He moaned into the gag as his head spun.
“You’re not going anywhere, so stay put for your own good. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your buyer. You were a very special request,” Riggs said, and walked off without even checking if Clover hadn’t lost a tooth. Maybe it didn’t matter to the client.
The door slammed shut behind Riggs, and the sound of a metal clicking didn’t inspire hope in Clover. This was it. This was a new reality he’d have to deal with. A reality of blur, uncertainty, and rough floors. He should have known better than to trust anyone, but the false sense of security working for Jerry had offered had lulled him and made him soft. And it was too late now to save himself.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to escape, but his suspicions were soon confirmed—he’d been chained to the piping, and despite repeated attempts, the goddamn metal wouldn’t budge. Riggs had sedated Clover, so he had no idea where he could be, beyond the fact that the air felt hot and dry when he breathed it in. For all he knew, it could have been days, not hours, since Jerry had accepted a thick wad of cash and passed Clover to Riggs, as if he were merchandise.
Clover shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, Jerry wasn’t his friend. His interest in having Clover around lay in the money Clover could bring him, in leads and stolen goods. Maybe his unusual looks and poor eyesight made him less successful at pickpocketing and muling than some of the other boys and girls living at Jerry’s home. At nineteen, was he becoming too old to be part of Jerry’s crew? He could have passed for underage for a while longer, and while his albinism made him stand out, it also caused people not to see him as a threat. He and Jerry could have earned hard cash together for a while longer, but maybe the price offered for Clover had simply been too high to pass on.
He didn’t respect that. He wasn’t okay with that. But he understood that in this business, personal connection meant very little when push came to shove.
Regardless of the real reasons for Jerry selling him to Riggs, the story ended with Clover in a dusty room. Gagged, bound, and helpless.
He sat in silence, his head throbbing from all the thoughts rushing through it when he heard a car approach somewhere outside and park. The only window was boarded up with wooden planks, but the glow of the headlights still snuck in through the gaps, briefly illuminating the blurry darkness.
No matter how much he didn’t want to acknowledge the reality of his position, he knew this wasn’t about revenge or anything personal like that. Sometimes, people just disappeared into thin air, and those people were taken for something. A reason that wasn’t about who they were or what they’d done. If he was lucky, he’d end up as someone’s exotic pet, raped into submission. If he wasn’t, he’d be tortured first.
Maybe killed.
Jerry had mentioned a place where a special kind of customer could live out the most brutal of fantasies without the hassle of capturing their victims and disposing of the bodies. Cargo, Jerry had called them. It had been an anecdote shared over drinks, yet even then, when nothing had yet foreshadowed his later abduction, the story had made Clover’s blood curdle.
Months later, he was cargo too—someone’s property to be used as they saw fit.
Fear passed through Clover as he struggled with the shackle again, but the steel wouldn’t give and bruised his flesh further, so he went quiet and listened instead. People discussed something downstairs. He didn’t know how many or who they were, but it couldn’t be just Riggs. Were those other people the buyers? Was this where he would die?
Pain throbbed along his leg, made worse by the uncontrollable shudders shaking his body when he remembered a movie scene where someone put a drill to another person’s eyeball. If his new owner decided to do that to Clover, he could. He could do anything, and there would be no one around to cut the pain and suffering short.
Clover pulled on the cuff again and again, finding it harder to breathe for real this time. He floated in thick waves that prevented him from taking air, but a shout coming from outside pulled him right back to a reality of dusty air and hard floors.
A dog barked a floor below, but it was a series of gunshots that had Clover freezing to the wooden surface, sucking in dust every time he inhaled.
This could’ve been anything. The client unwilling to pay up. A rival peddler. A simple argument gone wrong. Either way, he stayed still in hope of his presence remaining undetected. Maybe at least Riggs would end up dead. Motherfucker deserved it.
He could hear more voices now, but the walls muted the sound too much for him to understand what was being said. It might have been seconds or minutes before a car started outside and drove off in a hurry but the noise downstairs didn’t stop. Men were shouting to one another, leaving Clover stuck between calling for help and risking everything if those people were as cruel as Riggs. Then again, if everyone left this abandoned building without finding him, he’d surely perish of thirst. And was there a slower, more painful kind of death than that?
The decision was made for him when slow, deliberate footsteps thudded on the stairs. He must have made some sound, because the person stopped in front of his door.
“Anyone in there?” the man asked, his voice low and gruff.
Clover struggled to his knees and whimpered, set on playing the card of his innocent looks. Unlike Jerry, these people didn’t know him, so they would underestimate him. So they wouldn’t be as careful and leave him just enough space to make a run for it.
“I’m coming in. If you’re holding a gun, drop it, or I’ll shoot you on the spot.”
The words gave Clover pause, and he tapped the floor, searching for his glasses, but wasn’t able to reach them. He yelped into the gag when the man slammed into the door, smashing it with sheer strength.
Clover flinched, squinting to see better, but once the stranger shone a flashlight at him, the pale glow stabbed his eyes and made him briefly close them altogether. Still, the stranger’s silhouette was already etched into the back of his eyelids—too tall to fit in the doorway and broad in the shoulders like a bear, the man moved swiftly and efficiently when he approached.
