Relentless Pursuit (Matthew Riker Book 4) by J.T. Baier

Author:J.T. Baier [Baier, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: First Light Books, LLC
Published: 2022-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

24

The first thing Powell noticed when he came back to consciousness was the rhythmic, pounding pain deep in his skull. There were other things too: a bright light he could sense even through his tightly shut eyelids, a chill that seeped into his skin, permeating his entire body, a voice speaking from somewhere far away. But all this seemed insignificant when compared with the pain in his skull.

Eyes still squeezed shut, he tried to remember where he was and why he felt like this. After a moment, it came back to him. The highway chase. The Triad men surrounding him. Being forced to surrender to save the innocent bystanders. No sooner had he thrown down his weapons than the men had charged him, shouting in Mandarin, a language he didn’t understand. Whatever they’d said, apparently he hadn’t complied, because one of them had shouted again, raised his rifle, and slammed the butt of the weapon into Powell’s skull.

And now, he was somewhere else. He could tell he was sitting. The pressure around his wrists meant his hands were cuffed behind him. Underneath him, the chair was rough and...wet? His clothes were wet too. Water dripped from his hair and ran down his neck. What the hell was going on?

“Xǐng lái!” someone shouted.

It sounded familiar, though he didn’t know what it meant, and he realized that was what the man had been saying when he woke. He ignored the voice and kept his eyes shut.

Wham! Something slammed into his chest. For a split second, he thought it was a fist. But it was cold, and the pain was a consistent push, not a brief impact.

Water, he realized. They were shooting a firehose at him. At least that explained why he was wet.

He pried his eyes open, blinking fast against the water and the light. “I’m awake! Stop!”

The stream of water continued for another few seconds before finally stopping. By the time it did, the force of the water had knocked the air from Powell’s lungs. He gasped for oxygen, eyes wide as he tried to get his bearings.

He was in a basement. Or an attic? No windows, he realized, and the stairs at the end of the room seemed to lead upward. It was a basement. The floor was concrete and there were a few tables and chairs set up around the large open space, but besides that it was empty. Five Chinese men stood in front of him, one holding a firehose. He reminded himself that there could be others behind him, or perhaps upstairs. And here he was, soaking wet and handcuffed. Not the best odds he’d ever faced.

His eyes settled on the table to the left of the men watching him. Tools covered its surface: pliers, hammers, chisels, a metal pipe, and… was that a blowtorch?

The man holding the firehose saw Powell’s eyes fixed on the table and gave a satisfied smile. “Hàipà?”

Powell drew a breath. He couldn’t let these men think they’d broken him. When he spoke, his voice sounded slurred and strange, like he’d had one too many drinks.

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