Sulphur and Folded Clothes

Mr. Sir

Less than ten minutes later, another grimy truck roared up the bouncy track. This truck was empty except for the driver, the Sir on the other end of the phone line. Despite leading a group of nasty pieces of work, this man was really quite laid back. After all, you can't keep up a suave reputation if you throw it to the wind at the first sign of trouble.

Instead of losing his mind at the news that his best operative was disintegrating, he had waited until the final, fate-deciding tone sounded, then grabbed the keys and headed at top speed towards the abandoned and desolate farm.

The first thing he noticed when he turned the thrumming engine off was the fact the entire place smelt like a sulphuric hot spring. Like rotten eggs, he thought, well filled in eyebrows creasing under a perfectly contoured forehead.

In a rough circle were the pairs of shoes and sets of huge clothes folded in the dust. There was a sign of a scuffle. Bending down carefully, so as not to get his immaculate khakis dusty, he pinched one shirt collar between thumb and forefinger. All three piles of clothes belonged to his cronies, that was for sure.

So. Where was the (supposedly) unconscious boy? His detail seeking eyes scanned the clearing. A disturbance in the dust led from the previous assaulters' truck around the corner and into the largest barn on the property. He hugged the corner and peeked through the door to the well-lit inside.

Ah, there he was. The sack didn't move when he kicked it, clearly he was out cold. Living on meager amounts of food renders a 11-year-old boy almost weightless, meaning even he could throw it over his shoulder with ease. Leaving the barn in his wake, he and the sacked boy drove away from the farm.