Page 154 of Snared Rider

But that choice is not mine anymore, and that is a bitter pill to swallow. Even so, I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet, not when I just got Logan back, not when I have my father and grandfather waiting for me to come home.

My thoughts scatter as the scoring of metal sounds close, so close I instinctively turn in the direction I suspect it is coming from. I can see nothing in the dark, but it doesn’t matter. My other senses are on full alert and working overtime to make up for my lack of sight.

A clang is followed by a high-pitched squeak—like rusty hinges—and then there is a rush of air before I’m shrouded in light.

I blink and duck my head, shielding my eyes. It is so bright after the dark, it makes my eyes water.

It takes my muddled brain a moment to realise the light is coming from an open door. This should be salvation except there is a figure silhouetted within the frame. It’s creepy as hell, like something right out of a horror movie, and why wouldn’t it be? This entire situation is about as horrific as it can get.

Sweat pools in every pore on my body but the back of my neck is thick with it. I can feel my hair sticking to my nape and my scalp as I pray to whatever God will help.

Help does not come, but the figure moves into the room.

There is a whirring sound then the room is flooded with light. I close my eyes again, crying out at the sting behind my lids.

I want to keep them closed until the pain subsides, but fear only allows me to shut them for a moment. Then I force my eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear my sight. The shapes and colours sharpen until I can see again. I wish I couldn’t because the figure in the room is Simon Wilson.

He’s not tall. This surprises me; I thought he would be. I don’t know why I focus on that either, but it is the only thought I have.

I take in the rest of him as he moves to stand in front of me. His dark hair is short and flat, as though he forgot to style it. If I'm honest he looks dirty. His is now an unkempt mess of hair. He looks two-steps from feral. The glint in his eyes scares me half to death because I can see how close he is to the edge.

“Hello, Beth.” His voice is light, polite even, but his expression tells a different story. He looks angry, and he’s barely keeping hold of that anger. “It’s nice to see you’re finally awake. I thought I gave you too much in the syringe. I was starting to worry you might never come to.”

I ignore him, instead letting my eyes wander around the space. The room is large, the ceiling high, and there are enormous boarded up windows that span into the roof above me. The concrete floor is swamped with plant life and strewn with crumbling pieces of paper from another time. There’s a rusted filing cabinet turned on its side and graffiti covers every inch of the walls. On the far side, two desks are upturned, the drawers pulled out, the surfaces covered with a layer of thick dust, debris and God knows what else.

It’s an office graveyard.

The rest of the room is filled with ancient-looking machinery. I know I am in one of the old colliery buildings, although which one I don’t know. There are several in Kingsley, and I haven’t stepped foot in one since I was a teenager. I try to lock onto something familiar, but there are no identifying features to help me.

When we were younger we used to hang around these sites all the time, but after a teenage boy drowned in one of the mining tunnels the council closed them off and fenced in each colliery. The likelihood of anyone noticing we’re down here is slim to none. I try not to let that thought scare me to death, but it does.

As I glance up, I see my bound wrists are attached to a hook at the end of a pulley system that runs the length of the room. In days gone by it was probably used to move heavy loads around the room; today it is being used to keep me captive.

“Let me down,” I order, with a lot more steel in my voice than I feel.

He glances over his shoulder. “We have to wait for our guest of honour before we can get started.”

I follow his line of sight and gasp. There is another body trussed up like mine and I know instantly who it is from the tattoos covering his bare chest and arms.

Dean.

How the hell did Wilson get hold of Dean?

“Oh my God! Dean!”

I thrash against my bindings, the rope scraping against my skin painfully. I don’t care about the pain; all I can focus on is Dean.

But he doesn’t move. His head remains dipped to his chest, all the pressure of his weight on his bound wrists.

I snap my gaze to Wilson. “What did you do to him?”

Wilson shrugs. “Nothing more than him and that Club of his planned to do to me.”

They would have done worse, much worse, but I keep this to myself. “Help him.”

He stares at me like I’m crazy. “Why would I do that?”

I swallow bile as my eyes go back to Dean, hanging there. He has marks all over his chest and arms—bruises forming, maybe—and there is blood matting his hair. Did he put up a fight? Did Wilson do this to him when he was unconscious and unable to defend himself?

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