Unspoken Love

Chapter 1. Flint & Matches

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In the eye of a storm, the world is still. In turmoil there has to be hope.

And inside a barn, surrounded by Flint Manes's hired men and fellow anti-alien disciples on the outskirts of Roswell, hope was the only thing Michael Guerin had left.

That and what Max had always called his stubborn-pigheadedness, that he would get through this, that he would find Alex and somehow get both of them free, before Flint Manes killed them.

Michael might never know what set off the other Manes brother, and definitely didn't understand the man's primary goal when he kidnapped the pair of them and brought them here. He hadn't actually seen Alex, but Flint had assured him in-between beatings that Alex was nearby and receiving the same treatment.

He knew they were on an abandoned farm and was fairly sure that he knew which one, south of Roswell and from the large open doorway he had seen...however long ago now, that there were at least five other buildings in view. All of them were barns and presumably an out-of-sight, maybe derelict homestead. Six places that could be Alex's prison cell.

The problem was that Michael, despite trying his best and putting his not inconsiderable genius to the test, could not get free of the restraints Flint had put him in. He wasn't Houdini, but his difficulty was mostly due to the yellow flower pollen Flint had dosed him with, which muted his powers, leaving him far less functional in this one-man fight.

He was desperate for some way of getting to Alex and though the flowers were wearing off, he was not up to his usual level. Right now....he was running out of time and his usefulness was also waning.

Again he tried to break the chains on the complicated rack he was lashed to with his powers, subtly with the two guards watching. His shoulders burned and his wrists were bleeding, but he made himself breathe through the pain.

It was moot point.

The ratchet refusing to move off its pin, leaving him seeing stars and still stuck. It would have taken less than a second with his telekinesis!

But unfortunately, his most used and arguably most useful gift was not cooperating. Glaring viciously he slumped in the chains, his shoulders screaming as his entire body weight again dropped. His telekinesis was the one ability he really needed by morning.

The room spun violently in off-kilter circles, the axis of the revolving world so off it was actually irritating to watch, the light and shadows dizzying. The guards are taunting again, bored with their high-value, dangerous but contained target. Flint hasn't let them go as far as they want...but it won't be long before he does.

He knows the type. Depravity is only a step and permission away.

A fist hits him again, smacking into his cheek rocking his head back with the force of it, courtesy of Flint's number two. A lean guy, also Army who spoke little and really, really loathed Michael.

He's been hit many times before, but not with this level of hate. With his body so expertly chained, he can't do much but bite down on any noise that might escape his throat, a defiant act born of pride and his own hate.

Never let it be said that the Manes family do anything by halves.

Pain was an old friend, a familiar sensation in a life of temporary homes and bitter adults. It was graded, stacked against experiences of survivable and not, referenced for the time it took to heal or the time it didn't heal at all. A hammer flashed in his memory, his own scream reverberating. Maybe it still was. It was hard to tell.