Through The Ascension Room***Book One COMPLETE***

CHAPTER THREE ~PART ONE~

CHAPTER

                             THREE

The throbbing ache pounding the back of my head wakes me from my dazed state. I move my hands up to my head to feel for the source of the pain, but my arms stop their accent with the sound of clinking metal.

I begin to open my eyes, almost as if it was the very first time I had ever used them. The dim fluorescent lighting in the room might as well have been the light from a thousand burning suns. I squint my eyes, blink hard a few times, and my eyes begin to focus. First on the table in front of me. Then on the rest of the room. My hands are cuffed and chained to the center of the table. It's silvery and metallic and it’s cold to the touch.

I lean my head forward so that I can again try to examine the damage done to the back of my head. I pull the slack of the chain as the metal cuffs dig into my already raw wrists. Carefully I rub the back of my head until I can pinpoint the source of the pain and draw my hand back in front of me. My fingers are now tainted with blood, undoubtedly coming from where my head must have been hit, right before... The police.

My heart drops out of my chest and onto the floor. Chills run through me as I begin to piece together the events that got me to this situation. The gangs. The warehouse. The money. Guns... Aubri...

I've got to get out of here.

I quickly scan the room to see what I'm dealing with.

Like any normal interrogation room it's got the standard two chair/table combo. One single fluorescent light hanging over the center of the table flooding the room with a dim, almost grey light. The only door to the room lies in front of me, across the table and slightly to the right. The left wall stares blankly back at me. The right wall is covered by a large mirror (undoubtedly a two way mirror). I pay no attention to the fact that there are most likely officers on the other side of the mirror, watching my every move.

I shuffle backwards in my seat and ready myself to remove the cuffs from my hands and think about the mad dash I'm about to make to the door when I hear another door open. Then close. Footsteps begin to grow louder outside of my escape route. I settle back into my chair. Lay my hands on the table and realize that this was not the best time for a daring escape.

The door handle rattles and opens, letting two men into the room. One of the men looks overworked and terribly tired. Rolled sleeves, slightly loosened tie and a coffee in one hand, manila folder in the other.  

The other man suited up, undoubtedly a desk jockey, takes a spot standing in the corner of the room by the door. Arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the mirror. My mind races as I try to peg the good cop from the bad cop. Man with folder—bad; suit—good.

The first man makes his way over to the chair across from me and plops the manila folder down onto the table. The papers pour out scattering in front of me. He sets his coffee off to the side as he sits down. His arms rest on the table, hands cupped over the stack of spilled papers. A chain hangs around his neck and a key dangles from the bottom of it. Almost as if he notices me staring at his necklace, he unclasped his hands and tucks the necklace and key into his shirt. His hands again clasp atop the papers.

That must be the key to the cuffs I’m in. If only I could get it somehow without him knowing. . .

He sits for a while looking me up and down. The silence of this man speaks volumes more than any spoken word. I'm disheveled as he continues to stare me down. I glance to the man in the corner of the room—no comforting look awaits me there. A stern, down turned face greets my desperate grasp for something welcoming. I had it all wrong, I'm dealing with a bad cop, bad cop situation.