help you can get.’ The man lifted the SIG. Like I’ve already said, the stock is heavier than on most other handguns, so when he brought it down hard against my skull it put me right out of the picture.
How long I was unconscious I couldn’t say, because when next I gathered my senses the van had stopped moving. The side door was open and only two of my captors remained inside. The others were standing outside the van, their figures indistinct against a gloomy backdrop. They were talking hurriedly, but I couldn’t make out was being said. I lay there, gathering my wits as I started to assess my injuries. My entire body felt like one large bruise, but I couldn’t detect any breakages. It took me a moment to realise that my hands were now in front of me. The plastic ties had been removed and rigid-cuffs snapped on instead. My feet were free, and in kicking range of the two men keeping guard. They had guns out, so I didn’t fancy my chances. Anyway, I’d come to see Sigmund Petoskey, so I wasn’t about to spoil my prospects by attempting an audacious escape.
One of the guards outside moved towards the van. When he leaned inside I could make out the welt on his forehead. ‘Bring him. And if he tries anything shoot him in the knees.’
The two men grabbed me and pulled me to a sitting position. I recognised the one on my right as the recipient of my saliva earlier. He said, ‘You heard the man, try anything and I’ll kneecap you. We have to keep you alive for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put you through hell.’
There was nothing gentle about the way I was hauled from the van and dumped on my feet. Blood rushed to my head and I was a second or so away from blacking out again. Only the flash of agony from where the SIG had torn my scalp kept me galvanised. The two men hooked an elbow around my arms and then propelled me forward, following the other two. To make things more difficult I could have dragged my feet, but we were heading in the right direction. Stumbling along, I just kept my mouth shut.
We were inside an empty warehouse, a large open space bordered on either side by huge stacks of pallets laden with sacks and boxes of all shapes and sizes. The floor was smooth concrete, swept clean, with yellow markers indicating pathways for forklift trucks. Other yellow chevrons alongside the paths marked out danger zones, possibly where it was unsafe to turn the trucks due to the proximity of the stacked goods. It was dimly lit, only the occasional overhead strip light penetrating the gloom. We passed through pools of contrasting shade and light as we moved towards the back of the building. As we neared the far end, I could detect a sour tang and guessed that the warehouse was one of many next to the banks of the Arkansas River. With a building this large and well stocked, I was surprised that there weren’t more people around. Maybe they’d all been given the rest of the day off while their boss conducted his more nefarious brand of business.
There was an office at the left corner of the building, next to a roller door that was currently closed. Just inside the roller shutter was parked the limousine that had spirited Sigmund Petoskey away from the cinema. As we approached, a man clambered out the front, came round and opened the door for Siggy. Petoskey climbed out languidly, tightening his gloves over his fists like some gangster from a noir movie. He sneered at me, said, ‘I wondered when we would meet again. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’
Me too, if only he knew it.
One thing that was apparent: away from the ears of his business associates, Siggy Petoskey had lost the ridiculous accent that made him sound like Dr Watson from an old Sherlock Holmes flick. But he was still the same supercilious fucker I remembered with distaste.
Here, where the surroundings were better illuminated, I got a look at the product names on the boxes. I had to smile. Petoskey had gone from
How long I was unconscious I couldn’t say, because when next I gathered my senses the van had stopped moving. The side door was open and only two of my captors remained inside. The others were standing outside the van, their figures indistinct against a gloomy backdrop. They were talking hurriedly, but I couldn’t make out was being said. I lay there, gathering my wits as I started to assess my injuries. My entire body felt like one large bruise, but I couldn’t detect any breakages. It took me a moment to realise that my hands were now in front of me. The plastic ties had been removed and rigid-cuffs snapped on instead. My feet were free, and in kicking range of the two men keeping guard. They had guns out, so I didn’t fancy my chances. Anyway, I’d come to see Sigmund Petoskey, so I wasn’t about to spoil my prospects by attempting an audacious escape.
One of the guards outside moved towards the van. When he leaned inside I could make out the welt on his forehead. ‘Bring him. And if he tries anything shoot him in the knees.’
The two men grabbed me and pulled me to a sitting position. I recognised the one on my right as the recipient of my saliva earlier. He said, ‘You heard the man, try anything and I’ll kneecap you. We have to keep you alive for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put you through hell.’
There was nothing gentle about the way I was hauled from the van and dumped on my feet. Blood rushed to my head and I was a second or so away from blacking out again. Only the flash of agony from where the SIG had torn my scalp kept me galvanised. The two men hooked an elbow around my arms and then propelled me forward, following the other two. To make things more difficult I could have dragged my feet, but we were heading in the right direction. Stumbling along, I just kept my mouth shut.
We were inside an empty warehouse, a large open space bordered on either side by huge stacks of pallets laden with sacks and boxes of all shapes and sizes. The floor was smooth concrete, swept clean, with yellow markers indicating pathways for forklift trucks. Other yellow chevrons alongside the paths marked out danger zones, possibly where it was unsafe to turn the trucks due to the proximity of the stacked goods. It was dimly lit, only the occasional overhead strip light penetrating the gloom. We passed through pools of contrasting shade and light as we moved towards the back of the building. As we neared the far end, I could detect a sour tang and guessed that the warehouse was one of many next to the banks of the Arkansas River. With a building this large and well stocked, I was surprised that there weren’t more people around. Maybe they’d all been given the rest of the day off while their boss conducted his more nefarious brand of business.
There was an office at the left corner of the building, next to a roller door that was currently closed. Just inside the roller shutter was parked the limousine that had spirited Sigmund Petoskey away from the cinema. As we approached, a man clambered out the front, came round and opened the door for Siggy. Petoskey climbed out languidly, tightening his gloves over his fists like some gangster from a noir movie. He sneered at me, said, ‘I wondered when we would meet again. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’
Me too, if only he knew it.
One thing that was apparent: away from the ears of his business associates, Siggy Petoskey had lost the ridiculous accent that made him sound like Dr Watson from an old Sherlock Holmes flick. But he was still the same supercilious fucker I remembered with distaste.
Here, where the surroundings were better illuminated, I got a look at the product names on the boxes. I had to smile. Petoskey had gone from
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