keyhole. He tried to get a better look at it, but when he took a step, the people surrounding him pressed together and held their torches in his direction.
Once Scarface was finished with the trunk and his cronies had hauled it away, he walked around the parameter of the crowd that now completely encircled Nate. He started talking in the speech Nate was beginning to think of as the “common tongue” to distinguish it from the disturbing liquid monotone that Scarface had used earlier.
Scarface walked around, talking to the gathering as if he was a professor giving a lecture, or a staff sergeant telling the troops how to use a bayonet. Nate knew that Scarface was talking about him, because, while Scarface never made a motion in his direction, his audience studied Nate with every word.
After about ten minutes, class was over, and about two thirds of the audience filed away. A pair of them grabbed Nate’s upper arms and faced Scarface as their leader gave a few more instructions. The pair holding Nate nodded sagely, the noses on their masks bobbing in a manner Nate would have found comical if it wasn’t so obvious that he was in deep shit.
“You guys don’t speak English either, do you?”
They ignored him.
A torch-bearing trio took the lead, while the pair holding Nate brought up the rear. They walked toward the back of the long chamber, where there were six doorways leading off in various directions. Of course, they led Nate down the darkest, dankest looking corridor.
The air was damp and smelled of mold. The floor was slimy under Nate’s bare feet and every part of his body was starting to itch.
This was the point where any action hero worth his salt would overpower his guards and escape. Nate ran through a number of movie scenarios. None seemed particularly doable at the moment. In his head he took the pair holding his arms, and swung them together so their skulls collided, rendering them conveniently unconscious. Then he’d grab one of the torchbearers and head butt him insensible and throw the limp form at the remaining guy—
Of course, even in the fantasy, this was when the last guy brought the torch down on Nate’s head.
When it came down to it, Nate wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger. He only had one take, and the fight choreographer didn’t know who was supposed to win. So Nate was the model prisoner all the way down. He chatted up his new guards, but the conversation was completely one-sided.
They took him down one stone corridor after another. The torches were the only light. After the third set of stairs going down, they came to a hallway lined with large wooden doors. They stopped and one of the torchbearers pulled a door open.
“Oh, shit, guys. You aren’t going to put me in there?”
The room was eight feet square, with no furniture. The floor was covered with straw that looked black and green in the torchlight. Nate could see rats scurrying away from the light.
“No, you fuckers, I’m not—” Nate surprised himself at how suddenly the action hero option seemed viable. Probably because he’d been docile up to this point, he caught his captors by surprise. He managed to tear his right arm free to slug the guy on his left. He felt the mask crack as the parts of it sliced open a knuckle.
The one on the right grabbed at him, and Nate elbowed him in the forehead. The move actually dropped the guy.
Nate was free of his handlers for all of two seconds. Then a burning weight slammed across the back of his neck, something kicked him in the face, and three sets of hands were tossing him into the fetid straw of the cell.
Nate scrambled to his feet as the door shut out the light. Nate fell onto the door, pounding on it with his fists.
“You motherfuckers. I didn’t do shit to you. You can’t leave me in here.”
He pounded against the unyielding wood. “You can’t leave me in here!”
Of course, they could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
C HIEF ARMSMAN Ravig Kalish held his scarlet cape around himself.
Once Scarface was finished with the trunk and his cronies had hauled it away, he walked around the parameter of the crowd that now completely encircled Nate. He started talking in the speech Nate was beginning to think of as the “common tongue” to distinguish it from the disturbing liquid monotone that Scarface had used earlier.
Scarface walked around, talking to the gathering as if he was a professor giving a lecture, or a staff sergeant telling the troops how to use a bayonet. Nate knew that Scarface was talking about him, because, while Scarface never made a motion in his direction, his audience studied Nate with every word.
After about ten minutes, class was over, and about two thirds of the audience filed away. A pair of them grabbed Nate’s upper arms and faced Scarface as their leader gave a few more instructions. The pair holding Nate nodded sagely, the noses on their masks bobbing in a manner Nate would have found comical if it wasn’t so obvious that he was in deep shit.
“You guys don’t speak English either, do you?”
They ignored him.
A torch-bearing trio took the lead, while the pair holding Nate brought up the rear. They walked toward the back of the long chamber, where there were six doorways leading off in various directions. Of course, they led Nate down the darkest, dankest looking corridor.
The air was damp and smelled of mold. The floor was slimy under Nate’s bare feet and every part of his body was starting to itch.
This was the point where any action hero worth his salt would overpower his guards and escape. Nate ran through a number of movie scenarios. None seemed particularly doable at the moment. In his head he took the pair holding his arms, and swung them together so their skulls collided, rendering them conveniently unconscious. Then he’d grab one of the torchbearers and head butt him insensible and throw the limp form at the remaining guy—
Of course, even in the fantasy, this was when the last guy brought the torch down on Nate’s head.
When it came down to it, Nate wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger. He only had one take, and the fight choreographer didn’t know who was supposed to win. So Nate was the model prisoner all the way down. He chatted up his new guards, but the conversation was completely one-sided.
They took him down one stone corridor after another. The torches were the only light. After the third set of stairs going down, they came to a hallway lined with large wooden doors. They stopped and one of the torchbearers pulled a door open.
“Oh, shit, guys. You aren’t going to put me in there?”
The room was eight feet square, with no furniture. The floor was covered with straw that looked black and green in the torchlight. Nate could see rats scurrying away from the light.
“No, you fuckers, I’m not—” Nate surprised himself at how suddenly the action hero option seemed viable. Probably because he’d been docile up to this point, he caught his captors by surprise. He managed to tear his right arm free to slug the guy on his left. He felt the mask crack as the parts of it sliced open a knuckle.
The one on the right grabbed at him, and Nate elbowed him in the forehead. The move actually dropped the guy.
Nate was free of his handlers for all of two seconds. Then a burning weight slammed across the back of his neck, something kicked him in the face, and three sets of hands were tossing him into the fetid straw of the cell.
Nate scrambled to his feet as the door shut out the light. Nate fell onto the door, pounding on it with his fists.
“You motherfuckers. I didn’t do shit to you. You can’t leave me in here.”
He pounded against the unyielding wood. “You can’t leave me in here!”
Of course, they could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
C HIEF ARMSMAN Ravig Kalish held his scarlet cape around himself.
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