Page 1 of When You're Broken
PROLOGUE
Brendan Wilson surfaced from a dreamless dark, eyelids fluttering as he tried to force them open.Coarse rope pinned his arms behind him, biting so deeply into his wrists that every attempt to flex his hands felt like dragging raw skin across a serrated edge.He sucked in a breath through flaring nostrils; something thick and sticky sealed his lips shut, muting every instinctive cry.It took him a few seconds to realize that the tape, plastered from one side of his jaw to the other, was the cause of that trapped heat in his mouth and the dull ache tugging at his cheeks.
His first conscious blink revealed a concrete wall stained with old watermarks, as though the place had once flooded.The air in that cramped room felt stale, a gritty humidity clinging to the back of his throat and making him swallow convulsively behind the tape.Each breath tasted of grime and old sweat, and he noticed how the faint light in the overhead bulb cast a jaundiced glow across the space.Wherever he was, it was no place meant for living.
He tried to turn his head, but a jolt of pain streaked across the back of his neck.A hiss escaped him—a muffled, pitiful sound that made his eyes sting in frustration.His entire body felt heavy, as if he’d been drugged.Chloroform,he remembered in a brief rush of fear.A man at his house… claiming there was some sort of gas leak.The images flitted across his mind, scattered like fragments from a broken mirror: opening his door to an official-looking figure, stepping aside to let him in, turning away for just a moment, then cold chemical reek pressed tight against his face.He could almost feel that rag in his memory, forcibly covering his nose and mouth.Everything after that was a swirling haze.
At last, he forced himself to shift position, ignoring the complaints in every muscle.The room he found himself in was small—barely wide enough for a grown man to stretch out fully.It was undeniably a basement: harsh concrete floor, no windows, and only one thick metal door that looked like it had been adapted from an industrial storeroom.No doorknob on his side, just four heavy bolts hammered in place.The ceiling overhead was low, spidery cracks forming a network that might once have been painted white but now was an ugly ocher.
A rancid odor drifted through the air.His nostrils flared.There was no doubt: human waste.The corner near the door seemed darker, but he could see a bucket, the contents long since spilled.A shudder jolted through him as he realized thathemust have contributed to the stench.The notion shredded what was left of his pride as he remembered now, fragmentary recollections as though he had been drugged and in a daze for some time, waking momentarily, only to fall eventually back into an uneasy sleep.How many days have I been here?His sense of time faltered.It had to have been more than just a few hours—his mouth was painfully dry, and his body ached from lack of proper rest.
He tentatively flexed his fingers, feeling them numb, pinned behind him in a contorted angle.The rope felt brutally tight.Every slight twitch brought a raw burn, as though the rope’s fibers were sawing into his skin.He swallowed a surge of nausea, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose.If he panicked, it would only get worse.
He blinked away the dizziness, trying to remember the events after the chloroform.I woke up at some point, didn’t I?A fleeting recollection: blackness, then a muffled sensation of being in motion, crammed in a small space, maybe a car trunk.Yes… the boot of a car.He’d coughed and retched, only to pass out again.The next time he was even semi-lucid, he found himself lying on rough concrete.The same basement.Tied up.Tape on his mouth.He thought it was just hours, but the dryness in his throat suggested days.He had no idea how he’d survived.Possibly they gave him a little water.They.Orhe.The man who wore that false uniform.Why would anyone do this?
A scrape of rope made him suck a breath.He tried to edge his wrists apart, but the friction left him biting back a cry.For a moment, he shut his eyes, controlling the rising tide of panic.The tape felt suffocating—like each breath clung to plastic.He forced himself calm.Shrieking or thrashing would do nothing.
Slowly, excruciatingly, he pressed his bound arms into the small of his back, hoping to find a gap, even a single fray.It’s no use.The rope was thick, expertly knotted.Each tug only made his wrists sting.He hissed into the tape, sweat trickling along his temples.
Somewhere behind the basement door, footsteps echoed.Brendan froze.He heard the floorboards above him creak with heavy steps, the slow kind that spelled deliberation.Someone’s coming.A twinge of dread pulsed in his chest.He’d heard those steps before, usually accompanied by a soft whistle or a mocking hum.The memory twisted his stomach in knots.The footsteps paused, and for a second, all was still.Then came a new, disturbing noise: a dragging sound, something scraping across a rough surface.It set his nerves on fire.
His heart thudded, breath coming faster.The door’s bolts rattled, and light from the hallway spilled into the gloom.He squinted, adjusting to the sudden brightness.The figure was tall, perhaps leaner than average, with broad shoulders that seemed out of place on a man with such a sharp face.But the more startling image lay below him: a limp body in his grasp, face battered and slick with blood, leaving a thin red smear along the floor as the figure pulled him in.
Brendan’s stomach lurched.The battered figure’s arms flopped uselessly, and a faint whimper rose from parted lips.Blood trickled down the man’s temple, collecting at the jaw.It took all of Brendan’s self-control not to retch into his sealed mouth.Another prisoner?