With the light out of his face, it was easier for Clover to open his eyes again, and he tried to recognize features obscured by shadow. He moaned and, seeing that there was no brutality directed at him yet, reached out his taped wrists in a silent plea.
The stranger picked something off the floor and stopped in front of him, the flashlight casting a pale circle between the tips of his boots and Clover.
The silence made Clover’s teeth clatter as he looked up at the overwhelming presence above. The stranger held a gun, but the darkness in his face, which Clover initially took for shadow, was a ski mask that only revealed the eyes and mouth. The stranger was huge, and even if his size wasn’t indicator enough, the way he’d smashed the door with his own body told Clover the man could break him in two.
But instead of making demands or threatening Clover into submission, the man put his gun away, kneeled, and slid the lost glasses onto Clover’s nose.
The immense relief made Clover’s shoulders sag, despite him knowing he was far from safe. Things could turn sour at any moment, for any reason. That had been his experience since he could remember.
The flashlight provided enough light to betray the color of the stranger’s eyes as a deep bronze. There was no malice in them, even if the huge vest packed with equipment, and the machine gun on his back communicated enough. This was a dangerous man, but he’d come here for the people downstairs.
He let out a long exhale and studied Clover in more detail, shining the small flashlight on the shackles connecting his ankle with the pipes, but eventually put the light in his mouth and touched Clover’s face with gloved fingers.
For the briefest moment, Clover hoped those guys were military or law enforcement carrying out a special operation, but if it were so, the man would have shown him some sort of identification by now, and he would have already reported his find to the other soldiers.
> He cried out when the man tore the tape off him with a sharp yank.
Gasping for air and with his eyes stinging, he pointed to his leg. “Please, please, help me. Can you take it off? Please. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Tank, you found something?” yelled a man stomping his way along the corridor.
‘Tank’ took a deep breath and looked back the moment another towering presence, though broader and slightly shorter, walked through the door.
“A boy.”
The second man shook his head and hung the rifle he’d been holding on his shoulder. “I’ll be damned,” he said, his voice softening as he approached in hurried steps.
Just like Tank, he was dressed in assault gear, though there was a strand of reddish-brown hair visible at the edge of the eye hole of his fabric mask. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re safe now. What’s your name?” he asked, scooting down next to his companion.
“C-Clover.”
Tank shook his head, and urged the new guy up. “I’ll handle this. Search the house for other captives.” From the commanding sound of Tank’s voice, Clover understood the man who found him to be the leader.
The other guy got up without more prodding and walked to the door before flashing a smile. “Good name. You’re one lucky boy.”
Here‘s hoping.
“How did you get here? Have you been taken or tricked into coming here?” Tank asked in the same somber tone as before. With the cuff still weighing down Clover’s leg, it was difficult to focus on the questions. People were nasty animals, and one could never predict their intentions or even their behavior. Staying alert was the only way to survive, and Clover had learned this the hard way.
“Boy, did you hear what I said?” Tank asked, his lips moving to reveal even white teeth. There was an edge of impatience to his voice now. Not good. Tank had to be at least six-foot-five to Clover’s measly five-eight.
“I… I’m sorry. I’m just so scared,” Clover said, wary of revealing too much. He did not want Tank to think he knew anything about Riggs and his operation, so feigning ignorance was a good card to play. “I’ve been brought here. I don’t know what happened. I think they drugged me.”
“Are you hurt? Did they say where they were taking you and what for?”
“My wrists are bound so tightly I can barely feel my fingers,” Clover pushed his hands out again. The sooner he was free the better.
Tank harrumphed, rising to his feet. A shudder trickled down Clover’s back when his new captor walked past him, but when one of the heavy boots rose into the air, he let out a shriek and covered his head. His eyes flew open when dust rained all over him following a loud thud.
A few powerful kicks were enough to break the empty pipes, and Tank pulled the other shackle off them, clearly intending to use it as a leash. But since the chain was too short for this purpose, he dropped it to the floor and produced a mean-looking knife.
Tank grabbed Clover’s wrists and pulled him to his feet as if he were a puppet. If this man wanted to hurt him, Clover wouldn’t stand a chance, and the sense of vulnerability it produced sent a jolt of excitement down his back. When their eyes met, a naughty voice at the back of Clover’s head reminded him Tank was exactly his type when it came to men, but fear nipped that arousal in the bud.
Tank cut the tape around Clover’s wrists, freeing his hands at last
“Thank you,” Clover said. He didn’t even have to fake the clenching in his throat to gain sympathy. His wrists still pulsed as blood clashed with the numb flesh, so he massaged them, relieved to feel heat flow back to his fingers.
Tank eyed him in silence before gesturing at the door as the second man peeked inside.
“The building’s empty. No cellar either,” he said before descending the stairs.
Clover took a few steps toward the door, eying Tank without even blinking. “Where are we?”
Tank shook his head and followed him like a wolf herding a sheep. “You’re not the one asking questions.”
This didn’t bode well at all. Clover’s stomach clenched when he heard someone laughing. More men awaited him downstairs, and there was no guarantee as to their intentions.
