––––––––
“Drop the gun,” I growled.
The man coming through the door answered by shooting my hostage. My plan had been to barter my way out of the room using my torturer as a bargaining chip. His dying put a slight crimp in that plan.
As bullets punctured my hostage’s torso and arms, he performed an unintentional cha-cha. I released his face and shoved him toward the shooter. Performing all of that while not being able to see a damn thing made it a tad harder.
More shots boomed in the room.
The firing ceased for a second, interrupted by a grunt and the muffled thump of something collapsing to the floor.
I launched at the shooter with a snarl.
Aiming my forearm at the mental void before me, I connected with the shooter’s fleshy throat. He gagged as I drove him backward. His shoulders slammed against the doorjamb with a thud.
I thrust the knife forward as hard as I could.
It slid home with little resistance.
The man let out a wet scream.
I reciprocated, then tore the knife free and jammed it into his gut again.
The gun went off beside my helmet. He struggled against my forearm, his strength already waning. His muscles slowly relaxed after a pathetic shove against my shoulder.
Warmth ran over my fingers, the knife handle.
I yanked it free and tossed it to the floor.
As the man collapsed, I retracted my forearm and reached for his gun hand. Since I couldn’t see it, I had to trace his arm with my hands until I found it. He fell to his knees as I pried a warm pistol from his grasp.
How many shots had he fired? I couldn’t remember. Counting spent rounds in the middle of a firefight had never been my forte. The whole near-death experience thing usually distracted me. I bent down and searched his pockets. A ring with half a dozen keys was in his right pocket, a cell phone in his left. I took both.
His jacket held two more mags for the pistol. I grabbed those too.
Being butt naked was a problem. My hands were full and I didn’t have any way to store my lifted loot. I considered stripping one of the men of his bloody clothes, but I didn’t want to waste the time. If anything, I needed to get the damn helmet off my head before grabbing a pair of pants.
The man I’d stabbed groaned. A warm, wet hand grabbed hold of my ankle.
I aimed the gun at the area where I felt his mind and fired.
His grip went slack.
The casual way in which I executed him should have horrified me. But I was far beyond the point of no return. I’d compartmentalized any compassion I might have felt for the lives lost. They’d taken everything from me. They’d murdered Sammy. I planned to return the favor.
The other men in the building continued to buzz around. It wouldn’t be long before more of them came to check on the naked stud they’d tied to a chair.
I groped for the door to the room and found it ajar, the back resting against the wall. When I tried to close it, the edge caught on one of the dead men at my feet. I dragged both of the bodies a few feet into the room and then eased the door closed.
Next, I moved to the corner and reached out blindly for the security camera. When my fingers found the lens and tiny body, I smashed both of them to pieces with the handle of the pistol.
I staggered toward the other side of the room, stubbed my toe on the ridiculously hot chair, and nearly fell onto the assortment of torture devices on the cart. I must have looked like Frankenstein’s freakin’ monster as I stumbled around like a drunken fool. My hands roamed across the top shelf of the cart. It took several seconds for me to find what I needed—the electric drill.
My fingers danced over the helmet until they touched the screw by my left temple.
...please... you... have... to... kill... me...
Grabbing the drill, I tried to place the screwdriver bit into the screw in the helmet. It took several attempts as the angle was weird and I couldn’t see a damn thing. I clearly wouldn’t have done well as a blind man.
What’s your name? I finally asked the man on the other end of The Bridge.
...Jamie... Jamie Welsh...
The drill paused beside my head.
Jamie Welsh?
I knew that name. Nami had discovered it while attempting to recover data from Smith’s old servers for the Psych Ward. We didn’t know much about him, other than we believed Smith had figured out a way to weaponize Welsh’s ability. We weren’t quite sure what he could do, but it was a safe assumption that driving people temporarily insane was part of his repertoire.
Finding him in Smith’s employ didn’t surprise me—having him ask me to kill him did.
... yes... help me... I’m...
The voice faded away, and The Bridge dissipated. That could mean any number of things had happened to Welsh, including death, unconsciousness, or having a helmet screwed to his goddamn head. I didn’t have time to consider any of them at the moment.
Just another person dying around you, Sammy whispered. Stop all of this and come to me. Let go, Asher. Be at peace with me.
My jaw clenched.
I fought to quiet her voice as I anchored the screwdriver into place.
My finger squeezed the trigger.
The drill spun.
A volcano erupted above my temple and my knees buckled.
I collapsed to the floor, landing hard on my hip. My vision would have blurred if I could have seen anything. Fresh tears moistened my eyes. I reached for the screw in the side of the helmet and felt that it had barely moved.
The desire to curl up and bawl in the corner was damn near overwhelming. Removing screws from my skull hadn’t been high on my bucket list.
I scooted past the cart and put my back against the wall to brace myself
The bit went into the screw again.
I triggered the drill.
Bellowed in fury and pain and willpower.
The screw wound out of the bone, heating up rapidly.
When it finally popped out, I slumped to the floor, dropping the drill. Blood poured down my temple and face. It dribbled from my chin, pattering my chest and stomach.
I couldn’t hear much beyond the hammering of my heart and the freight train whistle of my heavy, labored breathing inside the helmet.
Until an alarm blared.