Chapter 153 Captives

Chapter 153 Captives
The darkness pressed against Sierra's eyes like a hand held too close. She could feel Sylvia beside her, the warmth of her arm, the quick shallow rhythm of her breathing. The scarred man's cigarette glowed like a single ember floating in a void, and for a long moment, no one spoke.

Then the metal door groaned.

Sierra flinched at the sound, a deep, rusted shriek of hinges that hadn't been oiled in years. A cone of yellowish light cut through the blackness, and she squinted against it, making out three silhouettes. Two were broad, heavyset, moving with the purposeful economy of men accustomed to handling people who didn't want to be handled. The third hung back in the doorway, holding the flashlight, its beam sweeping the floor like a searchlight.

They moved fast.

One of them grabbed Sylvia by the arm and hauled her upright before Sierra could even process what was happening. The second man seized Sylvia's other arm, and together they wrenched her away from Sierra's side.

"No!" Sylvia screamed, her voice cracking against the concrete walls. "Get your hands off me! ¡Suéltame!"

Sierra lunged forward, her hands grasping at air, at the space where Sylvia had been. Her fingers caught the edge of Sylvia's jacket, held for one desperate second before was pulled away from her fingertips.

"Sylvia!"

Sylvia fought like a wild thing. Sierra could hear her boots scraping against the concrete, the grunts of the men as she twisted and kicked. The flashlight beam jerked crazily across the ceiling as the third man stepped aside to let them through the doorway. Sylvia's screaming rose in pitch, raw and feral, punctuated by Spanish curses that echoed off the walls.

"¡Hijo de puta! ¡No me toques!"

The heavy metal door slammed shut with a sound like a coffin lid dropping, and the room plunged back into total darkness. But Sierra could still hear her. Sylvia's voice came through the steel, muffled but unmistakable, screaming, cursing, the sound of her fighting every inch of whatever hallway they were dragging her down. The sounds grew fainter, stretched thin by distance, until they became something ghostlike and indistinct.

Then silence.

Sierra's chest heaved. She was on her hands and knees on the cold concrete, her fingers splayed against the gritty surface, her whole body trembling. The darkness was absolute. She couldn't see the walls, couldn't see her own hands.

"Your friend has spirit," he said, his voice unhurried, conversational. The cigarette tip brightened as he inhaled. "I like that."

"If you hurt her…"

"We won't hurt her." The words came out on a curl of smoke that Sierra could smell but not see. "As long as you cooperate."

Somewhere beyond the metal door, from deep within whatever structure they were in, Sylvia screamed again. The sound was distant now, thin as wire, but it cut through Sierra's chest like a blade. She couldn't tell if it was fury, fear or pain. Not knowing made it worse.

"You said you wouldn't hurt her," Sierra said, her voice shaking.

The man let out a long sigh, the kind a teacher might give a child asking too many questions.

"Relax. We're just going to have an honest conversation."

Sierra pressed her back against the wall, drawing her knees up. The concrete was damp and cold through her jeans. She could feel the rapid hammer of her pulse in her temples, in her wrists, in the soft hollow of her throat.

"My name is Viktor," he said.

Sierra's stomach dropped. She knew the rest of it. Sobol. The name from the Scotsman's text. The name attached to the dark SUV that had followed Ryder from the gas station. The name she should never have chased to Pittsburgh.

"What do you want with us?" she asked.

"Your late boyfriend," he began, the word boyfriend laced with faint amusement, "Julian Rossi. He had something that belonged to me. I would very much like to have it back."

Sierra shook her head, though he probably couldn't see her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Funny thing," Viktor chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in the darkness. "Your cowboy said the very same thing."

Sierra's breath caught.

"And I asked him very nicely." Viktor paused, letting the silence do its work. "At first."

The faint click of a lighter and the sudden bloom of orange as the scarred man lit another cigarette. In the brief flare of light, Sierra studied his face. The scars were old, layered, the kind that came from burns or broken glass or a lifetime of violence. But beneath his left eye, something new. A bruise, fresh and dark, swelling the skin into a purple crescent that hadn't been there long. Not more than a day old.

"By the look of your left eye," he said, nodding toward her, "it appears he didn't answer nicely."

Viktor laughed, a genuine, surprised sound, as if something had delighted him.

"He hit you," Sierra said.

Viktor smiled, slow and patient, like a teacher watching a student arrive at the correct answer.

"He did," he said. "Your cowboy has quite the right hook."

Ryder is alive. The thought bloomed in her chest, fierce and desperate. He's alive, he's here and he's fighting back.

Viktor leaned forward. She couldn't see him, but she could feel the shift in the air, could smell the tobacco, the glowing tip of the cigarette, and something sharper beneath it, cheap aftershave mixed with sweat. That single point of hellish orange suspended in the void, was the only light in her world.

"I'll give you some time," Viktor said quietly, "to see if you can remember."

"I don't know anything," Sierra said, and she hated the way her voice broke, hated the panic climbing up her throat like a living thing. "Whatever Julian had, he never told me. I don't know…"

"In the meantime," Viktor continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "we'll keep your cowboy and your pretty little friend in other rooms. Safe… for now."

"Please." The word came out before she could stop it. "I'm telling you the truth. I don't know what Julian had. I don't know what you're looking for. I don't know anything."

Viktor stood. She heard his knees crack, heard the soft scrape of his shoes on the concrete. Then a click, sharp and mechanical, and a flashlight blazed to life.

He aimed it directly into her eyes.

Sierra threw her hands up, her palms flat against the white-hot beam. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"I think you will remember something very soon," Viktor said.

His footsteps crossed the room. The metal door opened with that same agonized shriek. For one brief second, Sierra caught the outline of a hallway beyond, grey walls, a bare bulb hanging from a wire, then the door slammed shut, and the lock engaged like the crack of a gunshot.