| |
Max Riddle was in denial, and he knew it. Try as he might, he just couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened. He still half-expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the corner and yell “You just got punk’d, bitch!”
Or maybe Bones. That kind of seemed like his style.
But this prank had gone way past the point where it stopped being funny.
He had not suspected anything amiss as the young man in the dishwasher’s apron led him through the kitchen and out the back door into a narrow alley behind the restaurant, and nobody else working there had given them a second look. Once out back, the young man pointed to a waiting van, and that started some alarm bells ringing, but against his better judgement he had allowed himself to be herded toward the van. The door had opened, revealing a man wearing a ski mask, and before Riddle could even think about crying out, a hand clamped over his mouth, pre-emptively silencing him.
Everything after that was a blur in his memory. He’d been tied up, gagged, and then someone had dropped a heavy sack over his head, which not only left him blind and mostly deaf, but barely able to breathe. He’d been forced to lay down, presumably on the floor of the van, and there he had stayed for what seemed like hours. He could tell the van was moving, but not much else. When it finally stopped, he was dragged out and placed in the chair where he now sat, still bound, gagged, and hooded.
Okay, guys, it’s been funny, he wanted to say, but now it’s time for the reveal.
As if in response to his unspoken thought, the hood was abruptly yanked off. The room in which he sat was dimly lit, but the light nevertheless stung his eyes which had grown accustomed to the total darkness. He blinked away tears, while greedily inhaling the cool air which, despite smelling of mildew, was relatively fresh. As the world gradually came into focus, he saw the man from the van, still wearing his ski mask, standing in front of him.
“I am going to remove the tape over your mouth,” the man said in heavily accented English. “There is no one to hear you call for help, so you may as well save your breath. Do you understand?”
Riddle nodded, but then remembered that Bulgarians nodded to indicate ‘no.’ He shook his head instead, and then gave a helpless shrug.
The man uttered a short harsh sound that might have been a laugh, and then reached out and picked at a corner of the tape covering Riddle’s mouth. With a quick tug, he ripped the adhesive away, taking what felt like a couple layers of skin with it.
“Ow,” Riddle complained, but then looked up at the masked man, wondering what to say. If this was a prank, then the cameras were rolling and everything he said or did would be immortalized. But what response would play best? He could act tough—serious and unafraid—taking the situation at face value, the way Maddock might. That would go a long way toward establishing him as a rugged adventure hero, which might open all kinds of career opportunities. Or he could respond with snark, just like Bones probably would, showing the viewers that he was wise to the deception, too savvy to be so easily hoodwinked.
And if it wasn’t a prank....
No, it has to be, he told himself.
The masked man regarded him silently for a few seconds, then spoke again. “Listen up. I don’t want to kill you. Is bad for business. You don’t give me any problems, and this will all be over soon.”
The guy sounded pretty tough. Whomever was behind the prank, they were going for real authenticity. Riddle decided to split the difference—serious, but cocky. He rocked his head to one side then the other, hoping for an audible cracking of vertebrae—no such luck, but maybe they could add it in in post.
“What do you want?” he asked, and was pleased that there was not even the faintest quaver in his voice. “If you’re after money, I’m afraid you’ve made a big mistake. I haven’t got any, and if you were planning on going to my old network... Well, they’d probably pay you to not let me go.”
The masked man chuckled. “Funny guy.”
“Seriously. What do you want? How much do you actually think you can get for me?”
The man seemed to consider the question for a few seconds. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. I will trade you for the cup of Khan Krum.”
“The cup?” Riddle could not hide his surprise. What a twist, he thought. This is getting interesting. “What do you want with it? Is this about the treasure map?”
The man stiffened. “Treasure map? What treasure map?”
Whoops. I guess he didn’t know about that. Riddle tried dissembling. “Uh, the map that led us to the treasure.”
“You’re lying to me,” the man said. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. He moved in closer, bending down to look the seated Riddle directly in the eyes. Then, without any warning, his fist pistoned out and rammed into Riddle’s unprotected solar plexus.
Riddle’s breath was driven out in a gasp. The pain arrived an instant later as he was trying unsuccessfully to refill his lungs.
Okay, this definitely isn’t cool anymore.
“Don’t lie,” the man said, his voice still as cold and hard as an iceberg.
Riddle’s mouth hung open, but no sound came out and no air went in. Finally, the spasm passed and he was able to gasp in a breath. “This... Not... Prank....”
“What?” snapped the man. “Prank? You think this is some kind of joke.”
Riddle swallowed. “No. Not a joke. A mistake. My mistake.”
“Yes. Don’t make another.” The man put his hands on his hips. “Now, tell me about this treasure map.”