Free reads!
This is the aborted start to a book, which will no longer work because I overhauled the plot. But it's still an entertaining start. (That yogurt line? Totally needs to find a home in one of my other things.)
Awareness came back grudgingly. He knew it had come before, if only for moments. He had vague memories of words -- "Bloody heavy bastard, couldn't lose a few kilos" -- and, either later or earlier, a bright light.
This time consciousness came by degrees, his thoughts still muted by the familiar haze of sedatives.
His wrists ached. The throb of his heartbeat drove him closer to wakefulness with pounding insistence. He opened his eyes and let his head fall back (he was hanging, part of him noted), gazing up at bare wood cross beams twenty feet above. His loft, then.
Rope hung down like spiderweb lines, stopping a few feet short of his hands (gone red and numb with clotted blood). He faded out, and with an effort came to. Zip-ties had been looped around each other, making a chain of them. More cut into his wrists. Couldn't pop them, pick them, or slip them. Couldn't break them. Each hand was strung up from a separate rafter. Someone was being extra thorough.
The sedatives kept him from being overly alarmed, though they were burning off.
He put one foot on the floor, discovered he could, put the other foot on the floor, and stood. His arms were still extended, but his joints sparked bright bursts of pain in relief. The pressure was off. Sensation scorched back into his hands. He bit his lip against hissing or cursing.
A feminine, British voice spoke from behind him. "Ah. You're up." She came around one side. Shoulder-length, raven black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, swinging behind her. Slightly tipped eyes that were nearly as dark as her hair were thickly lashed. She was of average height -- five six, maybe -- and compact. Straps of muscle corded her shoulders and arms, vanishing under a man's A-line tank top, itself tucked into loose cargo pants. She was dressed for work. The kind of work Matthew himself did, and she carried herself with the same relaxed-but-ready ease everyone in their line of work had.
"Your cottage cheese is off," she said, spooning it into her mouth from a Tupperware.
He spoke, wetting his lips first. "It's yogurt."
She paused, then spat it back into the Tupperware, scraping her tongue with the spoon. "That's right disgusting." Asian-British, he catalogued neatly, and the same agent who'd strung him up. Rogue, maybe. Or he'd done something he shouldn't have, but he was pretty sure he'd have remembered that. Maybe an enemy; if so, one good enough not to have left survivors to report on her. He twisted at the bonds around his wrists, trying to keep it subtle.
Awareness came back grudgingly. He knew it had come before, if only for moments. He had vague memories of words -- "Bloody heavy bastard, couldn't lose a few kilos" -- and, either later or earlier, a bright light.
This time consciousness came by degrees, his thoughts still muted by the familiar haze of sedatives.
His wrists ached. The throb of his heartbeat drove him closer to wakefulness with pounding insistence. He opened his eyes and let his head fall back (he was hanging, part of him noted), gazing up at bare wood cross beams twenty feet above. His loft, then.
Rope hung down like spiderweb lines, stopping a few feet short of his hands (gone red and numb with clotted blood). He faded out, and with an effort came to. Zip-ties had been looped around each other, making a chain of them. More cut into his wrists. Couldn't pop them, pick them, or slip them. Couldn't break them. Each hand was strung up from a separate rafter. Someone was being extra thorough.
The sedatives kept him from being overly alarmed, though they were burning off.
He put one foot on the floor, discovered he could, put the other foot on the floor, and stood. His arms were still extended, but his joints sparked bright bursts of pain in relief. The pressure was off. Sensation scorched back into his hands. He bit his lip against hissing or cursing.
A feminine, British voice spoke from behind him. "Ah. You're up." She came around one side. Shoulder-length, raven black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, swinging behind her. Slightly tipped eyes that were nearly as dark as her hair were thickly lashed. She was of average height -- five six, maybe -- and compact. Straps of muscle corded her shoulders and arms, vanishing under a man's A-line tank top, itself tucked into loose cargo pants. She was dressed for work. The kind of work Matthew himself did, and she carried herself with the same relaxed-but-ready ease everyone in their line of work had.
"Your cottage cheese is off," she said, spooning it into her mouth from a Tupperware.
He spoke, wetting his lips first. "It's yogurt."
She paused, then spat it back into the Tupperware, scraping her tongue with the spoon. "That's right disgusting." Asian-British, he catalogued neatly, and the same agent who'd strung him up. Rogue, maybe. Or he'd done something he shouldn't have, but he was pretty sure he'd have remembered that. Maybe an enemy; if so, one good enough not to have left survivors to report on her. He twisted at the bonds around his wrists, trying to keep it subtle.