Page 37 of Cause Of Death

“Got it!” Gym-Bro shouts, holding up a small, capsule-shaped device covered in blood. The window next to him rolls down, and he flicks it off his fingers and into the dark.

“Did you aim it at another car?” Pyotr barks, and Gym-Bro cringes.

“Uh, no. But it doesn’t matter though, right? As long as it’s out of him, they’re not gonna know where he ends up. They probably think we’re heading south and back to the city, instead of east and over state lines to Reno, anyway.”

Pyotr snarls, but he can’t do much more than that since he’s driving. Gym-Bro wisely shuts his mouth, tugging Kieran’s compression shirt over the wound followed by his borrowed tee. I can only hope that the compression shirt slows his bleeding, and that the amount of antibiotics we’ve pumped into him over the past twenty hours is enough to prevent an infection from setting in.

I keep one eye on Kieran’s breathing and the other on the car interface. The surrounding area quickly goes from built-up with houses and businesses along the highway to intermittent signs of life, to nothing but darkness. The miles fly past, as do the minutes, ticking away as they gradually become hours. According to the dashboard navigation system, by the time we pull up into the parking lot of a warehouse not far from the Reno-Tahoe International Airport it’s been a little over three and a half hours since Kieran was shoved into the car.

And he still hasn’t woken up.

His breathing is steady, if a little faster and shallower than I’d like, and although I can’t make out much in the gloom, it looks like his bleeding has slowed as well. The truck rocks as Pyotr and Low-Tide get out of the car, quickly followed by Gym-Bro. The doors slam shut behind them all, and I take the opportunity to check on Kieran a little more thoroughly.

There’s a nasty lump on the side of his head from where it collided with the pantry wall, but it doesn’t appear to be bleeding. Kieran hasn’t been restrained as yet, which is a goodsign, and as I brush myself along his skin, I’m stunned to see he’s cracked an eyelid open.

“I’m awake, Wisp, have been for a while,” he breathes, but doesn’t move from where he’s been left slumped over along the back seat. “I think the guy who was in the back seat dropped his phone earlier, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. It’s on the floor, can you maybe try and get a message out?”

I dart down to where there is, in fact, a smartphone lying face-down in the foot well. It takes some concentration and effort, but I solidify my hand enough to flip it over and tap on the screen. I curse as the request for a PIN-code appears, because I have no clue how to unlock it otherwise. I let the screen fade back to black, mentally cursing my luck.

“Hey, it’s okay. At least you tried. Maybe once we’re inside you can check the place out, see if there are any landlines left that you can use. Until then, I trust you to keep an eye on me, and make sure they don’t do too much damage.”

Kieran’s faith in my abilities is gratifying, to be sure, but at the same time, I’d rather know that back-up was already on its way.

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what Pyotr and his cronies have in store for him, first.

Pyotr,Low-Tide, and Gym-Bro don’t linger outside the pickup for long, returning within a few minutes to drag a limp Kieran out of the back and into the warehouse. Knowing he’s conscious while they manhandle him is upsetting to say the least, but there’s nothing I can do while he’s out in the open like this and vulnerable. I need to wait until they take him inside, andpossibly leave him alone before I go exploring in search of a phone I can use.

The warehouse appears to be attached to a smaller, empty storefront. The faded sign is for a now-defunct construction supplies chain, which does not spark joy inside of me. No, if anything, it means that the interior is likely to be devoid of any sort of tech that can be used to pinpoint our location to my family.

Looks like I’ll have to “borrow” a phone from someone then, and make sure that it’s unlocked when I nab it.

I create a number of different scenarios in my head, each one with differing issues and obstacles I’ll need to overcome before I have any hope of freeing Kieran from the clutches of the alphas. Every single one of them flies from my mind as I set eyes on the inside of the warehouse. While the storefront was empty of everything but dust bunnies, rat shit, and trash that had been left behind when the office had been cleared out, the warehouse is a whole other environment.

The enormous space had been built in at some point, reminding me of the sound stages when I’d taken a tour at Universal Studios several years ago. Whole sets are ready and waiting for their stars, but these aren’t the kind of scenes you’ll see on your television. There are no sit-coms being filmed, no courtroom dramas or hit series about brothers battling the supernatural. Instead, the sets have been designed with a particular viewership in mind.

