Sudden Death by Allison Brennan Page B

darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.
    Nothing.
    He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?
    He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.
    The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.
    He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.
    His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery—what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.
    You are mine you are mine you are mine.
    Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat . . .
    Kill me God damn you kill me damn you KILL FUCK NO NO NO NO.
    The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.
    The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing . . .
    Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.
    They would find him.
    She would find him.
    He was being watched.
    The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.
    “Ethan.”
    Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.
    “Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?
    “Shh.”
    It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?
    “Walk with me.”
    He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.
    “Kill me,” he begged, his throat raw.
    She didn’t respond. He wanted to cry.
    “I hurt myself,” he whispered, his throat raw.
    “I’ll fix everything.”
    She would. His angel would fix everything.
    “Kill them.”
    “Of course.”
    “I will kill them. I will kill them. I promise you I will kill them.”
    And she murmured in his ear, “Yes, sweetheart, we will.”
CHAPTER
    FOUR
    Jack had been in San Diego for two hours, and in Patrick’s hospital room for the last thirty minutes, and now he wanted to leave. Hospitals and anything medical made Jack antsy. He’d spent enough time in triage to cringe at the sights and smells and sounds of the sanitary building.
    Unfortunately, Patrick saw that in him. The kid had an uncanny sixth sense, like Dillon. Jack didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed by either his kid brother or his twin.
    “You don’t want to be here,” Patrick said.
    “I wanted to see you, make sure Dillon wasn’t jerking my chain when he said you woke up as if nothing happened.”
    “Slight