Desolation Station: A Jimmy Blue novel (The Jimmy Blue Series Book 4) by Ian W. Sainsbury

Author:Ian W. Sainsbury [Sainsbury, Ian W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fuse Books
Published: 2022-07-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

There were two of them. They came in the night, after leaving him to sweat for twenty hours. They'd cuffed his ankles, and locked his left wrist to a heavy iron wall bracket, so all Blue could do was to take the beating.

The two men concentrated on his torso, arms, and legs, working him for about ten minutes, landing heavy blows that caused pain, but did no permanent damage. They used their feet, breathing heavily while they worked. They talked about sport, and one of them complained his girlfriend didn't like him watching football.

Blue did what he could to minimise the damage. He kept moving, as if trying to escape the blows raining down on him, but that wasn't his intention. Torn skin, muscle and tissue damage—they would repair themselves, given time, and they wouldn't slow him down. But he wanted to avoid broken bones, so he twisted and turned, making sure their boots never hit the same spot twice.

He held on for a long time before feigning unconsciousness. Too soon, and they'd guess he was faking.

They left him slumped on the floor in the dark, double-locking a heavy door behind them.

Ignoring the agony, Jimmy stretched out his limbs, testing his range of motion, checking for damage. It was all superficial, if painful. His body would be a Picasso of bruises for a week or two, but he'd ignore the pain until his body repaired itself. He'd done it before.

His best recourse was sleep. Give his body time to recuperate. Some people might struggle to nap after a savage beating. Blue had no such problem.

Three hours later, Blue opened his eyes, lying on his side on the concrete floor. The room had no windows, but light crept in around the edges of a large rectangle. He picked out some details. A pool table. Shelves on both walls. On the left side of the room, the shelves held a mixture of home improvement supplies—bags of cement, spades, a spirit level, toolboxes. Hammers, saws, and drills hung from hooks on the wall. On the right-hand side, sporting equipment. A dusty football, a couple of baseball mitts, balls, and bats. The most prized items, judging by their condition, were a gleaming set of golf clubs.

Next to the pool table, an indoor putting practice set showed signs of regular use, a golf ball resting in the plastic cup. There were more golf balls scattered around the space.

Blue pushed himself up into a sitting position. Not the easiest manoeuvre with his left hand chained behind him. His leg cuffs were uncomfortable. Not so tight he couldn't feel his feet, but enough that they fizzed with pins and needles.

A few hours of sleep had left his arms numb, so he waggled his fingers, rotated his wrists, flexed the muscles in his forearms, biceps, and triceps. Shrugging his shoulders and rolling his neck, he noted the dull, pulsing ache at the back of his skull. They'd hit him pretty hard.

He was in a garage. A garage alongside a single-level house, twelve to fifteen miles outside of Albuquerque.

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