Free Kris Longknife's Bloodhound, a novella by Mike Shepherd Page B

Taylor to contemplate his sins, past, present and to come.
    Alone, Taylor tested the boundaries of his imprisonment.  The cuffs on his hands were linked to his ankles with a chain that let him move a bit, but not enough to reach his pants pockets, assuming they hadn’t been emptied, and assuming he was carrying anything useful.
    His leggings were not only chained to his cuffs, but had chains going to each leg of the chair.  His feet couldn’t move more than a centimeter or two to the right or left.
    He managed to struggle to his feet.  He had to stand stooped over; the chain to his legs was not long enough to stand fully upright.  He tried to shuffle forward.
    The chair would not move.  Whether it was just too heavy or somehow secured to the floor, it wasn’t going anywhere, and he with it.
    He sat back down.  As much as he hated to admit that the security flake was right about anything, Taylor could already feel his blood pooling towards his feet.  Sitting, hour after hour, was not going to go well.
    So, old boy, what do you do?  Have them deal you in, or what?
    Taylor hated the question.  He hated the answer even more.
    If he stayed here in the chair, the situation would remain static.  If he played along, he might get an opening.  Criminals always made mistakes.  If he played their game, he might get an opening.
    But keep your pants on, old friend.  No doubt, they’ll have cameras around to capture anything worthy of blackmail.
    Assuming they didn’t digitize him into a compromising position anyway.
    From somewhere, the heavenly smell of steaks on a grill wafted through the room, and Taylor found it had been a long time since breakfast.
    It was thirty minutes before Arlen returned.  “What’s it going to be?  Steaks fresh from the grill or a bottle of sugar water jabbed into your arm?”
    Taylor scowled.  “I will escape.”
    “I fully expect you to try.  You won’t,” had finality in it.
    Taylor found himself freed from his chair and allowed to shuffle to the next room.   A spacious kitchen and dining room had a table that clearly had been the center of a poker game only a few minutes before.  The three men now lounging around it had the distinct air of alertness and power. They also looked like they were very comfortable with the automatics that hung ready in their shoulder holsters.
    One end of the room faced a expansive patio and pool.  Through large French doors, a fifth man brought in large platter with a huge steak, a baked potato slathered in butter and an ear of corn.  With a cautious eye, the armed cook set the steak before Taylor. 
    The agent eyed it hungrily.  “Do I eat it with my hands, guys?” Taylor asked.
    The hard cases enjoyed a laugh and Arlen produced a steak knife with a serrated edge but a well-rounded end.  “You aren’t getting away from us,” his kidnaper said.
    They waited for him to get fully involved with his steak, there was just enough play in the wrist restraints for him to eat if he bowed his head to meet the fork, before they went outside one by one to return with their own platters.  The table chatter was focused on the upcoming hockey championship.  Taylor followed the sports pages enough to make a few comments on the chances the Accomack Fliers would have against the Wicomico White Lightnings. 
    The book said it was a good idea to help your kidnappers see you were a human being like them.  Arlen might be saying he didn’t intend Taylor any harm, but the agent hadn’t heard that from the rest.
    Besides, in a situation like this, things were always subject to change.
    The steaks were hardly done when the girls arrived.  What little they wore didn’t stay on after a dip in the pool or the hot tub.  The kidnappers enjoyed their very available feminine gifts.  Taylor had to work hard to keep his pants on, not that that kept each of the girls from trying her hand at getting him into the fun.
    “You know you want me,” each of them would