Page 81 of Protecting the Nerd

But I would find him. No matter what it took, I’d bring him back. I’d walk through fire, wade through blood, take on the world to get him back. I would never stop looking.

Not until I had York safe in my arms, where he belonged.

27

YORK

Everything had happened so quickly. The explosion. Quillon shouting at me to stay down, protecting me with his body. Shots being fired. Hands dragging Quillon off me. I tried to hold on to him, but his hand was ripped from my grip, and then I was by myself. Where were the FBI agents? Where was everyone else?

Rough hands yanked me up from the car floor, and a black bag was pulled over my head. A bag? Could I even breathe? I trashed and kicked to get free, but a pair of ironclad arms wrapped around my torso, pinning mine to my sides. Wild fear filled me as I struggled against the assailant’s hold, but it was like trying to wrestle a statue.

A sharp prick at my neck sent a jolt of alarm through me. Oh, shit. The world tilted, my vision blurring as if someone had smudged the edges of reality. I tried to hold on to consciousness, but my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

Quillon. Oh my god, Quillon…

Darkness swallowed me whole.

The next thing I knew, unyielding metal poked in my hip, and coldness seeped through my clothes. I woke up with jarring abruptness. My hands were bound tightly behind my back, the ropes cutting into my wrists, and my ankles were similarly secured. The cloth around my head cut off every light. Where was I?

We were moving. A car. An engine growled, and the vibrations beneath me told me we were traveling at a considerable speed. Not a car. A van. The sound was different from a car. Roomier, with more echo.

My head throbbed, probably a result of whatever sedative they’d administered. At least I was still alive. They wanted me alive. I had to cling to that thought, or I’d get a panic attack. I had to remain calm.

Was Quillon okay? I hadn’t seen what they’d done to him, but he would’ve had to have been unconscious, considering how they’d dragged him out of the car. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve fought them tooth and nail. Please let him be okay.

He’d had a premonition. He hadn’t said so in so many words, but he’d been on edge the whole time. And now his worst fear had come true. He had to be worried sick about me, just as I was in a near-panic state at the worry about him being hurt. His moss-green eyes flashed in my mind, always so alert, so alive with purpose. I couldn’t bear the thought of those eyes losing their spark.

The van hit a pothole, and I winced as pain shot through my shoulder where it had collided with the unforgiving floor. Fear clawed at my insides, but I shoved it down. Being scared was a luxury I couldn’t afford—not now. There was a way out of this; there had to be. I had to stay focused. I knew what they wanted, and I was also aware I wouldn’t last long under torture. My only hope was to escape…or for Quillon to rescue me.

With every jostle and turn of the van, I concentrated on the sounds outside, desperate for any clue where they were taking me. Two distinct male voices came from the front, but they weren’t speaking English. It sounded harsh, with rolling Rs, short consonants, and no nasal sounds. Russian. Coulson had been right, then. Fuck.

We were on a highway, judging by our speed and the almost soothing rhythm of passing cars. The van swerved to the right—an exit—and my body rolled over, jostling my shoulder against something hard. Ow.

The sounds changed. Less traffic. A train passing, its horn unmistakable. We drove over the railroads. I bounced around, winced. Fewer background noises now.

How long had we been driving? How much time had passed while I’d been unconscious? It could be anywhere between minutes and hours. But surely they wouldn’t risk driving for too long, would they?

The deep blast of a ship’s horn blared. We were near a harbor. Seattle?

The van came to an abrupt halt, jolting me forward, and doors were flung open. With a loud clang, the sliding door opened. The men hauled me out, my feet scraping over the ground as they dragged me out. No light penetrated my blindfold. Was it still dark? It had to be.

“No sound,” one of the men said. “Or we hurt you.”

Subtle, it was not, but the message came across loud and clear. They wouldn’t kill me, that much I knew. If that had been their goal, they could’ve taken me out at the house. No, they wanted me alive so they could make me spill my secrets. But I still feared their threats of pain.

I was lifted off the ground and dropped onto something hard.

“Ow!”

“Quiet.”

My fingertips touched cold metal, but before I could explore any further, another sharp prick in my neck made the world tilt on its axis. Fuck. I fought against the encroaching darkness, every cell in my body screaming defiance.

Quillon…

I’m so sorry, Quillon.

Consciousness clawed its way back, dragging me through layers of groggy disorientation. My head throbbed in time with the rhythmic rocking cradling my body—a gentle sway that belied the panic gnawing at my insides. Only my arms were still bound, but in front of me, not behind my back. My legs had been untied, and my blindfold was off. Not that it did me any good. As I blinked open heavy lids, I was met with an oppressive darkness.

---