Page 60 of Unmasked Anarchy

“If this is about Gage, you’re making a mistake.He doesn’t give a crap about me.”

The man laughs.“Oh, but he does.I’m sure you remember us?”

I glance at them, confused.Then I see the familiar hands and tattoos.These are the men who tried to kill me and leave me for dead.My heart skips a beat, and vomit rises in my throat.This is bad.This is very fucking bad.

“As you can see,” I try to act calm.“You sucked the first time.I’m still alive.”

He hits me over the head, so hard my vision swims.

“Believe me, we won’t make that mistake again.”

The needle is plunged into my arm.

“Fuck you,” I spit, just as the world goes dark.

I think I just made a mistake.

A very big fucking mistake.

15

Iwake in a stale,dark room.The faint scent of blood lingers in the air, and before my brain has even registered that I am awake, the memories come flashing back.The cartel took me.They were the ones behind it all along.Of course they were, and of course it linked back to Gage.

It always links back to Gage.

My eyes spring open and I stare around the room, pulse racing as I take in the space.Just like I’ve been taught.Concrete walls, no windows, and a blood-stained floor.A dull light hangs overhead, swinging back and forth as the rusty old fan on the wall rotates around the room.

I’m bound to a chair, hands pinned behind my back, ankles tied together.Everything in my body is numb and I wiggle my fingers and toes, letting the sensations slowly come back.First is the ache in my wrists, then the sharp tingle in my hands, then, finally, the taste of iron in my mouth.Blood—old, coppery, sticky on my tongue.I move my jaw, working it loose, jawbone creaking.I must have taken a hit at some point.The right side feels swollen, tender to the touch.

Focus, Sable.

I jerk my chin upward and scan the ceiling.Just a flat gray slab.Nothing to count, nothing to mark the minutes.The only way I’ll know how long I’m here is if I keep count myself.Five, maybe ten seconds pass.No voices behind the wall, no footsteps in the hall.Not a single sound except the old, rusty fan.

I shift my feet, testing the rope around my ankles.They know what they’re doing—nylon cord, double knotted, biting into the skin so hard I can already feel the purpled skin beneath.Hands behind my back, no give at all.A bitter laugh escapes my throat.Only I would end up here.

I focus on counting my heartbeats, trying to calm myself.Fifty, maybe sixty, before the door scrapes open.It’s loud and deliberate.I let my eyes settle on it, just as two men enter the doorway.The first guy is small, wiry, too clean-cut for the cartel which makes me think he is an associate, probably a businessman gone rogue.