Page 136 of Victorious

MITCH had never been a heavy drinker.

If anyone asked him why, he’d shrug and say he didn’t like the taste.

The truth was, he liked the taste just fine—especially if it was sweet, like rum, or tequila mixed with juice. It was the hangover he couldn’t take.

Once, when he was sixteen, after a brutal fight, a friend had given him a handle of vodka, saying it would dull the pain. And it had. It had also devolved into a drinking contest.

Mitch had been the last man standing, thanks in large part to his size. Had even made it to his bed in decent shape. But when he’d woken up the next day, eyes bleary and mouth sandpaper dry and head pounding like someone had stomped on it in steel-toed boots, he’d sworn he’d never touch the stuff again.

And he never had.

So why did he feel like he’d gone round for round with a bottle, and lost?

He groaned and dragged his head up, trying to push off the sheets.

Which was when he discovered he was not lying in bed but sitting upright on a metal bench. His wrists were locked together in front of him with heavy-duty cuffs, and his upper half was pinned to the wall behind him with what looked like half a dozen seatbelt straps. As he blinked, trying to focus through the dull, pervasive pain, his first groggy thought was What did Victor do now?

And then the night slammed into him.

The motel. The agents. Syd. All at once, Mitch tried to lunge forward, but the straps held firm, and pain erupted down his side. Right. Stairs. Ribs. Broken. The center of his chest ached, too, where the darts had slammed into his sternum.

Mitch hissed through gritted teeth, and let out a rare, emphatic, “Fuck.”

Then he sagged back in the restraints and managed a few shallow breaths as he looked around. The ceiling was too low to stand upright, even if he hadn’t been tied down. The walls and floor were covered in a metal lattice, clearly designed for the restraints. To one side, there was a single set of doors, with no handle on the inside, only a small digital panel, no doubt designed to open with the right badge, or fingerprints.

The only positive was that he hadn’t been deposited at EON.

This wasn’t a room. Or a cell.

It was a transport van.

Mitch rolled his neck and groaned. How long had he been out? An hour? A day? They’d taken his watch—along with his pocket knife, his pills, his keys. But judging by the lack of motion, the absence of any tire sounds, they were parked somewhere. No sign of Syd, which meant there was a chance, at least, she’d gotten away. Of course, there was also a chance she hadn’t, and—

He stopped himself.

One step at a time.

Mitch had never been particularly flexible, but with a little effort, he got his left boot close enough to reach the hidden compartment in the heel and eject the small flat blade. It was awkward, with his hands still cuffed, but after a solid minute of sawing, the first strap finally broke, giving him leverage to attack the next. By the time he got free, minutes—or hours—later his fingers were bleeding, and he was sweating, and dizzy.

Whatever they’d shot him with was clearly still in his system. But Mitch tried to console himself with the knowledge that even drugged, even dazed, even bolted to a wall, he was stronger and smarter than most.

He swallowed and squinted at the cuffs. They were much higher tech, and, like the van door, there was no obvious lock. He twisted this way and that until he found a groove in the metal. He maneuvered the tip of the blade to the nearest gap and—

ZAP.

The cuffs emitted a small but violent shock.

Mitch gasped, his muscles seizing in the current.

Of course they’d been equipped with a deterrent.

And under other circumstances, he might have been deterred.

But not now, when he was locked inside a metal box and Syd was out there somewhere on her own. Besides, if Victor Vale had taught him anything, it was that pain was just a sensation. The body felt it. The mind decided what it meant.

Mitch gritted his teeth and tried again.

XVIIINOW. THEN.MEANWHILE, AT EON …