“Are you… saying I’m not free?”
Tank’s eyes narrowed, and his big hand rested on Clover’s shoulder, squeezing it just enough to communicate that he was still a captive. “We need to know who you are first,” he said, directing Clover into the hallway and toward the stairs.
Clover’s feet instantly felt heavier, and the weight of the cuff he was dragging behind him put that point across even more explicitly. His stomach twisted when a third man, dressed the same as the others but shorter, stood at the base of the stairs and studied him without shame.
“Wow. He’s so pale!”
A fourth stranger leaned out of a doorway, eying Clover with black eyes. “And a witness.” His voice sounded like a nail to Clover’s coffin, regardless of the slight lisp. These men had some dirty business here, and Clover was now involved, whether he liked it or not.
It was time to run, and fast.
He assessed the corridor and the open window at the end. In the dead of night, he’d have a chance to get away, hide and outsmart these men. They all had masks on, so if he managed to flee, they would have no reason to put much effort into chasing him down, their identities were protected either way.
Clinging to this scrap of hope, he followed Tank’s lead down the creaking stairs, flinching each time the other cuff dropped from a step behind him, tugged along like yet another prisoner. The fourth man was tall yet leaner beneath all the layers of protective clothing. Where Tank was dangerous due to his sheer size, this guy’s muscle was tightly packed under the skin, like a puma’s. His eyes—polished onyx—followed Clover, as if he were expecting a stealthy attack.
“This is bad news. You already let the woman go.”
Tank scowled and pushed Clover past the others. “He won’t know who we are anyway.”
With the men all talking about Clover as if he were yet another piece of merchandise they had to deal with, the hope for this ordeal to end fast was dwindling, and while Clover had expected Riggs was dead when he first heard the shots, seeing him lying lifelessly on the floor was a different thing altogether.
This would be Clover’s one opportunity to create diversion.
He screeched and feigned being too weak to stand on his own by grabbing at Tank’s arm. “Oh, my god! Is he d-dead?” He forced his breathing to quicken. This trick never got old, and what didn’t work on Riggs could now be his ticket out of here. Within seconds, he had his brain worked up, and stumbled to his knees, clutching at his neck with one hand.
Tank muttered a curse and dragged him back to his feet with such ease he might have carried Clover all day without so much as breaking a sweat. The sheer power in those arms made Clover’s mind stray to less savory thoughts, but the moment his new captor pulled him through the threshold and into the fragrant air, only one voice was left screaming inside Clover’s mind. He needed to run.
He stumbled to the dirt, catching gulps of fresh air and clutching at the sand. Tank’s voice came muted, as if he were still inside, talking to the others.
“He’s fine!”
Clover took that second of distraction as his cue, and shot up, launching himself forward. His bare soles hit the dry ground at breakneck speed, propelling him toward the darkest shade of black he could spot. If he ran far enough, hid behind something for long enough, he’d stand a chance.
The desert sand was cool against his skin, but the change of illumination was too great, and when something broke under his weight, digging into the sensitive flesh of his sole, his balance was thrown off so much he toppled over and rolled into a dry shrub.
Sand landed in his mouth, nose, the grains pressing into skin as if they meant to mark him forever. He attempted to get up and continue toward the solid shape of a hill standing against the dark sky, but a massive body that smelled of gunpowder and fresh co
logne squashed him to the ground.
Clover tried to rip himself away, cried for help, struggled, but it was game over, and he wouldn’t get another chance. When he managed to spin around under Tank, he clawed at the man’s face in hope of pressing his fingers into the eyes, but Tank pulled back with frustrated growl… leaving Clover with the ski mask in his hands.
For a few seconds, they stared at each other in the darkness only barely illuminated by lights from the house.
This was bad.
Real bad.
The dark eyes narrowed, and the fact that Tank had turned out to be very handsome under the balaclava wasn’t helping Clover’s cause. Square-jawed, with a crew cut and a large nose, he looked like the hero of an action movie. Which would have been a great thing if he were on Clover’s side, but Clover’s attempt to escape had taken that off the table.
“I… um…” Clover helplessly pressed the mask to Tank’s face, but they both knew it was too late.
Tank took a deep breath that expanded his massive chest farther, and grabbed Clover’s shoulder to haul him up. This time, he didn’t leave anything to chance. Clover’s world spun, as if he were a dirty rag thrown into the washing machine, and when it finally stabilized, he was hanging over Tank’s shoulder and staring at the muscular curve of his ass.
“Congratulations, boy. Now we really can’t just let you go.”
“Fuck.”
Wait. Did he say that out loud? Fuck indeed.
Tank snorted and patted Clover’s thigh as if that was supposed to help.
Chapter 3 – Clover
Tank’s heavy arm over Clover’s shoulders was like an anchor keeping him in a seated position, even if there was no reason for this, since Tank had used keys found on Riggs to cuff Clover’s wrist to his ankle, and the chain was too short to allow running. Or walking for that matter, which had been made clear when Tank had got tired of watching Clover tiptoe while bent over and carried him to the van as if Clover wasn’t heavier than a cat.
Four Mercenaries - The Complete Collection Page 2