On one side of the warehouse are bedrooms. Some are decorated to please young boys with beds shaped as cars or trains, others more suited to little girls obsessed with unicorns or princesses. Then there are the rooms designed for teenagers, with posters of celebrities and pop star idols stuck to the walls and some of the latest video games ready to play on whichever console is present. The last style of bedroom is chilling—whilesome might think it a perfect BDSM playroom, the chains and shackles aren’t padded to ensure a submissive’s comfort. No, these are cold, hard steel, some with spikes lining the inside bands of the cuffs, and many of them are crusted with dried blood.

The other side of the building houses what I can only describe as torture chambers. Each of them has a medical gurney bolted to the floor, the leather restraints thickly studded and foreboding. Some of them are contained in rooms that have been cleaned to an almost surgical standard, resemblingactualsurgical theaters—or perhaps a morgue—with benches and sinks, while others reside in a cell made of grimy concrete, pitted and stained with various bodily fluids. Both options have shackles and chains attached to the walls, waiting for some hapless victim to end their lives bound in their cold embrace.

Kieran is still pretending to be out cold, and for that I am eternally grateful. I hate to imagine what vile thoughts would be going through his mind if he was actively conscious for our tour through this pit of despair. It’s bad enough that I’ve seen it, and that I know what might be in store for the omega if I can’t get him out of here.

Thankfully, we don’t linger in the main body of the warehouse, instead heading for a steel door in the back corner of the space. There’s an electronic lock on the door, and I pay close attention to the key-code that Pyotr punches in—star zero four zero eight one three hash. I have no idea the significance of those numbers, but I don’t care so long as they grant access when used.

Behind this door are cells. I don’t care if others would describe them as small, secure rooms, because their true nature is to imprison people while they await their demise. Kieran is dragged to one where the same code is used as the previous door—star zero four zero eight one three hash. For a group who seems so set on making this place secure, they’re also lazy as fuckhaving the doors secured with the same pass-code. Oh well, it makes things easier for me.

The inside of the cell is clean, at least. There’s a bed frame bolted to the floor, the mattress made from the same, unforgiving material as the tumbling mats we would use in the orphanage gymnasium as children. There’s also a metal toilet bowl sticking out from the far wall, but no sign of a cistern or basin. A single hole in the wall above the toilet bowl—obviously housing the button flush—a camera tucked up near the ceiling in one corner, and a recessed halogen bulb in the ceiling are the only other adornments in the room.

Gym-Bro and Low-Tide drag Kieran’s limp body into the cell and dump him on the cot, leaving him hanging half off the mattress, his left arm and leg dangling to the floor. They turn and exit without a backward glance, the click of the lock sounding as they slam the door behind them.

Kieran doesn’t stir for a couple of minutes, and I’m torn between reforming to physically check on him or going for a wander while he’s still. I end up doing neither, because while the camera mounted in one corner of the room is easy enough to spot, I have no idea if it’s recording audio as well as visual, or indeed if it’s recording at all. I also don’t want to leave Kieran alone until he’s conscious and aware of my absence.

When he finally rouses, it’s with a lot of exaggerated moaning and drama. I watch the camera as Kieran stumbles to his feet and around the cell, but it doesn’t move. I untether myself from Kieran’s body and float up into the corner where it’s positioned, taking my time to study it close-up. There are no external wires coming from it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean much. It could be a wireless device, sending the camera feedback to a server via the cloud or something. It also has no little blinking lights showing, but again, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Ican’t hear any humming or buzzing that would indicate the camera is operational, so I decide to test it.

Moving people around when you’re the consistency of air isnotan easy task, let me tell you.Especiallywhen you’re trying to move them while not giving any visual indication that you’re doing so. It takes a couple of cycles of gentle tugging of Kieran’s fingers, then a little pressure toward the cot and the line-of-sight of the camera before Kieran seems to catch my drift. He drops to the horrid excuse for a mattress and rests his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as though he’s trying to hold back his sobs.

He’s not crying, though. Nope, the cheeky bastard is laughing. At me.

“Jesus, what I wouldn’t give for even a wisp of fresh air in here, to feel it brushing against my skin. Alas, there is nothing like that for me in this claustrophobic closet, nothing to refresh the staleness of my existence. Oh, woe is me!”

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