Page 11 of Girl Lost (The King Legacy #1)
CONSCIOUSNESS CREPT IN SLOW , like waves lapping at the edge of his mind. Stryker clawed his way back to awareness, his mind sluggish and uncooperative. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He tried to move , but his body refused to respond. Limbs heavy. Unresponsive. Why couldn’t he move?
Focus. Assess the situation.
He was lying down. That much he could tell. Something hard and cold beneath him. Concrete? The chill seeped into his bones, intensifying the dull ache that permeated his entire body.
His arms. Behind his head. Bound. The bite of rope against his wrists. Expertly tied. No give when he tested them.
Darkness pressed in from all sides. He blinked. Once. Twice. No change. A blindfold? No ... the air felt open against his face. Just darkness then. Wherever they’d taken him, there was no light.
They. Who were they ? Shards of memories flurried in his mind. Oh, yes. The Taser. A burst of pain. Blackness.
How long ago? Minutes? Hours? His sense of time was shot.
A metallic taste coated his tongue. Blood. His own? Probably. His nose throbbed, likely bruised. Sand. He tasted sand too. Gritty between his teeth. Near the coast? An abandoned building?
He tried to lift his head. Bad idea. Nausea rolled through him, threatening to empty his stomach. They must have given him some kind of drug, then. Sedative. That would explain the heaviness in his limbs, the sluggishness of his thoughts.
Think . What’s the last thing you remember?
The SUV. Dark and nondescript. Rough hands grabbing at him. Dragging him inside. A blur of faces, all unfamiliar. The hypodermic needle. After that, nothing. Until now.
The note. Five words that had turned his world upside down. They’re watching. Don’t trust anyone.
He should have listened. Should have been more careful. This wasn’t the way. Captured. Helpless.
No. Not helpless. Never helpless. Never hopeless.
Stryker forced himself to take a deep breath. Then another. Slow. Steady.
Control your breathing . Control your mind.
He had to figure out where he was. And most importantly, how to get out.
Luna. Was she safe?
He’d thought he had more time, had planned to—
A sound. Faint, but there. Stryker held his breath. Strained to hear. A creak. Metal on metal. A door opening?
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer. His muscles tensed involuntarily, preparing for ... what? He was bound, drugged. Defenseless.
No . Focus. Gather information. It’s all you can do right now.
Light pierced the darkness, a thin sliver that felt like a knife to his eyes. He flinched against the sudden brightness. A silhouette blocked part of the light. Tall. Lean. Male, most likely.
The figure moved closer. Details came into focus. Thin face. Glasses. Neatly combed hair with touches of gray. He looked ... ordinary. Like someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance. More like an accountant than a kidnapper. He should know this man but couldn’t quite place him.
A scraping sound. Something being placed nearby. Metal legs on concrete. A table? His pulse thrummed. What was coming next?
Breathe. Stay calm. Don’t show fear.
“You were warned to stay away.” The words came soft. Almost gentle. Paternal. “To mind your own business. I’ll never understand why people don’t listen.” He made a tsk tsk tsk sound.
Stryker swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. Recognition flickered through his foggy mind. The man in black from outside the gym who’d growled at him to back off. The warning had been delivered then. Now came the consequences.
“Why are you doing all this?” He sounded weak. Pathetic. He hated it.
“Well, that’s ... that’s a longer story than you and I have time for right now.” A smile. Empty. Macabre. “I’m afraid I have other, more pressing matters to which I must attend.”
A rustling sound. Something being unrolled. Then the glint of metal caught Stryker’s eye.
Scalpels. Forceps. Clamps. Tools meant for healing, about to be used for harm.
He had to stay calm. Had to think.
Don’t let him see you break.
“You see, some of us know our purpose.” The man picked up a scalpel, testing its edge. He leaned in close. His breath hot. Fetid. “I, for one, choose not to waste valuable time—or resources—when it comes to fulfilling my purpose.”
The scalpel traced along Stryker’s skin. A feather-light touch that promised pain. He drew back as much as his restraints would allow. “Stop playing games. If you’re going to kill me, do it. If not, just tell me why you’re keeping me here. Tell me what you plan to do.”
At this, the man lifted the scalpel away from Stryker’s face. “I already have what I want.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. “I have your heart.”