Dedication

In loving memory of Ellie Ceri Chandler,

Chapter One

As the brick-like fist collided with Sam’s jaw, his head snapped to the left, rocking him against the tight binds of the wire. The chair wobbled, his limp weight threatening to topple him to the dirty concrete below. It was the third right hook Edinson had delivered, each one landing with the impact of a sledgehammer.

The man knew how to punch. That much Sam could still remember, despite the rattling of his brain.

Slouched over to the left, Sam drew the saliva back in his throat, before gobbing a mouthful of blood which splattered across the stone. Judging by the faded stains that peppered the floor, he wasn’t the first person to be strapped to the chair.

Delicately, Sam moved his jaw from side to side, marvelling that it hadn’t been broken yet. With a slight discomfort, he used his core strength to straighten himself in the chair, squinting at the uncovered bulb that shone down from the low ceiling. The barrage of punches had reopened the cut above his right eye, making a mockery of the fresh stitches. The wire binding his hands together pressed tightly against the cast of his fractured wrist.

Edinson circled him like a shark. His muscular, tattoo covered forearms were exposed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow. He stood over six foot three, and the sleeves were bulging under the bulk of his upper body. Sam knew the difference between a gym body and one built behind bars. Edinson had the same physique as numerous criminals he’d encountered in The Grid, the maximum-security prison he’d escaped from over a little over two weeks ago.

It seemed like a lifetime.

‘Again. Who are you?’

The question didn’t emanate from Edinson. In fact, Sam was sure he’d never heard the monstrous man speak. Sat on the other side of the room, wearing an expensive, beige three-piece suit, was Jose Vasquez. As one of the most powerful drug lords in the state of South Carolina, Vasquez was as rich as he was dangerous. With a reputation for eliminating his competition with brute force, Vasquez had sat opposite many a man, watching with silent pleasure as they were taken apart by his monstrous henchman. Despite his penchant for fancy clothes and exquisite etiquette, Vasquez had pulled himself up from the slums of Mexico City. Although he’d greased the palms of many officers to enable his expansion into America with manicured hands, Sam was sure there was plenty of blood on them.

In front of Vasquez was a metal table, littered with tools no doubt intended for Sam’s torture. Beyond that, shadows engulfed the room, and Sam was certain it had taken Edinson thirteen strides to haul him from the door to the dimly lit chair he was now strapped to. A small detail, but one that Sam had registered in his mind.