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Stefan Corelli struggled against the plastic zip-tie tightly binding his hands behind his back. Cunningham had pulled the tie so tightly it cut into his wrists, severely restricting the circulation of blood to his fingers. His hands were rapidly growing numb, and he flexed his fingers in a vain attempt to get some feeling back.
He was on his knees, just inside Cunningham’s makeshift camp, facing out across the river through the camouflage netting.
Cunningham, or Lasseter as he was calling himself now, was behind him. He could hear him moving about, but was unable to determine exactly what he was doing. The longer he knelt with his back to the interior the more afraid he became. He was defenseless, and he expected at any moment to die from a bullet in the back of the head. At least he
