Hunters by Matt Rogers (books for 5 year olds to read themselves .TXT) 📕

the side of his neck, plunging into the vein.

He cried out, then the intravenous ketamine hit his bloodstream and he lolled into unreality.

6

The “K-Hole.”

Connor remembered what it was called. He’d Googled it once.

When you’re given a massive dose of ketamine and it tips you over the edge. You lose touch with your body, with the world around you, with everything. You spin into some surreal fantasyland, which is great when you’re chasing thrills with close friends in a relaxed setting, but rather terrible when you work for a clandestine wing of the U.S. government and you’ve been snatched by unknown thugs.

The world was a spinning vertigo-inducing mirage as big men manhandled him out of the van and into a grimy dilapidated building. Connor vaguely recalled throwing up on himself, but again it was a fleeting flash of memory. Like shutter slides clicking over in rapid sequence.

A hallway. Dark. Musty.

Vomit. Crying.

A concrete room.

A handcuff. Biting tight. Breaking the skin.

Sitting against a wall.

He levelled out when fresh experiences stopped occurring. He was chained to the wall for who knows how long. Ten minutes? Ten hours?

When the ketamine began to dissipate, he didn’t even care that he was sore, cold, sweaty, clammy, dirty, putrid. At least his mind was intact. Where Bodhi was refined and expertly dosed, this was crude and overwhelming. He shook and shivered involuntarily as he started to understand his surroundings and realised his right arm was elevated, chained to a horizontal pole like a guardrail above his head.

The door slammed open.

Connor realised the drugs hadn’t fully left his system yet, because the noise was like a thunderclap, and he jolted.

A big brutish man — almost as wide as he was tall — stepped in. The widow’s peak atop his head was shaved down to a buzzcut with zero refinement. The haircut was as crude and efficient as the man himself.

He squatted next to Connor, resting his enormous hands atop his bent knees. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Connor shook his head.

The man said, ‘Good. I know who you are.’

‘Okay,’ Connor said.

‘Where did you get the Bodhi?’

‘The what?’

‘Did that cult in Wyoming have its hooks in you? Is that how it happened? Were you blackmailed? Were you threatened? It wasn’t your fault.’

He’s playing the good cop, Connor thought. Trying to disarm me. If I admit it, I’m dead.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

The brute was serious one second, and cackling the next. He laughed hard and loud, staring Connor right in the face, and then wiped tears from his eyes.

He stood up. ‘Wrong answer, my boy. Wrong fucking answer. We’ll try again in a few hours.’

‘A few hours?’

The brute loomed over Connor. ‘My name is Opal. Say it back to me.’

Connor said, ‘Opal.’

‘I’m your knight in shining armour. I’m your saviour. The next time you see me, you’re going to be so happy you’ll shit yourself with delight. Because the time in between is going to be very, very bad for you, Connor. Unless you’re honest with me right now.’

Now he’s playing the bad cop, Connor thought. Don’t cave.

He shook his head.

Opal raised his eyebrows, his eyes saying, Really?

Connor didn’t answer.

Opal said, ‘Big man, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll crack you.’

Silence.

Opal said, ‘What’s my name?’

‘Opal.’

‘This all gets too much, you raise your hand, who do you ask to speak to?’

‘Opal.’

‘Attaboy.’

The brute walked out.

7

Topaz was in the corridor outside, hovering next to the doorway, just beyond Connor’s line of sight.

When Opal stepped out, he immediately noticed the passion in his colleague’s eyes. The building was dirty and rundown and falling into disrepair, but there was no place Topaz would rather be.

Opal shut the door behind him. ‘Two hours. Over or under?’

‘Under,’ Topaz said. He didn’t speak often. When he did, his voice was gravelly from disuse. ‘Way under.’

8

Connor tensed up like a coiled spring, every muscle and nerve ready for the physical onslaught he knew was coming.

He vowed not to break.

Every religion has an archetypal figure to aspire towards, and most are famous for their suffering — Jesus on the Cross being the crowning example. Connor knew he could be that shining example for Mother Libertas. A very ordinary, very boring white-collar worker, albeit in an unusual field, who rose to the occasion when his beliefs were tested. If he broke, he’d be betraying everything the Riordans had taught him. It was up to him to carry their legacy, and he would voluntarily shoulder that burden.

No matter what they did to him, he wouldn’t break.

No amount of physical pain could make him waver. Not with the self-belief he possessed.

But they didn’t lay a finger on him.

A pair of men in balaclavas came in. Neither were Opal — they were slimmer, less physically imposing. One of them yanked a thick black bag down over Connor’s head, plunging his world into darkness. He could still catch the odd sliver of light creeping in from the base of the bag, but his captors eliminated that reprieve by jerking blacked-out ski goggles over the outside of the bag, pinning the cloth to his eyes. The darkness became total. It heightened his other senses — hearing, taste, sense of smell.

He braced himself for a punch or a kick, tightening his core.

Nothing happened.

Rough hands hauled him to his feet, and he realised they’d freed him from the handcuff. They made him stand ramrod straight, turned him around, and put his hands on the concrete wall.

Then they told him to stay there.

The next hour was the most horrific of his life.

They didn’t touch him, preying on the knowledge that he was anticipating a physical assault at any moment. It fried his nerves, torching them with overuse, as every tiny sound in the room made him recoil in anticipation of pain. Fifteen minutes in, his body started to ache from the uncomfortable position. One of his hands slipped an inch down the wall.

That’s when the first punishment came. To pay for his lapse in concentration, they slipped headphones over his ears. At first there