Craving (Steel Brothers Saga Book 1)

Craving - Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Talon

The rag stuffed in his mouth made the boy gag. It tasted like mushrooms and dirt and vomit. His eyes were covered and his wrists bound with tight rope behind his back. Only his legs were free, but his exhaustion kept him from kicking his captors. He'd already kicked them and kicked them and kicked them some more...and still he'd ended up here.

"Get on in there, boy," a voice said.

Strong hands forced him down a long flight of stairs, and he nearly stumbled.

"Welcome home, you little bitch," another voice said. "You'll like it here. We'll make sure you're very comfortable." He laughed eerily.

Evil. Like a black snake slithering in the darkness, red eyes gleaming. That's what the voice sounded like. Pure evil.

The boy shivered. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the men pushed him into a corner.

"You ready, boy?" the first voice said. "You ready?"

Still gagged, the boy couldn't answer. Ready for what?

He soon found out.

* * *

"Please, Steve. I can't stand the handcuffs." I sweated in the back of the police car, my hands bound behind me. I tried to draw in a deep breath, and then again. Couldn't get enough air.

"Sorry, Tal. Gotta do it by the book. You know that," Officer Steve Dugan said. "Why'd you beat that kid up, anyway?"

I didn't answer. I knew better than to talk. Besides, the guy was twenty-five years old, at least. He wasn't a kid.

A half hour later, we arrived at the Snow Creek Police Department and Courthouse, next to the City Administration Building. Steve got out of the car and opened the door for me.

"Come on, Tal."

I stayed seated, paralyzed. White noise echoed in my head.

"Commmme...onnnn...Tallll..." Steve's voice was deep and drawn out, like it was in a time warp.

A meaty hand grabbed my arm.

I jerked it away. "No!" I screamed. "I'm not going!"

"Christ, Talon, what's wrong with you?"

Snippets of images formed in my mind. Getting back from Grand Junction...alone in the house...doorbell...Steve...under arrest...handcuffs...

I hadn't resisted until now. Why hadn't I resisted? It was all a blur. A black evil blur. A blur with a phoenix tattoo...

I stood, got out of the car, and landed a roundhouse kick to Steve's chest. Steve went down, and I turned and ran. I ran and I ran and I ran...like I should have run all those years ago—

Until I straightened like a board. My body hit the concrete with a thud, my muscles spasming. Had to piss, had to shit. Couldn't fucking move.

"Help me! For the love of God, help me!"

No one came.

No one ever came.

Dying. I was obviously dying, and no one cared. Minute by minute by minute...

No one...

"All right, come on, Steel." An arm helped me to my feet. "What were you thinking, kicking a police officer?"

"It's okay, Sarge." Steve's voice. "He's just having a hard time. I'm not pressing charges. The Taser was punishment enough."

Taser. I had been tased. I looked down. My pants were dry, thank God. I hadn't made all over myself. Though my hands were still bound, I could move my fingers. I stepped forward. I could walk. My head hurt, like a hammer pounding my temple.

"You doing okay, Tal?" Steve asked. "Ten seconds from a Taser's a lot to take."

Ten seconds? More like an hour. "I don't belong here," was all I said.

"Yeah, you do, when you beat up a guy," a voice, not Steve's, said.

I turned. An older cop—must have been the sarge—had his pistol trained on me. He kept it aimed while Steve walked me into the building. I wasn't afraid of guns. The world contained much worse implements of torture.

White noise again as they filled out paperwork, took my fingerprints and my mug shot.

Again as they watched me undress and put on the orange prison clothes they gave me.

Again as they shoved me into a jail cell.

My hands now free, I huddled in the corner, the white noise finally silencing. Dark and eerie voices replaced it, hurling me back through time.

* * *

The boy huddled in the corner of the dark cellar, the pain cutting through him, his blood soaking the meager gray blanket his captors had given him. He had vomited what had been left in his stomach—oatmeal cookies and a slice of watermelon, his afternoon snack.

A sandwich sat next to him. They'd left it when they were done.

He couldn't eat. He'd never eat again.

At least he was no longer tied up. They'd locked him in. Alone.

"Get up. Get up and try to find a way out of here," the voice inside his head commanded.

But his body was weak. Torn up. Used. He couldn't move.

His little brother had gotten away. He'd run like the wind when the boy told him to. Thank God.

"Come on. Get up!" The inner voice again. "You don't deserve this. Get out of here. You can recover. You can go on. Fight, damn it, fight!"

The boy didn't move.

And the voice never spoke again.

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