Tearing along the highway, Keary swore. This was bad. This was very bad. He should have known better than to leave Cardin alone, especially after the situation with the tail in town yesterday. He should have sent Nigel over to the house immediately, but he hadn’t been thinking straight, focussed solely on getting this annoying job over and done with as quickly as possible so that he could get back. In his haste, he had been careless, had been seen, and then had been delayed by the battle that ensued. He could already feel the bruising on his ribs, forearms and shins. There had been several of them, some armed, and they had put up quite a fight. 

Still, none of that had sent his heart into his throat the way it had done when he had heard Cardin cry out just before the line went dead.  

Fuck!! 

He was already way past the highway speed limit but was still at least half an hour away from the house. The attacker would probably be long gone by then, but there was no knowing what exactly he had done to Cardin. 

What if he's…? 

Not allowing himself to finish the chilling thought, Keary activated the smart voice assistant through his headset and placed a call to Mikka. 

“Mikka,” he began urgently as soon as the line connected, not waiting for her greeting. “Hack into the satellites system and track anybody that comes or goes from my place within the hour. Let me know exactly where they end up.” 

“Keary?” The girl’s voice was thick with sleep. “What—”

“The satellites, Mikka! Now!” he barked. 

“Alright, alright! I got it! Sheesh!” She cut the call.  

Mouth set in a tight grim line, Keary revved his bike yet faster, fervently praying that he wouldn’t be too late. 

……

He surfaced sluggishly back into consciousness, the chill air slicing into his lungs. There was a ringing sound in his ears, his head throbbed, and his eyelids felt so heavy that he was having difficulty raising them. He blinked slowly, struggling to make out his surroundings. 

He was sitting in what appeared to be the middle of an empty warehouse. Pain sliced through him; the wounds on his arms had been chafed in the struggle. Trying to move, he found his fingers numb, his wrists bound tightly behind him. His ankles were also tied to the legs of the chair he was seated on. His captor hadn't been considerate enough to grab a jacket for him, leaving him to shiver in thin clothes in the chill air. 

A deep, rough voice spoke from behind him, which Cardin recognised as belonging to the intruder who had attacked him. 

“Where did you keep the information, Belyayev?” 

“I…” Cardin coughed weakly as the words scratched through his dry throat. “I’m not Bellayev, or whoever it is you’re looking for. You’ve got the wrong guy.” 

Silence. “Not Belyayev?” 

Cardin tried to shake his head, then stopped as pain pounded through it. “I don’t know who that is.” 

Another pause. “Then who are you?” 

“Cardin…” he hesitated. “I'm Cardin Rasheville…” 

The man laughed in harsh astonishment. “Fuck me. Did you really go in that deep?” He laughed again. “They told me you do things methodically, but to this point? Well, whatever.” He circled to stand before Cardin, expression losing any trace of humour. “Whoever you’ve decided to be now, you’re the one holding the information, and I need to get it back to them. So,” he grabbed a fistful of Cardin’s hair, yanking the golden head backward, “where the fuck is it?” 

Confused, Cardin grit his teeth, his mind swimming. This man was saying things that didn’t make any sense to him at all. He had no idea what else he could say to convince this madman that he didn’t have what he was after. This all felt like an extremely bad nightmare that he would wake up from any moment now. He opened his mouth to state his ignorance once more. “I told you, I don’t know anyth—” 

A hard blow struck him across the face, jarring the pain in his head and intensifying the ringing sound in his ears. “Enough bullshit. We know you have it.” A second stinging slap fell. Cardin felt nausea rising as his head spun. He tasted blood. “Now where is it?” 

We’re going nowhere, Cardin thought hopelessly. He’s going to beat me to death before he accepts that I don’t have what he wants, and nothing I say will change his mind. Despair kindled into rage inside him, and he spat, “Va te faire foutre, connard!” 

As the curse echoed, the third strike landed, this time a fist in his stomach. Cardin reeled forward, winded, but as he gulped for the winter air, bile rose. He hurled violently. 

His captor made a sound of disgust as he leaped back. Then he muttered in a thick Russian accent, “Eto trata vremeni…”  A waste of time. 

Breathing shallowly and struggling to maintain consciousness, Cardin vaguely registered the sound of a pistol cocking. He trembled, helpless, as the man levelled the gun at him. 

I guess this is it. 

“Don’t take this personally, comrade,” the man muttered. “It’s just spring-cleaning.” 

……