Cannon

16

Cannon knew he had to fight even in the face of being outnumbered and out-weaponed. Closing his eyes for a brief second so he could transform, he was struck back into reality when a metal pipe connected with the side of his head.

Stars danced and jigged around his sphere of vision, and he fought with all his might to retain consciousness. Yet, against all odds, he knew he had to stay awake. For at that very moment, Ryver’s screams tore at his ears. If only he could stay awake. If only he had never fallen asleep in the first place.

It was a losing battle, and blackness overtook him.

He was back in prison, lying on the filthy floor, his teeth gritty with dust. Stiffness pervaded his every limb, and he wondered briefly how it was he still was able to breathe. His first thought was that he had failed so utterly. They’d had no choice but to exile him once again in this miserable place, never to see the light of day again.

He felt, in a way, he deserved it. He’d had one job, and he had botched it. There was no way he could be trusted with anything ever again.

“Water,” he croaked, hoping one of the guards would hear him. Nothing happened. “Water,” he said again, this time with as much volume as his dry throat would allow.

Still nothing.

That’s when he noticed the ropes. The stiffness in his limbs wasn’t due to the cold floor, although that certainly didn’t help. It came from the ropes that bound him. He was hog-tied, his ankles raw with the rough twine. They rested almost behind his head, and his shoulders were stretched behind him in an agonizing position.

He was not back in prison at all. At least not the Supermax. He was in another prison entirely. And though he was no stranger to incarceration, he felt his anxiety begin to rise. The power of prison was always the unknown. Who were his captors? What could they do to a person? What were the rules?

At least at the Supermax, he had been there long enough to know the routine of the place. Which guards were friendlier than others. What meals to expect on which days. Lastly, which rules not to break.

This was another situation altogether. He had woken here under the watch of unknown captors, with a set of rules he had yet to learn. Such places could make a person die very quickly.

Cannon allowed himself a moment to close his eyes once more and gather his thoughts. He did not know where he was. Worse still, he did not know where Ryver was. Nor did he know how long he had been unconscious. A healthy goose egg had risen on his temple, and he suddenly recalled how he had received it.

He could only hope that, wherever Ryver was, she was unharmed. Everything in his soul ached to think she could be in pain. Or worse.

“You tied the ropes good and tight, yeah?” a voice said. Cannon concentrated so he could hear with more precision. The voice had come from just outside his prison cell. His captors were close.

“Course, I did. You think this is my first time doing this?” another voice said. It was higher in register and seemed insulted by the insinuation.

“Settle down. I was just making sure. We are not even sure what we’re doing with him yet. Rumor is he might be good ransom material. Who the f**k knows?” the first voice said.

“He’s a big fucker. That I can tell you,” yet a third voice said, followed by a grunt of what Cannon surmised was the fourth captor. “Took us ages to drag him in there.”

So, they were confused about what to do with him, and they knew he was no ordinary prize. That’s when the thought hit him. He was no ordinary prize, indeed. He was a shifter.

Closing his eyes once more, he willed the pain in his body to subside. Then, with a flick of his thoughts, he ordered his hands to change. Though sluggish, the transformation to large dragon claws began. As it did, he felt the ropes binding him to snap like dry twigs.

He was certain the sound they made – of whips zinging through the air – would alert those congregated outside his door, but they were too caught up in their conversation to notice.

His bulk as a dragon took up almost every available inch of the small cell. Now free, he shifted back to human form – it was, for once, more advantageous in this situation.

The room was bare, made up of a stone floor and walls. Not even a cot or a bucket. Looking up, however, he saw one flaw in the design. A flaw that helped him immensely.

In the ceiling was a small hole. It may have been a place for a vent or electrical source at one time. Either way, it was the escape route he needed.

Ignoring the bands of pain that tore through him, he jumped as high as he could. It took several attempts, but eventually, his fingertips made contact with the raw lip of the hole. From there, he pulled himself up.

A shaft just large enough for his body snaked out before him. With utmost care, he crawled forward, making sure he made no noise, the sounds of his captors floating up to greet him.

He knew he was now directly overhead. A vent in the shaft proved him correct. Peering down through the slats, he could make out their forms – four in all, two were sitting, and two leaning against the wall. A grubby, beat-up wooden table and two chairs were the only pieces of furniture.

Cannon closed his eyes once more. His next move would be all about the timing. He took several deep breaths, counted to three, and punched downward.

The vent gave way like tissue paper, and he plunged forward through the hole it made. As gravity had its way with him, he shifted.

Hollers of surprise and anger rang out as his bulk overtook the room. The man sitting directly underneath the vent never had a chance. Cannon’s heavy dragon chest crushed him instantly.

The others, however, had a moment to scatter, and they quickly established positions in three corners of the room.