[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

going to fucking UNDO, or you will never see the light of day again!
?This is not personal, said the man from Dupont Circle. He put his arm
around Ax s shoulders and leaned in close, warm breath, a sickening jolt of fear.
?You know, Ax, I am your biggest fan. I admire very much the Rock and Roll
Reich. Fiorinda, the Powerbabes, the Reading Festival, I am there. Be good to
each other, I believe that. But you have to help us. You don t know what you did.
I know you ll help us when you understand.
The white guy started ranting again. The others joined in, saying things that
were slightly more coherent, no less lunatic. They were in the drug business, or
they had been, until the market crashed. Their careers had been wrecked by the
legalisation of recreational drugs in Europe  above all, the synthesis of artificial
cocaine. They held Ax Preston responsible. He had ruined their lives. What they
expected him to do about it was unclear. He was a hostage
That seemed to be it.
Deathly afraid, he lived for days in that room, chained to the wall, taken twice
a day, handcuffed and blindfold, to a toilet: talking whenever they would let
him, trying to romance them, trying to find out where he was, hoping he would
get to speak with someone rational. He got nowhere. It dawned on him that there
was no one rational, no one in charge. He was dealing with an amputated limb, a
flailing poisonous tentacle no longer connected to any organised body. He could not call Fiorinda; the
b-loc link was one way. But it was okay. She would realise
something had gone wrong and call him again. All he had to do was stay alive,
she would send the cavalry. Unless. . . Unless the the nightmare he d envisaged,
just before this disaster, was real, and it had intervened.
The kidnappers were volatile, but not violent. Not even older Whitey, apart
from the tantrums; which grew less. They didn t hurt him anymore, though he
knew it was in them: especially in João. After a few days they let him do without
the blindfold except for the toilet trips. They gave him food, rice and beans; and
water from the sink. João kept saying he would borrow a guitar so that Ax would
feel at home. Ax Preston, he always has his guitar. Like Jimi Hendrix.
One day, maybe the tenth or fifteenth from Dupont Circle, the six of them
arrived together, with another man. The newcomer wore a suit of white overalls,
like a house-painter. He was carrying a rigid metal briefcase.
Ax s heart stood still.
?Hey, he said, ?what do you want me to do? I didn t cause a global recession,
and I can t disinvent synthetic blow, fuck s sake, can t put the genie back in the
bottle 
?Ax, we have to prove that we ve got you, said João, reasonably. ?This is a
goodthing, be calm, don t worry. When we have proved that we really have Ax
Preston, then we can have the ransom paid, and everything will be fine. We are
not bad people, Ax.
?Take a photograph, he whispered, his lips scarcely able to move. ?That s fucking stupid, said one of
the stocky pair (only ?João had a name, so
far). ?Don t be stupid, Ax. Pictures can be faked. What would a photo prove?
?Blood sample. Tissue sample.
They already had his ring, the ring Fiorinda had given him, along with
everything else he d been carrying. They had plenty of ID.
?We could cut off your hands, said João. ?But we will only take something that
you don t need, that losing it will not make you less of a man, but more.
The man in the painter s overalls set his briefcase on the floor and opened it,
with the stoic expression of someone who knows he should be in a better job. Ax
couldn t see into the case, but he could see the man donning a pair of slick
medical gloves. He watched, rigid with fear, as older Whitey and João
confabulated over a needle and a syringe, works that had been travelling loose in
Whitey s denim jacket pocket. Is this a clean needle, are you sure? It doesn t look
very clean. Oh fuck.
?Don t put me out, he said, urgently. ?Don t put me out. I have to be conscious!
He struggled furiously, things having reached the point where there was
nothing to be gained by staying calm. They got him strapped down, face down,
on his bed of boards. Okay, okay, I ll keep still. Don t knock me out!
But they did.
When he woke again he was still lying in the dirty room. His wrists were cuffed
in front of him, but not fastened to the wall. He put both hands to his head and found a crusted, sticky
dressing over the place where they d shaved a patch of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

kajaszek.htw.pl