Chapter Colin Adams
COLIN ADAMS
They tied me to one of the chairs, and it looked like an interrogation was about to start.
The bullet had grazed me—by my abdomen it was bleeding a little.
“I told you—this place is a hell of a mansion,” Marcos said, the gun in his hand.
I didn’t answer. My anger only grew as I heard him speak.
“You think I’d waste my friend’s effort? Tell me: where did they go?”
“As if I’d tell you anything.”
His fist hit my face almost the instant the words left me.
“You want to do this the hard way, huh? I’ll ask again: where did they run off to?” His voice snapped higher.
“It doesn’t matter. The cops will be here soon.”
Another punch. Then another. And another.
I tasted blood in my mouth.
“I wouldn’t mind killing you.” He pressed the gun to my temple and laughed.
I said nothing.
“Jeremy, grab whatever’s valuable in the mansion. We don’t have time to waste.”
Everyone was locked in a room inside the house, so there was no easy way to call the outside world. Actually, there was a way—and our lives depended on it.
“Come on. I promise I’ll spare the kids if you talk.”
“Take everything valuable! Whatever you want—paintings, jewelry, cash—but leave them alone!” I shouted in desperation.
Just thinking about what these men might do to the three of them made my stomach turn. Letting that happen was out of the question.
“And risk you idiots telling the cops where we are? No way. I’ll ask one more time—and my patience is running out: where are they?”
I fell silent again.
“Looks like you want to bring out the worst in me…”
I couldn’t see out of my right eye—the swelling was that bad.
In the last few minutes, I’d been beaten over and over across the face and head. My vision blurred, the room spinning from the blows.
“Looks like you really care about that bitch!”
“Shut up!”
“Just what I thought.” He stood and struck me again—several times across the face. “I’ve killed plenty of people. You really think I wouldn’t do the same to you just because you’re rich?”
He shoved the chair over, and the back of my head hit the cold floor.
“Are you gonna tell me where the kids and the woman are or not?”
I stayed silent. Then the kicks started—my ribs, my spine, my gut—each one ripping a scream from me.
He kept hitting, and the longer it went on, the weaker I felt.
“Needles. Get them.”
Marcos barked the order to one of his men. The guy went to a small bag they’d brought, rummaged through it, then handed him a pouch.
“You know… some people can handle pain you can’t even imagine. Tough as nails.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t even look at him; my eyes were nearly swollen shut from the beating.
“Let’s see if a spoiled man like you fits that profile.”
His lackey lifted the chair upright again.
“This is your last chance to tell me where they are.”
“Go to hell.”
“Perfect.”
Then I understood what the needles were for. When they slid under my fingernails, the pain was indescribable.
“Boss, I found where they are! I broke into one of the bedrooms, but there’s another door inside that needs a code.”
Through the haze of my half-blurred vision, I saw Marcos glance at me—different this time. He was clearly planning something.