Render - A Shadowboxer thriller chapter two

RENDER – CHAPTER TWO

He woke up in the dark. Cold metal pressed against his skin. He could smell vomit and oil, and dank must.

He tried not to move as he assessed his surroundings.

There was a hood over his head, used by someone else. He could smell the sour stench of upchuck but didn’t have the taste in his mouth.

His tongue had the metal copper taste of medicine, whatever they used to incapacitate him, he supposed.

His arms were tied behind his back with zipties. He could feel them cutting into the skin around his wrist. Not too tight.

Just enough to keep him from moving, but not enough to do any damage.

He lay at an angle, almost on his back, but for the awkward intrusion of his arms behind him.

The air felt different, pressurized, and he wondered for a moment about the frogmen.

Military divers. They had snuck up on him, and were in and out of the surf in less than thirty seconds.

The whole fight lasted less than a minute, he guessed.

He still wore his shorts, but there was a scratchy wool blanket over his legs. Thin, but enough to shield him from the cold air.

His torso wasn’t as lucky.

It was exposed to the cold air temperature that felt thick with humidity. The cold was biting after being acclimated to the heat of the jungle and shore for so long.

He shivered and tried not to jump as the blanket was shifted up to his neck.

“You awake yet?” a gruff voice said next to him. “That stuff we gave you should be wearing off.”

Brill almost pretended to ignore him, then decided against it. He needed information and if they were planning to kill him, they could have held him under the water for three minutes and let him go.

“American,” he said, identifying the voice.

“I know you are, but what am I?” the man asked.

Was he a mercenary?

Did another company hire him to finish the job started in a ravine in the jungle?

“Can I sit up?”

Two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulder and shifted him up. Brill felt his legs go over the edge of the metal, like a shelf, or cot bolted to a wall. He leaned back.

The shelf wasn’t big, eighteen inches, maybe. The wall was curved behind him.

“Hood?”

“Not yet, friend,” the man answered.

Brill nodded even though his captor couldn’t see him.

“Where are we?”

He used we on purpose to make the man think they were in this together. A trick Simon taught him. Words were important.

So was silence.

He could feel movement in the room, the sound of clothing rustling, gear rattling, but couldn’t tell what was happening.

“Drink,” the man said.

The bottom of the hood lifted and a straw was stuck in his lips. Brill could see rough calloused freckled skin, thick strong fingers holding a container with a simple plastic straw.

He took a sip. Just water.

He sucked down four greedy mouthfuls before it was pulled away.

“Don’t want you pissing yourself on the next leg,” the man said.

The hood cinched down again. Brill saw a flash of silver before it made it all the way down and felt a cold circle press against the flesh of his neck.
He heard a pop and hiss again, and strong hands eased him back down on the metal shelf as he passed out again.

Keep Reading Chapter Three


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