Page 102 of The Thief
A fist connects with my stomach, doubling me over. I can't breathe, can't think. I can only focus on the agony radiating through my core.
"Feisty little bitch," one of them says.
They grab me again, but this time I'm ready. Dad's training kicks in, muscle memory overriding panic. I snap my head back, feel cartilage crunch as my skull connects with someone's nose.
"Fuck!"
The grip on my hair loosens. I spin, driving my knee up toward the nearest groin, but he's faster than I expected. He catches my leg and twists hard.
I go down, hitting the floor with enough force to rattle my teeth. But I'm not done fighting. Never done fighting.
I roll and try to scramble away, but hands are on me again. They drag me up then hold me still while the one with the bloody nose gets his revenge.
His fist crashes into my ribs, sending fire through my chest, then another to my stomach. It has me gasping, retching, struggling just to stay conscious.
"That's for my nose, you little cunt."
I look up at him through watery eyes and manage to summon enough saliva to spit blood in his face. "Fuck you."
His eyes go dark. He grabs my left arm, the one the other men aren't holding, and I know what's coming. Dad taught me to recognize that look, that moment when someone decides they're going to break you.
"No, please?—"
The snap echoes through the room like a gunshot. Pain explodes up my arm, a white-hot agony that makes me scream loud enough to wake the dead. My arm hangs at an unnatural angle, bone clearly broken somewhere between my wrist and elbow.
"Jesus Christ, Tony," one of the others says. "Boss said to bring her in one piece."
"She'll live. Just won't be throwing any more punches."
They're right about that. My left arm is useless now, hanging limp at my side while waves of nausea wash over me. But I'm still conscious, still fighting.
"Fuck this," the third man says, producing a syringe from his jacket. "Let's just put her out."
The needle goes into my neck before I can protest. Whatever they've given me works fast; the world starts to gray at the edges, sounds becoming distant and muffled.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is Freddie's note on the nightstand, promising he'll be back soon.
I pray it's not too late.
I wake up to the smell of decay and old blood.
The first thing I notice is the pain; my arm screaming in agony, my ribs aching with every breath, my head pounding like someone's using it as a drum. The second thing is the cold. It’s seeping through whatever I'm lying on and into my bones.
My eyes flutter open to reveal a ceiling covered in water stains and peeling paint. The walls are bare concrete, stained with substances I don't want to identify. A single bare bulb hangs from a frayed cord, casting harsh shadows that make everything look like a nightmare.
Which, I suppose, it is.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it as pain rockets through my broken arm. They've tied my good arm to something behind me—a pipe from the feel of it. My legs are free, but when I try to move them, pins and needles tell me they've been numb for a while.
How long was I out?
The room smells like piss and fear and something else; something rotten that makes my stomach turn. There are dark stains on the concrete floor that could be anything but probably aren't anything good.
Blood. Lots of it. Old and new.
This isn't the first time someone's been brought here. Won't be the last, either, unless Freddie finds me in time.
If he's even looking. If he's even alive.
