Page 22 of Reaper’s Wrath

Someone hit me.

I remember, now. I was on the street waiting for Isa, and a van pulled up beside me. The man with the hat. He fucking kidnapped me? Is this some kind of joke?

I look around the room and see I’m in some sort of abandoned factory. Chains hang from the ceiling, and there’s a conveyor belt system on the other side of the room. The windows are covered in filth, making it hard to tell what time of day it is.

That’s when I hear the muttering.

The man in the hat walks into view, seemingly talking to himself, unaware I’ve woken up. He’s about my size but a few years older. Mid-twenties. I can’t imagine what the hell he wants with me.

“Hey, man. What’s this all about?” Maybe if I can explain that he’s clearly taken the wrong person, he’ll let me go.

He stills, and when his eyes lock with mine, I see mania in their depths.

Fuck, this is bad.

“You need to keep quiet,” he says, returning to his pacing.

“I think you have the wrong person,” I try to explain calmly. “I don’t know what this is about.”

His brow furrows, looking at me as though I’m the crazy one. “Of course I have the right person. Don’t you think I remember you? It was only last night when we were at the bar.”

The bar? Did this guy see my brother at a bar? Does he think I’m DiAngelo?

I don’t know why else he’d think he saw me at a bar last night, and my brother was out. That still doesn’t explain why he’s taken me.

“Why am I here?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “No. Nope. I ask the questions, not you.” He rubs his hands on his pants several times, which seems to be a nervous gesture rather than to dry or clean them. “What’s your father’s phone number?” He takes out a small notepad and a pen and looks at me expectantly.

Why does he want Dad’s number? To come and get me? That doesn’t make any sense. Why take me just to turn around and tell my dad where I am?

Thinking this through would be a hell of a lot easier without a splitting headache.

I give him the number, hoping by some miracle it’s my ticket out of here. “I think maybe you met my brother, DiAngelo, last night. He said he told a bunch of people about being on a yacht.”

With that word, the man’s head whips in my direction before he shakes it again and looks back at his notepad while muttering.

I decide to keep trying.

“My brother was bullshitting. If that’s what this is about, we don’t have a yacht. He cleans the boats—that’s all. You have to believe me.”

Again, his eyes find mine, and this time, the fear is back. “No, I have it right. This is the number. I’ll make the call when it’s time. Not before. I have to do everything as he instructs.”

“No, man, you don’t. Let me out of these chains, and we can both get help.”

His hands fly to his ears. “No! You need to be quiet.” He hurries to a table, where he grabs a roll of duct tape and tears off a section. Eyes wilder than ever, he covers my mouth with the tape, then scurries from the room.

Minutes bleed into hours.

Night falls beyond the dirty windows above. My wrists ache from trying to break free, but age has in no way weakened the metal shackles. Thirsty, exhausted, and increasingly scared, I decide to give in to sleep and hope my luck turns around when I wake.

I get a boot to the stomach, instead.

The shock and a full bladder cause me to piss myself.

Not the morning I’d hoped for.

“You better pray your family comes through, or there’s going to be a lot more where that came from.” The man’s savage growl above me draws my gaze because it doesn’t sound like the same man, but when I peer up at him, I see that I’m wrong. He’s the same … but different.