Matheus gasped at the shock of consciousness, followed swiftly by the shock of smacking face-first into a stone floor. He scrambled around to see the cell door swing shut, Carruthers Junior throwing the bolt home. Clapping the man with him on the back, Carruthers Junior turned toward the door to the stairs.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said as the two men left.
Matheus slumped against the wall of the cell with a sigh. The life was becoming tedious: capture, escape, capture, escape, with some insanity and terror thrown in for texture. Matheus rubbed the two new holes in his chest. He swore they whistled when he inhaled.
Alistair sat in the opposite corner, gag still in place, his hands bound behind his back.
“Mmphf! Mmm-mmm-mee!” he said. A large bruise spread over the left side of his face, curved like the heel of boot.
“Oh, good,” said Matheus. “You’re not dead.”
Alistair glared at him.
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