The last thing I remember

CHAPTER THREE

“Kill Him” Then, all at once, I woke up. There, in that bare, terrible room. Strapped to that chair. Hurt and helpless. With the awful instruments on the tray winking and glinting in the light from the single bare bulb dangling above.

How had it happened? Had I been kidnapped from my bed? Why? Who would’ve taken me? Who would want to hurt me? I was just a regular kid.

In my first panic, I struggled wildly, tying to break free of the straps. It was no good. They were made of some kind of canvas, strong. And the chair was bolted to the floor. I couldn’t budge it. I thrashed and pulled, trying to rip myself out of the chair or to rip the chair out of the floor by main strength. Finally, I slumped, out of breath, exhausted.

The next moment, I heard voices. I tensed. I lifted my head, held still, listened. They were men’s voices, murmuring, right outside the room, right outside the metal door.

My first instinct was to shout to them, to scream for help. But something stopped me. If I was here, someone had put me here. If I was hurt, someone had hurt me. Someone had strapped me in this chair. Someone had used those instruments on my flesh. The odds that the men outside that door were my friends seemed very slim.

So I kept my mouth shut. I listened to the low voices, straining with all my might to make out what they were saying over the pounding of my own pulse.

“… Homelander One,” said one voice.

A second voice said something I couldn’t hear.

Then the first voice said, “We’ll never get another shot at Yarrow.”

When the second voice answered, I could only make out part of it: “… two more days… can send Orton… knows the bridge as well as West.”

West. That was me. Charlie West. What were they talking about? What bridge? I didn’t know about any bridge.

The flame of panic roared through me again. Without thinking, I renewed my struggles. Trying to pull my arms up, trying to wrestle my body free, trying to tilt the chair one way or the other. Useless, all of it.

Tears came into my eyes-tears of terror and frustration. This couldn’t be happening. It didn’t make any sense. Where were my mom and dad? Where was my life? Where was everything? It had to be a nightmare. It had to be.

Now there were footsteps in the hall outside. Someone new was approaching.

“Here’s Waylon,” the second voice said.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. The first voice spoke again-louder this time, clearer, more formal than before. It was the voice of a man speaking to his superior. It was easier for me to make out the words.

“Did you reach Prince?” the voice said.

The new voice answered-the voice of authority. Waylon. It sounded like an American name, but the voice had a thick foreign accent of some kind.

“I reached him. I told him everything.”

“We did exactly what he said. Exactly what he told us,” the first voice went on. I could hear his fear, his fear of what Prince might do to him if he failed.

“The kid may be telling the truth. You have to consider that,” said the second voice. I could tell he was frightened too.

Waylon answered them with a voice that was ironic and smooth. He was enjoying their fear. I could hear it. “Don’t worry. Prince understands. He doesn’t hold you responsible. But whatever the truth is, the West boy is useless to us now.”

I was straining so hard to hear that my body had gone rigid, my head leaning toward the door, my neck stretching out, my hands pulling hard against the straps.

But for another second or two, there was nothing. Only the silence and my trembling breath, my wildly beating heart.

Then in the same smooth, cool, ironic voice, Waylon said softly, “Kill him.”