The Unforgiven (The Propagation Project Book 1) by Callie Bishop

Author:Callie Bishop [Bishop, Callie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-10-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

My head knocks against something hard, and it jostles me awake. The burlap shroud is still covering my face, and I feel the fabric of the gag over my tongue. I’m moving, but not with my feet; something is carrying me. When I open my eyes, the daylight seeps through the weaving of the sack over my head. It was still dark when the attack happened at the tattoo parlor. How long has it been since then?

The air smells of tobacco, and I hear the indistinct chatter of people around me. My hands are bound in front of me, but my feet are free to move. Whatever I’m lying on comes to an abrupt stop. Someone hooks their hands under my arms and hoists me up.

“Up you go,” says a scratchy male voice.

He leads me down a few steps, and I feel gravely rock beneath my shoes.

“Move.” The voice orders me forward. I walk blindly, hoping my guide is not leading me off a cliff.

After a few minutes of walking, I’m pushed forward and told to stay put. The next few minutes are agony. I have no idea where I am and who will face me when they remove the shroud. I think about Luka and Riley and hope with all my might they were able to make it out of the tattoo shop alive and in one piece. The image of Junior’s body scattered lifeless on the floor flashes in my head. I close my eyes tightly to wash away the image.

There’s a good chance Justin was taken with me. He was the first person they grabbed as I watched with terrified eyes as they draped the brown shroud over his head.

I ponder the idea of calling out to him, but just as I open my dry, cracked mouth to speak I hear footsteps approaching.

“Take it off,” a female voice says in a throaty tone.

I feel the relief of air as the shroud is lifted from my head. I take a quick look around to survey my surroundings. The space is huge; ten times the size of Uncle Will’s pole barn. There are a few old airplanes scattered around, and the building looks like it’s made from sheeted steel. There is no sign of Justin.

A woman makes her way toward me. Her hair is flaming red, and her eyes are covered with dark sunglasses. She’s thin but muscular, and the cargo pants and white undershirt she wears clings to all her curves. She’s older than me, probably Margaret’s age, but it doesn’t take away from her striking features. She looks oddly familiar, but I dismiss the feeling quickly, owing it to remnants of the dust still coursing through me.

“Remove the gag,” she commands.

Someone unties the cloth from my mouth.

I stretch my jaw back and forth, trying to release the tension in my chin.

“Where did you get them from?”

Someone from behind me clears his throat. “We brown-bagged them in a tattoo parlor ten miles from here. Pigeons were raiding the place.

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