Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Peyton
What in the actual fuck?
Peyton’s head didn’t just pound; it felt like someone was using a jackhammer against the inside of his skull. His mouth felt dry, like he’d licked a disgusting old carpet left to rot in a junkyard.
His eyes didn’t want to open at first, so he took a deep breath and listened instead.
He lay on his side, and it felt like there were metal manacles around his wrists, which were chained in front of him.
In the distance, he heard muffled voices that weren’t speaking English, but he was aware enough to know whatever they spoke bore an Eastern European accent.
Also, from the acoustics, they were in a large structure of some sort. One with a high ceiling and few interior walls, based on the way the distant voices echoed and bounced.
Barely cracking one eye open, he saw he was in a dark, windowless room, the only illumination a dim light oozing in from under a closed door.
Abducted.
He had jumbled memories of his attackers tranqing him, maybe a helicopter ride, being roughly thrown into the back of a truck or van before being tranqued again at some point, and now…
Here.
Wherever here was.
Taking a long, slow breath, he smelled dirty concrete, traces of gasoline and motor oil, and from outside the room, mud, and gun oil.
Now knowing he was alone in the room, as his wits returned he fought the urge to move and shift because he didn’t know if there were any cameras in the room monitoring him.
Slowly, he opened both eyes and carefully rolled onto his back.
The room was smaller than he’d thought, and from a disintegrating corkboard nailed to one wall and what he could make of the few things stapled and pinned to it—none of them in English—this had likely been an office of some sort at one time.
But no LEDs or other telltale signs of cameras.
He cautiously sat up, wincing at aches and pains. His ankles were also manacled and he was so thirsty he felt like he could drink an entire jug of water in one swallow.
With his eyes now used to the dim light, he looked around and confirmed, yep, former office, including an old, battered metal desk shoved in one corner.
And no cameras. None he could spot, anyway.
It was a trap.
Not only had he walked right into it, he did the exact things he would have chewed Dewi—or any other Enforcer—a new asshole for doing.
Well, at least it was him and not one of the others. He was a Prime and had a distinct advantage.
With another breath he sniffed and only smelled humans, no wolves or other shifters.
First things first.
Taking his time and being careful not to make any noise, he stood and stretched, his spine and other joints creaking and popping as he did. He could easily shift and free himself, then shift back, but that might cause him more problems.
Slowly shuffling over to the door, he pressed his ear against it and listened. From the sounds of the voices and from the various scents he picked up, he guessed there were at least four men.
None of them spoke English. Meaning the Cyrillic writing on the papers hanging on for dear life to the corkboard was likely Russian, too.
Still moving slowly, he knelt next to the door and lay his head on the floor so he could peek under.
It appeared to be a large barn or old warehouse building.
Four men sat around a card table, drinking and playing a game, all of them wearing sidearms and with long guns on the floor around them.
At least ten bedrolls were scattered nearby, along with tactical backpacks and other gear.
While he couldn’t see any windows, part of a skylight in the tall ceiling was visible, and it looked dark outside.
The men jumped up at the sound of an approaching vehicle with a diesel engine, likely a truck. Peyton watched one man grab a rifle and head out of his sight, the other three standing with their hands on their sidearms, waiting.
A moment later, muffled laughter outside, and then the man returned carrying a large paper grocery bag and followed by another man.
Food.
They set the food on the table, and the new arrival spoke to the others before glancing toward the door.
Peyton fought the urge to flinch as the man asked a question of the others and received a response.
While no linguist, Peyton felt increasingly certain the men were speaking Russian.
When the new arrival picked up a can of soda and a wrapped item the size and shape of a burger and headed toward Peyton’s room, by the time the man slid open what sounded like four barrel bolts on the outside of the door, Peyton had returned to his previous position, eyes closed and pretending he was still unconscious.
He sensed the man standing there. “You. Food,” he said in thickly accented English.
Peyton didn’t react. But the door was open, and the other men could see into it from their current vantage point.
He heard the man step inside the room and then the sound of him setting the can and sandwich down near the door. “Food,” the man said louder. “Eat.”
