HOTSPOT

12

The next morning and afternoon passes in a blur. I fade in and out of consciousness, drowning in pain and fog. I don't know where I am, but occasionally the blurry shapes of people fill my vision, close ups of their boots and legs next to my face as they walk about, voices muffled and making my head throb.

When I finally get a grip on my surroundings, I immediately wish I hadn't. The right side of my face is sticky with partially-dried blood, gluing my eye shut, but the pain is the worst part—burning so intensely I find myself wondering if that alone will kill me. I groan softly, trying to lift a hand to rub my eye. Oily rope bites into my wrist, keeping it in place.

I blink, sending flakes of dried blood falling. Everything has started to clear up—the space I'm in is dim and filled with white noise. Things piece together slowly—I'm lying on a flimsy mattress beneath a lean-to made of a thin sheet of metal. The noise is the sound of raindrops still pattering off the steel roof. My hands are tied together in front of me where I lay, curled up in a fetal position.

I'm facing a tilted steel wall. When I try to roll over to get a better view of my surroundings, I'm flooded by pain.

A footstep outside registers and I close my eyes, forcing myself to go limp again. If whoever just came in thinks I'm still out, they don't acknowledge it.

"You have a lot of nerve."

His voice is harsh, a deep baritone.

"Thinking you could get in here. We have enough to deal with as is."

I don't answer, listening more to the sound of my heart thudding in my chest than his voice.

"I know you're awake."

I sigh, letting my shoulders slump, and force myself to roll over and face him. He's young, maybe twenty, with sharp, malnourished features and a scarred face. He holds a shotgun in a death grip.

I struggle to sit up, biting back a gasp as yellow spots cloud my vision. The rush of vertigo is almost enough to put me back to sleep.

"What do you want?"

"We should be asking you that." He shifts his weight on his feet. "But the boss is pretty sure you come from that carpark. Is that right?"

I exhale slowly, trying not to pass out, and nod. The motion makes my head swim.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "Figures. Couldn't go without revenge, could you?"

"I had to do something before you attacked us again."

"We weren't going to, genius." He crouched next to me, balancing his shotgun across his knee. He keeps his finger on the trigger, tense, like he's waiting for one wrong move so he can put a bullet through me. "Not worth it. We're running out of options, sure, but you showed us that taking your garage wouldn't be worth the lives it would waste."

"Yeah, right," I mumble. My eyelids feel heavy. "What are you gonna do with us now?"

"Don't know. We've been talking about it. Honestly, we'll probably kill you. The boss likes that idea, he just wants to think on it first. Says you might be useful."

"Where's my friend?"

"The kid? He's in a different tent."

At least he's alive. That thought brings me some measure of relief.

"Please don't hurt him." I don't know when I've resorted to begging, but I don't have many other options at the moment. I stare up at him, trying to find some glimpse of mercy. "Please."

There it is. He frowns, brow creasing, stony expression dropping for just a moment.

"Look, I don't know what's going to happen. But you two did kill our friends." He pushes himself to his feet and swings his shotgun over his shoulder. I'm painfully reminded of how naked I feel—no gun, no switchblade, no backpack. No use of my hands. He gives me one last glance, filled with disgust but maybe just in an attempt to hide his pity, before he ducks down to stalk out the door.