Overview

Chicago

Thursday, May 27th, 10:30 pm

There were better ways to die. But never a good time.

Jonathan Foley wouldn't have chosen to die in a vacant warehouse with the river lapping at its crumbling foundation. Definitely not while shackled to a cast-off swivel chair beneath the glare of a single bare bulb.

But life stunk that way sometimes.

Amp it up another notch, the punk gripping the defibrillator paddles ordered. Then he smiled at his prisoner. Last chance, tough guy.

Evidently the trigger-happy lackey was through playing. Foley braced for the electrical charge that would throttle through his chest the instant the paddles touched his naked skin. Nope, there was never a good time to die. But then he had accomplished his mission. This was likely as good a time as any. He lifted his gaze to the nimrod currently holding the power. We both know I'm not going to talk.

The jerk laughed, his pale blue eyes glittering with anticipation. I was hoping you'd say that.

The one manning the controls gave the appropriate knob a violent twist then checked the readout. Ready, he announced.

Jonathan's jaw clenched and his fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to close his eyes. He stared straight at the SOB with the paddles. Refused to allow even a glimmer of fear or defeat. This waste of DNA might kill him but he couldn't make him cooperate. Better men had tried.

Stand down.

The sharply issued order echoed in the stale air of the long-abandoned warehouse, wiped the smile right off the paddle punk's face.

Foley should have relaxed. After all, he was just a few volts from dead. This unexpected interruption provided a momentary reprieve. He shifted his attention in the direction of the footsteps coming nearer. Not that he needed visual confirmation. He knew the voice.

Victor Lennox.

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