One of the other men called out to this man in Russian. The man answered, pausing, standing there.
Finally, he walked over, and Peyton somehow managed not to react when he felt the toe of a tactical boot roughly nudge him in the ass.
Now he smelled the man, and he was not only human, he was definitely one of the men who’d abducted him because he could smell himself on the man’s clothes.
Perhaps one of the men who loaded him into the helicopter.
The man called out something else to his compatriots, left, and locked the door behind him.
Peyton waited at least a minute before sitting up again, his stomach now growling over the smell of what surely was a hamburger.
But he had no idea if the sandwich was drugged or not, and if he popped open the can of soda, it might be heard by the men.
At least the interaction likely answered the question of whether or not there was a camera observing him. They’d have already known he was awake. The fact that the man was willing to touch him made Peyton suspect they had absolutely no clue what he was capable of.
Who knew if they even realized he was a shifter, much less a Prime?
Ignoring the burger’s tempting aroma, Peyton returned to his vantage by the door and stared at the men.
He had no phone, not even a watch to know what time it was.
And as he knelt there, he realized he had another pressing issue, and if he didn’t want to give away the fact that he was awake, he’d need to deal with it.
There was a small, rusted, battered metal garbage can on top of the desk. Peyton set it on the floor and quietly pissed into it, directing his stream against the side to try to make as little noise as possible.
Fortunately, the humans holding him captive were too engrossed in their conversation to hear him.
With that task finished, he returned to the door and observed the men for a while. While all he saw were the five men, from the number of bedrolls and equipment scattered around, he suspected there were more. Maybe outside standing guard, or perhaps running an errand.
He had no way of knowing, and without a window, he couldn’t tell.
Looking up, he noted the room’s ceiling was made of plywood, meaning no way he could break through that without drawing a lot of attention. Especially without knowing what lay atop the office, if it was a storage area or something.
Most of the conversation Peyton couldn’t understand, just a word or two he suspected had a similar meaning in English.
A word that ominously sounded like “laboratoriya.”
And that sent a damned chill down his back.
When the man who’d checked on him finished eating, he hauled himself out of his chair and started making his way toward Peyton’s room.
Once again, Peyton went through the charade of pretending to be asleep.
Even when the guy walked in and nudged him in the leg a few times and said, “Wake up. You awake? Hello?”
Somehow, Peyton didn’t flinch or change his breathing when the guy reached down and felt Peyton’s neck for a pulse. It was sooo tempting to take the guy over then, but Peyton still didn’t have a plan.
And if he didn’t have a plan, he knew he would die.
Because once he escaped, they damned sure wouldn’t take him again. Not alive, anyway.
I just want to see Gillian and the baby again. I’m an idiot, but Goddess, please let me make it home.
Two of the men at the table left the game and settled onto their bedrolls while the guy who spoke English and the other two sat at the table and continued playing cards.
Peyton watched them for what had to be at least thirty minutes before he finally decided on his next action.
If he waited until daylight, he would lose any advantages he’d have during his escape.
The English-speaking man turned on a radio, the volume down, playing disco music with foreign lyrics.
When one of the other men also left the table and lay down, Peyton shifted only long enough to slide out of his restraints and shift back.
He’d have to move quickly for this to work, and it still might not succeed if there were men standing guard outside.
Returning to his previous position, he let out a cough, waited, and then coughed a little louder, accompanied by a soft moan.
Sure enough, outside, a chair slid on concrete, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps and the barrel bolts being unlocked.
From the man’s scent, Peyton knew it was the same man. “You awake?”
Peyton softly groaned and hoarsely whispered, “Water.”
As Peyton had hoped, the man moved closer, within touching distance. “What?”
Peyton didn’t answer, and when the man reached down and grabbed Peyton’s arm to shake him, Peyton immediately took him over with his Prime powers.
“Do not move, do not speak,” Peyton silently commanded. “Answer with your thoughts. How many men are here?”
The man’s confusion and rapidly blossoming fear meant Peyton had to repeat the question.