Sand Trap by L.M. Somerton

Author:L.M. Somerton [Somerton, L.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Erotic Romance Fiction
Publisher: Totally Entwined Group Ltd
Published: 2017-09-17T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

In the time Shelton had been a part of The Wyverns he’d managed to avoid too many hairy, life-threatening situations. He left the dangerous, messy work to the others and did his best to keep their asses out of the fire whenever he could. This time he’d landed on sizzling hot coals and it was all his own stupid fault. He’d analyzed every step from the moment he’d left Crow at the campsite to the point he’d gotten up close and personal with the barrel of a gun. A Colt M16A2 assault rifle to be precise. Shelton had been around enough armaments to recognize the model that might end his short but entertaining life. He knew exactly where he’d gone wrong. Moving more than twenty yards away from Crow—that had been his one, potentially fatal mistake.

“Fuck. It took us so long to get together and I manage to screw it up on our first date.” Shelton punched the thin, dirty mattress he was lying on.

His accommodations were basic to say the least. Concrete floor, breeze-block walls and a small, barred window through which he could see a brick wall and a litter-strewn alley. A trickle of slimy water ran along the dip in its center and it stank of raw sewage. Not exactly five-star scenery. The single door was metal, with a narrow slot at ground level and a viewing panel higher up. Shelton had already tested the door—it was shut tight. There was no handle on his side. Apart from his narrow cot, the room contained a galvanized bucket and a chipped jug of warm water. There were a couple of rusting metal rings fixed to the wall, but no power outlets or switches. It was hot, dark and boredom gnawed at Shelton’s psyche like a rat chewing through garbage. He’d checked every nook and cranny but there was nothing available from which to manufacture a MacGyver moment.

Shelton had on dirt-stained jeans and a ratty T-shirt that his captors had donated, apparently taking offense at his shirtless state. They’d taken his boots, he assumed to stop him making a run for it, though as he had no idea where in the fuck he was, that seemed excessive. His feet were cut and bruised from the trip between the Jeep and his prison, a journey he’d made blindfolded. They’d tied a filthy cloth over his eyes once they’d crossed the border into Mexico. Shelton begrudged every cent of the taxes that went toward funding the border guards’ unobservant, blissfully ignorant asses. The press of a blade to his spine had insured his silence but he’d tried to fix an expression of abject terror on his face. He thought it might at the very least have aroused suspicion. No such luck. He could have had twenty kilos of cocaine stuffed down his pants and they’d have been none the wiser.

With his sight gone, he’d attempted to keep track of the twists and turns on the journey but in the end, all his concentration had been on not throwing up.

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