Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Sometimes his mind weakened, and he thought about the lost weeks. He could track them if he wanted to. He only needed to take inventory of his injuries. The stitches in his arm had been removed, and his hand had some mobility. His back didn’t feel as tight when he paced the dirt floor, dragging the heavy chain behind him. Pain still lingered in his ribs, but it was muted. Dull.
Dull like the water trickling over his skin as he bathed.
Dull like the stew and porridge they brought every day.
Dull like the beat of his heart when he forced himself to face the truth.
She’s dead.
He hurled the sponge into the water, snatched the bucket from the ground, and shoved it toward the guard waiting at the door.
It was always the same two silent scowling men. They were about as happy to be here as he was.
The guard reached for the bucket, and Tate yanked it back.
“Where’s Lucia?” he demanded.
Always the same question. Always the same non-response.
When the man pinned his lips, Tate threw the bucket at his feet, splashing the man’s trousers with water.
“Where is she?” he bellowed.
The guard’s face turned red-hot. A beating would follow. A fist in the face. A boot in the ribs. Didn’t matter if he taunted them or not. They seemed to get off on boxing a shackled man who was too weak to defend himself.
But Tate always fought back, and he was growing stronger. He fought until blood leaked into his eyes and clouded his vision. Until his lungs wheezed, and his ribs screamed in protest. Until the bastards knocked him out.
He fought because it made him feel alive.
Today would be no different.
The second guard entered the shack and cracked his knuckles. They never brought weapons in. Nothing Tate could use against them. If he managed to kill them bare handed, what would he do? His fucking ankle was chained to a fucking pike buried a mile into the fucking dirt floor. The damn thing wasn’t budging. He’d bloodied his hands trying to dig it out.
He stepped to the center of the shack, as far as the chain would allow, and squared his shoulders.
But the guards didn’t attack.
“Where’s Lucia?” He gnashed his teeth.
When they didn’t respond, he spat at their feet. “Fuck off then.”
They didn’t fuck off. Why were they just standing there?
A moment later, an electronic buzzing sound broke the silence.
Buzzing.
Like a phone.
One of the guards reached into his pocket and removed exactly that.
He hadn’t seen a phone since the night he…
He tried not to think about that night.
His attention locked onto the phone as the guard connected the call on speaker and held it out of his reach.
“Hello, Tate.” The deep voice sliced across his skin like the edge of a blade.
Tiago Badell.
He tried to step closer to the guard, but the chain jerked his leg back. “Where’s—?”
“If you ask about her,” Badell said, “the call ends and you’ll never hear from me again. You’ll spend the rest of your lonely existence locked away in that shack, wondering why I called and what I was going to say.”
His molars clamped together so hard he felt the pain ripple through his skull. “I’m listening.”
“I would be there in person, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sure you know why.”
Lucia thought she’d killed him. She must’ve injured him, and Tate hoped the bastard’s dick had been removed during the attempt on his life.
“I wanted to offer you something,” Badell said. “Let’s call it a last request. Anything you want. This doesn’t include information, and it must fit inside the shack.”
What the fuck? “What is this? Like a last-meal request? Am I on death row?”
“I’m offering more than a meal, Tate. You can choose anything—a bed to sleep on, a girl to fuck, a drug to numb your mind. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”
“Why?” He paced the dirt floor, and the chain slithered after him. “What do you want?”
“I’ve already taken my payment. Consider this a thank you.”
He slammed to a stop, and the pound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears. “What did you take?”
“Not Lucia. I left her to die in prison. What’s your last request, Tate?”
A hot ember formed in his throat and sank slowly, agonizingly into his chest, where it spread like fire, consuming him in excruciating heartache. His vision blurred, and despite the inferno charring him from the inside out, his skin felt cold, his limbs heavy, and his eyes gritty with hot sand.
He lowered to the blanket and stared at his empty hands. He had nothing. If she was truly gone, he wanted nothing. Yet his mouth moved, voicing the question before his brain caught up.
“Do you have a photo of Lucia?”
“Yes.”
There was something. Something he could ask for, and as he closed his eyes, it was all he could see.