The man dragging the body wore a grin that flickered with a vicious, boyish glee.His hair was short, dark, parted in a neat style that matched the cruelty in his eyes.He wore plain jeans and a once-white T-shirt now stained with something that might have been coffee, might have been something else.The savage grin alone told Brendan all he needed:This is a predator.The same man who had come to his door with the phony credentials.That face had looked more unassuming then, easily mistaken for a mild technician.Now, the facade was shredded, revealing something monstrous.
Wendell Reed.Yes, he… He told me his name...
Without ceremony, Wendell let the bloodied man slump against the wall.Then he pulled more rope from a battered backpack, hooking it around the new prisoner’s chest and arms, binding him further.The man moaned weakly.Up close, his face was swollen, an eye nearly shut.He must’ve been tortured or beaten extensively.Something about the savage disregard in Wendell’s expression hammered a new wave of terror into Brendan’s chest.
Wendell turned, catching Brendan’s stare.That crooked grin deepened, and he tapped an index finger to his temple in a mocking salute.“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, voice smooth, almost pleasant.“Still in one piece, I see.And I brought a friend for you.”He gestured at the unconscious man.
A faint laugh escaped Wendell as he hauled a battered wooden chair from near the door, scraping its legs on the concrete.Without straining, he lifted the new captive’s limp frame onto it, forcibly twisting his arms behind him.The man’s choked groan indicated the pain of that posture.A thick length of rope pinned him at the waist.
Brendan tried to speak, but the tape rendered his words an unintelligible moan.Wendell rolled his eyes.“Right, forgot about that.Let’s fix it.”He produced a small folding knife from his pocket, flipping it open with a practiced flick.Brendan tensed, half-expecting the blade to bite into his throat.Instead, Wendell lifted the corner of the tape and cut it free with sadistic care.The pain made Brendan gasp, tears blurring his vision.The sudden flood of dank air across his cracked lips felt punishing.He swallowed, coughed, tried to steady himself.
The odor in the room seemed to intensify.Or maybe it was just that being able to breathe through his mouth brought the stench to him in full force.Each inhalation turned his stomach.He coughed again.
Wendell walked away, rummaging in a dark corner.A scraping noise followed, and he dragged a splintered, short-legged table across the floor, placing it squarely in front of Brendan and the unconscious captive.The table’s surface looked warped and stained by old spills.The battered corners suggested it had seen better days.
Then Wendell crouched, producing items from a holdall bag.He laid them in a neat row on the table: a large knife with a serrated edge glinting under the feeble basement light, a pair of rusted pliers with chipped red handles, a heavy hammer flecked with dark residue, and a bottle labeled WHITE SPIRIT.The chemical tang from that container wafted over, making Brendan’s eyes water anew.
Brendan’s heart nearly stopped.His mind screamed that this was a scene from a nightmare.The new captive stirred, letting out a faint whimper as if on the edge of consciousness.Wendell tapped the table’s surface with a showy flourish.“We’re going to have some fun, you see.A little game in a while.But first…” He trailed off, standing with that grin still painted on his lips.
He reached for a second battered metal bucket in the corner.Without warning, he sloshed its contents over the unconscious man’s head.The water splashed across the man’s face.He jerked upright, sputtering and gasping, eyes rolling.A thread of drool and blood dribbled from his mouth.The sudden shock drew him to delirious awareness.He looked around, frantic, then fixated on Wendell with a shiver.
Wendell shot Brendan a conspiratorial wink.“See?Now we can all get acquainted.”
Brendan’s stomach twisted in horror.He found his voice, rasping out, “W-what do you want from us?”His words came stilted from disuse, his throat raw.The question tumbled out with half-formed desperation.“Why are you doing this?”
Wendell’s grin didn’t falter.“Because I can.”He took a step back, scanning the scene.“I’ll let you two chat.”There’s water of a kind in that other bucket if you fancy a drink, though I’d, uh, recommend otherwise, seeing as it came from you.But it’s a free country, right?”He rubbed his palms together, glancing at the tools on the table as though deciding which to use first.
The new captive gaped, tears streaming down the cuts on his cheeks.His voice, raw and trembling, asked something Brendan almost couldn’t make out.Wendell ignored him, turning on his heel.“I’ll be back soon.Don’t miss me too much.”And with that, Wendell stepped through the door, letting it slam behind him.The clang of metal reverberated in the basement.They heard the bolts slide back into place.
For a long moment, neither prisoner spoke.Brendan forced air into his lungs, trying to quell the trembling in his limbs.He looked at the battered man.Early forties, maybe.Soft features now marred by bruises, dried blood caked around a split eyebrow.The man’s chest rose and fell in ragged heaves as he tried to steady himself.
Finally, the man flicked a fearful glance toward the table with the array of monstrous tools, then back at Brendan.His eyes were wide with unfiltered terror.“What’s happening?”the man asked, voice quivering.“What does he get from it?”
