Free False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) by Marcus Richardson Page A

as heads nodded and eyes narrowed.
    “See?” asked Mosby, looking at the others.   “We only want to talk.”
    Thomas looked at McCuller.   “I’m not confessing to anything. You’ve got to get this guy off me!”   He glared at Officer Perkins.   “My arm is broken already...”
    “Look—we only—” began Mosby.
    “You’re wasting your time.   Like I told the judge, I didn’t do anything other than break down in this backwater, shithole of a town!”  
    The hands gripping his arm constricted without mercy.   Thomas cried out in pain and started to fall, but Perkins held him upright.   Fire shot up his arms.   He knew one arm was already broken and with the gorilla squeezing his right arm like that, Thomas could see his vision starting to fade with the pain.   It was like he was looking down a shrinking tunnel.
    “Well now,” said Mosby, taking a step closer.   “We’ll just see about that.”   He motioned with his hand over his shoulder.   Someone came forward with rope.  
    Thomas felt like he was watching everything happen to someone else.   He looked on in horror as the locals moved him to one of the rickety chairs and lashed his arms tight to the armrests.   When they stepped back to admire their handiwork, he came back to himself and wasn’t sure what hurt more, the pain from his arm where Perkins had squeezed the broken bone, or the ropes bound to the chair so tight he was already losing feeling in his hands.
    “Please,” he moaned.   “The ropes…they’re too tight…my hands…”
    “Oh, sorry about that…” said Mosby sweetly.   “Let me see here,” he added and took a section of rope from his big accomplice.   Mosby looped the rope around Thomas’ ankles in a swift movement that Thomas assumed must have been learned hunting deer—or elk or whatever the hell these hicks hunted.   He passed it up under and behind the chair and around Thomas’ neck.   His eyes went wide.   If he tried to stretch his cramped legs, he would choke himself.
    Crazy bastards—I gotta get out of here!   Where the hell are you, Danny!?
    His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to find a comfortable position.   The effort produced a sheen of sweat on his skin and laughter from the locals.   The two cops stood beside the bed and watched impassively.
    “Please…” Thomas wheezed.
    Mosby turned the other chair around and straddled it. “Now,” he said, smiling again. “You’re gonna tell me all about your little spy game here in town.   Who’s your contact?   Where’d you keep the flu?   Mmm?   Where’d you hide your weapons…money and passports—you know, all that spy shit?”
    “Jesus, Mosby,” said Officer Perkins as he rolled his eyes.   “Whatcha think this is, a movie?”
    Mosby’s dark eyes shifted between Thomas and Perkins.   “Well…you know…”
    Officer Perkins folded his ape-like arms across his broad chest.   “Just get this over with.   Judge said to make it quick.”
    Thomas froze.   A trickle of sweat rolled between his eyes and down his cheek.   The judge—the old man that had ordered them to let him go—he was in on this?  
    Oh my God…
    His heart started beating faster, he began straining at the ropes that bound his arms and legs, ignoring the pain and trying to concentrate on working something—anything—loose enough to let him breathe.   Fighting back was out of the question—he just wanted to survive.
    “Now just calm down, Ping-Pong.   You’re liable to hurt yourself before you tell us anything,” warned Mosby.   He opened up a pocket knife.   “I hear you Chinks like to stick bamboo under people’s fingernails when you want to torture ‘em…”
    Thomas’ eyes locked on the gleaming little blade as it moved closer and closer to his clenched right hand.   He tried to speak but the rope was tight around his neck—he could barely breathe, let alone talk.   All he could do was watch in near panic as Mosby inched