Sweet Dreams (WJA Series Book 1)

Chapter 22

The men threw him onto a cold metal chair and tied his hands behind his back. His feet were strapped to the legs of the chair.

One of the masked men knelt before him. “You might be wondering why we brought you here, Detective Weston.” The deep, thick voice had a hint of Russian and was tinted with contempt. He leaned in close. “You have information we need. You are going to tell us everything you know. Understand?”

Kirk looked into the man’s dark eyes, instinctively memorizing everything about his interrogator and realizing the large, muscular man could tear him apart without breaking a sweat.

He grinned at the Russian, then spit in his face. The man backhanded him and sent him toppling to the floor with a loud crash. His skull bounced against the cement and blue-and-yellow stars floated across his vision.

Ow—that hurt.

The two masked men pulled him upright.

His ribs rebelled, but he refused to cry out.

The big man folded his arms and looked at him as if examining a piece of fruit. “So, you think you’re tough. We will see, Mr. Weston.”

With that, he turned and left the room. The two other men followed him without a word. The door shut with a clink of the lock.

Kirk surveyed his surroundings. It looked like he was in a washroom. Clumps of hair clung to the rusted floor drain. The tiled walls were so dirty he couldn’t tell the color. A naked light bulb hung from a cord in the center of the room.

He could hear someone talking outside his door and had a feeling his captors weren’t planning ways to put him at ease.

The door flew open, and one of the masked men marched in. Pulling out a knife from his pocket, he cut away the rope, freeing Kirk’s hands.

It’s now or never!

Jumping to his feet, he spun around, sending his legs and the chair crashing into the masked man’s face. He fell to the floor with his legs on top of the now-unconscious man. He frantically searched for the knife, then spotted it on the floor a few feet away.

He dragged his body toward the knife, the chair scraping the cement floor. He heard his attacker begin to stir.

One more foot.

With a final lunge, he grabbed the knife and spun onto his back, pulling his legs to his chest. He cut his feet loose from the chair and rolled to his feet, ignoring the scream rising from his ribs.

He jumped on top of his assailant, who was on his knees spitting blood onto the tile floor. Kirk shoved the knife beneath the man’s chin and drew the blade from one side of his throat to the other. The guard made gasping, gurgling sounds and dropped to the floor. Kirk stepped over his body and walked toward the door, which was half open.

Kirk peeked into the hallway and could hear voices coming from the other end. He clutched his side with one hand and gripped the knife in the other.

What did they think he knew? And what did they think he would do—lie down and take their garbage?

He tried to ignore the questions that ran through his mind, but he was a detective, and it came naturally. His anger was rising, and he could feel his primal instincts kicking in as he leaned out to get a clear view of the hall.

Figure it out later, Weston. Just get out of here alive. No heroics.

The hallway was clear, but he could tell someone was in the room to his right. He looked for a place to hide, but all he could see was a large crate beside the door where the voices were coming from.

He looked back to the room he’d just come from. That’s it!

Returning to the washroom, he set the metal chair upright, then lifted the masked man and balanced his limp body on the seat. Taking off the man’s mask, he pulled it over his own head and tied the attacker’s hands behind his back.

He looked to be Kirk’s height and weight. This might just work after all. He loosened the light bulb that hung just above his head, then frisked the dead man’s pockets for weapons.

Nothing.

A voice behind him suddenly demanded, “Hey, what are you doing? You’re supposed to take him back to his cell.” The man had a thick, Russian accent.

Kirk froze and waited for the man to get within striking distance. He knew he would only have one shot at this.

“You! Hurry up!” The man stepped into the room.

Whirling around, Kirk lurched forward and slid the sharp blade into his target’s abdomen. The man gasped in pain, but before he could react, Kirk yanked the blade out, and in one sweeping motion, slashed it across his throat, spraying a stream of blood onto his chest.

A confused look flashed across the Russian’s face before he fell to his knees, blood spewing from his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Kirk removed the man’s mask and searched his second kill for weapons. He smiled when he found a Glock. After checking to make sure the clip was full, he stepped into the hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears. Despite the throb in his ribs, he crouched and crept down the long hall, gun in hand.

The only way out appeared to be the door at the far end. He ducked behind a crate, rested a moment, then jumped from his hiding place. Almost running, but still hunkered as low as possible, he worked his way to the end of the hall.

Hearing voices, he stopped by a closed door, feeling like a sitting duck as he squatted in the open. He heard whispers and moans on the other side of the door. At least two people were in the cell.

That was all he needed. He’d be lucky to make it out alive on his own, let alone trying to drag other people with him.

He tried the cell door. Locked.

He crawled to the next door and twisted the handle, which gave way to pressure. He pushed the door open and slipped inside. The cell was dark and smelled like a sewer, but it made a good place to hide and think.

It didn’t take him long to decide to go for help then return for the others, whoever they were. Helooked out into the hall, wondering what to do next. He needed to draw out whoever was on the other side of the door—the door that could lead him to freedom. He needed the element of surprise if he was going to make it out of this place alive.