@deepwcb
Not every job goes well and while Samuel has learned to expect the unexpected, whether it be the infliction of unintended wounds or additional assailants that tend to add to the body count, no job has ever gone as spectacularly wrong as this one.
During his time as a gun for hire, Samuel has been shot, stabbed, crushed, burned and on more than one occasion has nearly drowned but he has never been captured, not like this, not by the target. It is a situation he was trained to deal with during his time in the Navy SEALS, but in truth it’s been many years since Samuel served and such memories have become blurred by his attempts to bury them.
The blood on the floor is definitely his own, he can see it, still dribbling to the floor mixed with a long silvery string of his spit, some of which is still collecting in the corners of his mouth and leaking from his split lips. Swallowing for some reason seems extremely difficult and he can’t quite determine if it’s due to his achingly dry throat or the drugs they administered an hour ago; the effects of which he is sure he’s still suffering. He feels dull and heavy yet still somewhat lucid - whatever it was, it was designed to make him confused, to make him talk, but it hasn’t worked. Samuel is no fool, he knows the only thing keeping him alive right now is the name he refuses to give them. The minute he gives up the client, they’ll kill him and if they don’t, well the client will likely do it for them. His only hope at this point is that he can stall long enough for the client to hear of his capture and hopefully send in a second man to finish the job and secure his release.
He is sure more than 24 hours have passed, the time marked only by his exhaustion, blood loss and the empty feeling now curdling his stomach. He has learned during that time to stand perfectly still – the metal cuffs that tether him to the wall are clasped so tightly around his wrists they’ve worn the skin away during his previous struggle and now cut and burn with the slightest movement. The wound slashed across his stomach isn’t deep but it’s wide, the kind that will leave a curved kind of smile when it heals, if it heals, if he even leaves this basement alive. A man like Viktor Ivanov has a lot of men working for him and Sam’s sure that each and every one of them have taken a turn beating him over the last few hours, only pausing to clean him up a bit before continuing. Still, he’s breathing, still living; still conscious and that can only mean they need him alive, but for how much longer he simply isn’t sure. God, he’d kill for a cigarette right now.
Hearing the unmistable sound of the basement door being unlocked, Samuel watches as a shard of light is cast across the floor and in response looks up towards the stairs.
