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When he felt fingers brush the inside of his forearm, he swung his face down.
“Wait, no rubbing alcohol? You managed to get truth serum, but can’t go to a Walgreens and buy some—ow!”
When he went to massage away the pinch at the crook of his elbow, he discovered that both arms were bent at a forty-five-degree angle and tied down at the wrist—and this brought into focus that he was sitting up in a high-backed, hard-seated chair. His legs were likewise restrained at his ankles.
Like he was a prisoner in an old school electric chair.
And yet, there was something soft behind his head, as if a pillow had been tucked into the nape of his neck for comfort.
“Forgive me,” the voice said. “I am not formally trained in matters of infection. Such as yourself.”
“So drugging people is more a hobby for you.” Gus tried to lick his dry lips, but his tongue was sandpaper. “You wouldn’t happen to have any Coke around… and I’m talking about the soda kind, not the nose—whoa. That shit is fast-acting, isn’t it.”
“Perhaps we have finally reached the proper dose for you.”
With a fresh wave of woozy cresting over his consciousness, Gus abruptly remembered being back at his condo. He’d walked in from the garage after having quit Phalen’s lab… found some crazy paperwork in an envelope on his doormat… and thendiscovered he wasn’t alone. A male figure in black had pointed a gun at him and shot him in the chest—but not with a bullet. A dart. And just as his brain had started making connections, he’d fallen forward and landed on his—
Face. Which explained the mouth.
Shit, he thought. He needed to stall. Maybe someone would be looking for him. Maybe he’d been missed—nah, that was wishful thinking. He lived alone and he’d just quit his fucking job and his new one didn’t start for two weeks. And the one person who might have missed him now hated him because he—
“You’re not following the script,” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The script. You know, as in a movie?”
“On the contrary,” the accented voice said. “Everything has gone right to my plan. Which makes me the writer, does it not.”
Aware that he was going in circles in his head, Gus tried to get with the program. What the hell had he been—
“No, no, no, if this were an eighties action movie…” His tongue clicked inside his desert mouth. “… the stakes would be higher. We’d be hanging off the side of a building… instead of wherever we are. Where did you say we… were?”
“I did not,” came the haughty response.
As another wave ofwhoaaaahit him, it was like he’d been injected a third time. “Wow. DIY tip—if you ever do this yourself, get ready for the chaser. It’s a doooooooooooozy…”
“I suspect the tranquilizer has not completely worn off yet.”
“Which one did you use?”
“Does it matter?”
Keep talking, he had to… “No, it doesn’t—hey, where are we? I can’t see a thing.”
“You have an eye mask on.”
“Ohhh, that explains it.” Gus swallowed hard as his saliva glands started to tingle like his stomach was considering an evacuation. “You know… I think I might be sick.”
“Oh, good. We are where we need to be. Worry not, that will pass.”
“So you’ve done this before, huh.” Coughing a little, he told his goiter reflex to calm the hell down. “I need a drink, my man… my mouth is a dessert. Wait, I think that’s the wrong word.”
As his head listed off to the side, it was promptly reangled with gentle hands, the strain in his neck relieved, the pillow likewise rearranged with comfort in mind.
“Thanks,” he murmured. “You know… this whole kidnapping thing doesn’t work… out, you have a future in the hospitality… industry.”
“Why thank you, Dr. St. Claire.”
