Before Blair could turn, a hand flew over his shoulder and reached for the door. He fought to keep it closed. A fist slammed into the back of his head. He shot his elbow out blindly but caught nothing but air.
A glancing blow connected with his chin. Fists began to pummel his chest. He refused to give up his position.
Another pair of hands went for the door.
He turned his fingers into claws and raked them along the hands until they let go.
Someone grabbed him from behind.
He feigned to his left, then quickly shot to his right. The hold on him loosened. There wasn’t a lot of room. His intention was to back up and draw them with him. He no sooner completed his move when he realized his mistake. Three of the men followed him. The fourth had the door open and was heading through it.
Blair knew he only had one chance. He dove at the man, aiming for his ankles. But he missed. His chin hit the floor and he felt a jolt in the back of his neck. As soon as he caught his breath, he reached for the penknife in his pocket and pulled it out. Before he could flick the blade open, however, one of his attackers knocked the knife to the floor.
He tried to retrieve it.
A punch to his kidneys crippled him.
Another punch, practically in the identical spot.
He keeled over … and was lost.
Sandra?
The thought of his daughter jolted him back.
He was seated in a strange-looking metal chair with wide arms. A hard leather strap bound his ankles in place. Another was tightly enclosed around his hips. A third went over his arms.
Blood dripped from his nose. His head was pounding. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache.
For a moment he felt disoriented. He closed his eyes; then opened them. Did Sandra make it? he wondered.
He took in the room, noticing how average it seemed.
Feeling sick, he slowly leaned back.
His daughter must have made it, he was thinking.
He was left alone for over an hour.
The lights had been dimmed. But he could make out a rectangular conference table with chairs lining both sides. There was a phone and a laptop computer with a wide-screen monitor. The wall directly opposite had a window cut out of its center running approximately six feet diagonally. He wondered if it was one-way glass, if he was being observed.
The wait got to him.
He wanted to know, had to know, about Sandra.
The door opened and Rena Castaway, dressed conservatively in a brown dress that fell below her knees, approached. Her eyes narrowed with what could have been hatred. And Blair acknowledged that her role in all this was far more odious than he’d first imagined.
“You enjoying yourself?” he said, angry with her, angrier with himself.
Castaway looked away, ignoring him.
But he couldn’t let go. “You must be feeling awfully proud. Aren’t you?”
“Shut up!” she hissed. “Your time to speak will come.” She turned on her heels.
From his position in the chair, Blair had to strain to follow her movements.
Castaway opened the door and nodded toward someone.
Blair struggled to see, but the leather straps dug into his flesh.
A man wearing a djellaba walked in. There was an attachment to his white robe, not unlike a hijab that some women wore, partially concealing his face.
Blair’s heart leapt in his throat.
“Mr. Mulligan,” the man said, his voice accented but familiar.
Not a delusion but the truth, Blair was thinking.
The man removed the covering from his face.
It couldn’t be.
But it was: John Dalton, alive and well.