, no grime, no blood, only a small amount of perspiration on his forehead from the heat of this small, stuffy room. He held what looked like a black tackle box under his arm. He waved away the guard and closed the door.

Parker had a look of recognition on his face. "Vic."

The man smiled back at him, then placed the box on the plastic folding table and opened it. Slowly and with great care, he began to empty the box, taking items out one by one and placing them on the table. A hammer, a pair of pruning shears, several sets of pliers, and a stun gun.

Once everything was laid out before him, he picked up the hammer. He tested its weight in his hand then turned and walked toward the guy with sandy blond hair. His eyes never left the hammer in Vic's hand.

"Tell me," Vic said to him, his voice rough.

The guy's chest heaved with each breath, but he said nothing.

Vic leaned closer, raising the hammer. "Tell me... where your people are."

"Just do it," he hissed, jutting his chin out toward the hammer in defiance. His curly hair brushed his eyelashes. "I still won't talk."

"Hm." Vic contemplated. "Alright."

He switched the hammer for the pruning shears and then stepped in front of the unconscious woman. He tenderly brushed the hair away from her face while the guy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She came to slowly, then immediately spat in Vic's face.

"Get the fuck away from me," she growled as Vic wiped his face patiently. She turned to the guy beside her. "Where are we? What is- Oh my god, are you okay? Did he do this to you?" She whipped her vicious gaze back to Vic.

"You're going to tell me where you're people are," Vic told her.

"Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on," she retorted. "I'm not going to tell you jack shit."

"One of you will." He paced behind her and knelt. Grabbing her pinky finger, he wedged it between the sharp blades of the shears.

"Don't," the guy beside her begged.