Fuck. Shooting an unarmed driver cowering on the floor, that’s just mean, even for Wormwood.
One more thing to remember for the Fuck Wormwood ledger.
They shove me into the van, bind my hands, blindfold me, and peel out. We drive for a long time.
No one talks, but I hear a lot of grunts and moans. Probably from the shooters I torched. It’s small satisfaction, but I’ll take anything right now.
Except for Philip, things are going pretty much the way I’d hoped. The faction snatched both me and the case. They could have just shot me, but they didn’t, so that means they want information, which I’m more than happy to give them. I just wish this blindfold wasn’t so tight and I could see something. If they’re wearing their balaclavas in the van it means they still don’t want me to see their faces, which means they’re not necessarily planning on killing me. At least not right away. I’m going to have to improvise from here. And I can’t use hoodoo because they’ll know I’m a ringer and that will blow my chances of getting any useful information from them.
So I wait.
The drive takes a long time. We’re not moving for a lot of it and when we are, it’s at about five miles an hour. That means we’re probably on a freeway. The closest one is the 405, but are we going north or south? And are we staying on that one route the whole way?
I slow my breathing and try to relax. Theoretically that’s a good thing, but relaxing while blind lets my mind wander and the first thing that comes into my head is, I wonder what Candy is doing right now.
Nope. None of that shit. That will make me crazy, distract me enough that I’ll miss clues, and maybe get me shot. No, anything is better than thinking about Candy right now. I move my bound hands around so I can touch my wrist and feel my pulse. Count to sixty and start again, trying to time the drive. It’s well over an hour. In most towns that would mean we’re halfway to Argentina, but in L.A. it means we could be circling the block looking for parking. Still, it keeps my mind off Candy.
Finally, the van makes a sharp right turn. The tires crunch over something for a few seconds. Probably gravel by the sound. Then we’re back on solid pavement. When we stop, there’s the sound of a motor opening a large door. As it closes, the sound echoes. We’re probably in a warehouse. Now all I have to do is narrow it down from among the other ten thousand warehouses in L.A., while not getting shot. I hate multitasking.
Someone grabs my lapel and pulls me out of the van. I stumble getting out and a couple of them grab me before I can fall. Good. They’re concerned about keeping me in one piece for now. I can work with that. Someone pulls my blindfold off and I feel even better. Everyone still has their balaclavas on. Good. They want me to live. Now I just need to give them a reason.
One of the shooters drags me to a metal folding chair in the middle of the room. He’s limping and I look down long enough to see a burned pant leg.
“I hope there’s no hard feelings,” I tell him. “I was aiming for the van.”
He shoves me into the chair and cuffs me on the ear before joining the others behind me. I turn and look at him.
“Ow. Fuck you.”
A feminine voice from my other side says, “Don’t look at him. Look at me.”
I turn back around. She’s tall. Long torso, legs, and arms. In her spare time she could be a fashion model or a basketball player. Smart. Tall is good for these situations. It lets the interrogator loom menacingly. She’s wearing the same suit and balaclava as the guys who snatched me. That’s okay.
What isn’t okay is the cattle prod she’s holding.
She takes her time coming over. Points at me with the business end of the prod.
“Who are you?” she says.
“I work for Eva Sandoval.”
She moves the cattle prod back and forth like shaking her head no.
“That’s not what I asked. Who are you?”
Oh, right. A name. That’s the kind of thing I should have thought about instead of mooning over Candy.
“Miles,” I say. “Miles Archer.”
She pulls the cattle prod back and slaps it against her hand.
“Mr. Archer, answer my questions and you’ll get to go home. Don’t and …”
She shoves the prod into my stomach and gives me a good quick jolt.
“Understand?”
I look up at her.