Page 17 of Not Taken

“I guess Sam brought in the big guys for this.” I smirked as I jumped around, but it was no use. He wasn't letting go.

Meathead One was right in front of me. His hand went behind his back and I thought he might have another gun, but he yanked out a nylon sack instead. If they got me in that, there was no getting out of here.

I was planning to kill myself, but I wanted to go out my way.

Meathead One held the sack in one hand, coming in close to bury his fist into my stomach again. Another explosion of pain and all the air was forced out of my lungs. I tried to curl my knees up, protect my stomach, but Meathead Two was squeezing me too hard.

“You won't be making jokes soon,” One said. “Boss has got a nice treat for you.”

“What if I don’t want it?” I replied faintly.

He grinned, showing his missing and smoke-stained teeth. “Ain’t got no choice about that,” he said, throwing another fist into my stomach.

I spluttered, trying to find a way to breathe, sure I was going to cough up blood. The harsh, fake light of the depot nearly vanished as he got the sack over my head, but I still kicked out and got him.

There was a satisfying yelp. “You fucker!” One snarled, his fist cracking against my face. This time I really did spit blood.

I made myself heavy, hoping it would give me a chance to catch them off guard, but it earned me a knee in the thigh that dropped me. “What did I say about staying the fuck still?” Two hissed.

I could only sense two of them, but it was enough to subdue me.

They grabbed my wrists. I struggled against them but they were too fast. “I said you've got the wrong guy!” I shouted. “I don't know what you're talking about!” A sudden zip of a cable tie bound my wrists together in front of me. Another clumsily zipped the burlap sack to my throat, digging harshly into my windpipe. Too tight, no way to freedom.

But did I want freedom?

Already strangling, it was just a matter of time before either my throat gave out or they removed the bag.

I tried to get more words out, but the smallest movement of my throat made it feel even tighter. I was going to pass out at this rate.

“Now it's time to fucking move,” Meathead Two growled as he shoved me forward onto my hands and knees.

Three years of work, training my body, killing them, killing for them. Even torturing people who betrayed the family to prove I was trustworthy. The Donelli's like their torture, and if it was a choice between slow strangulation or choking on my own severed dick, I knew how I wanted to go.

They didn't give me a chance to stand. Grabbed by the wrists, they dragged me across the smooth concrete floor. Even in my suit, the pure pain of grazes across my stomach and thighs only served to keep me awake.

Every time I struggled, they threw a new punch or kick, which led to more struggling, and on we went.

Along the corridor, up two flights of stairs, along another floor, down a flight. It just kept fucking going, like they were killing time by pulling me around and throwing insults at me. The depot wasn't even that big, and I swear they hauled me through the main area three times. By the time we finally stopped, I was sure I had at least two broken ribs, and the sheer agony of my right arm suggested a break.

I was done for either way.

Then, they finally stopped. With the rattling of a metal door, a loud clang, I was hit with the humid night air.

“Squeak squeak, motherfucker,” Meathead One said. If he'd seen me rolling my eyes at him it would have definitely earned me another smack in the face.

The air shifted, and from the clanging around me, I was sure we were in the loading bay.

“Well, Eli!” Sam Donelli’s slick voice dashed through any thoughts I had of a quick death. “So nice of you to join us!”

I coughed as one of the meatheads yanked me to my feet, punching me in the stomach again. They were pretty one-note.

“Come on then, tie him up!” Sam clapped. “We wouldn't want our honoured guest to be uncomfortable!”

There was a click from behind me where Sam’s voice had come from, and I was eighty percent sure he had a gun.

Still dragging me across the floor, the light through the bag had become brighter, I guessed from the massive floodlights they used in the loading bays.

The meathead threw me, my shoulder smacking against a wall, and I instantly sprung off it and tried to jump away. But they were already there, landing another punch, knocking me back into the wall.

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