coming after you - a fairly short, very inconsistent story

Chapter Six: The One Where The Author Actually Pulled Off A Plot Twist...Kinda

((A/N: yikes, i never update. anyway, there's some torture in here (not super intensely) and mentions of murder.))

"Never."

    Funny how one word could do so much. The soldier pulled the whip out, yet again, and hit the man, yet again. Quickly and sharply, like a strike of lightning.

    "I said to tell me!"

    The man was hit again. It stung, and soon the man could no longer feel any part of him, just pain.

    "And I said 'never.'"

    Again, and again, and again, strikes, everywhere. Fading. Everything was fading. Words were gone. Fading. Stinging. Blackening. Dying....

    "Soldier, I recommend that you put that whip down this instant."
    The voice was much more reprimanding than could be imagined. It was like the world was a bad, bad dog, and this voice, this reprimanding voice, was its owner.

    You couldn't even see more than his silhouette as he stood in the shadows.

    "Sir..." the soldier started tentatively, "I'm sworn not to let anyone near this man, so I'm going to have to ask you to—"

    BANG!

    The man with the voice now had a body, and a pistol. The soldier was on the ground writhing in pain before he could even finish his sentence.

    Should've just let him have me.

    The man with the voice walked over to the man in the chair.

    "I don't think I need to threaten you," he said.

    "Where are you taking me?" the man in the chair asked. He was confused, so very confused.

    "You'll find that out soon enough."

    The man in the chair was now out of the chair. In fact, he was in the back of a truck with his hands tied together and a bandana in his mouth.

    Is all this really necessary? he thought.

    Being tossed around in the back on an old truck to be brought to who know's where. Just. Great. This would probably be his last time in a car. The man was certain that he was being taken to his death.

    The truck jolted to a halt. The man slid into the back of the front seat with an enormous thud. This was it. The day he would die.

    The man was dragged out of the truck, down a private driveway (that was very painful), up some stairs, through a door and a few rooms, and then thrown on the ground in front of him. His jaw hit the ground, hard.

    Nathan looked down at the man who had literally just been thrown at his feet. Spiky blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and scattered freckles and scars, something there reminded Nathan of his childhood.

    Nathan took the man's chin in his hand, forcing him to meet his eyes.

    "What is your name?"
    "Why should I tell you?"
    "Because if you don't, I have eight people in this room who will shoot you full of holes."

    Oh. So he wasn't originally planning to shoot him full of holes. Maybe.

    "So, what is your name?"    "Fine," the man said, his gaze intensifying. "Bowers. Cliff Bowers."