STORM’S POV
The inside of the van reeked of diesel, engine oil, and stale cigarette smoke. Every bump in the road drove fresh pain through my ribs.
My wrists were tied tightly behind my back, forcing my shoulders into an awkward angle that made every minute more uncomfortable than the last. Thick restraints bound my ankles together, leaving just enough room to shuffle but not enough to stand properly.
Blood had dried against the corner of my mouth. The cut along my side throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I welcomed it. Pain meant I was conscious. Conscious meant I could observe. And observation kept people alive.
I rested my head against the cold metal wall and closed my eyes. Not to sleep. To listen. And the van rolled through a smooth left-hand turn. So I counted silently.
Ten... f
