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“Okay, we can do that. And what about the baby?” Andrea asked, worry lacing her voice.
I perked up at that, too.
I’d really like to know about the baby.
“Baby boy Rector is doing perfect. He looks big and hearty. A perfect twenty four and a halfweeker,” the man said encouragingly.
“Thank you, Dr. Royce,” Andrea said, followed shortly by the door to the room closing.
Andrea’s weight shifted to the side of the bed, and I finally managed to open my eyes to find her staring at me, tears steadily dripping down her cheeks.
The only thought that I kept thinking about, though, was that it shouldn’t be Andrea sitting on my bed right now. It should be Loki.
Where was he?
“Where’s Loki?” I rasped.
Andrea shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Then it all came back to me, and I wished I hadn’t woken up to this nightmare.
***
Loki
“You son of a fucking bitch!” I snarled, launching myself up from the chair only to be stopped short by the chains that Mick conveniently took from the equipment room.
One end was connected to the table, while the other was connected to my ankle.
He hadn’t bothered to restrain me any other way.
The son of a bitch was too cocky.
“Oh,” Mick grinned. “Temper, temper!”
I wanted to shove Mick’s smile through his throat by way of my fist. Stupid fucking arrogant bastard.
The metal of the cuff cut into my ankle, but the pain didn’t lessen the ache inside my heart each time I replayed Channing’s agonizing scream over and over again in my head.
I closed my eyes as the scream reverberated through my head once more, making my skin go clammy; although, part of that might’ve been the after effects of the percussion grenade.
I was still nauseated, but now I couldn’t tell if it was because of my terror for Channing, or the goddamn grenade exploding in front of my face.
“Got the two of them in the cage, boss,” a man said as he came in the room.
He was dressed nearly identical to what I used to wear all those years ago.
Black leather pants, cut off black t-shirt, and a leather cut that declared him a member of The Crimson Horde, the gang I’d used to belong to. The man didn’t look familiar, though. What he did look like was a dirt bag, and the picturesque version of what everyone in America considered a common criminal.
Long hair. Greasy and unkempt. Soiled, ripped jeans.
The red bandana was even wrapped around his head exactly like every low-life thug in the business sporting their ‘colors.’
Then what the man said finally struck home. He’d only put two in the cage. Not five.
My guess was that Sterling and Parker were out, and most likely Cleo. They were the furthest away from the exploding grenade, and the most likely to be able to orient themselves the fastest. Their training was extensive.
Mine hadn’t been anything to sneeze at either, but ours was nothing like the parajumpers and the SEALs.
