Consciousness returned in jagged shards.
First came the smell, stale tobacco, wet dog, and gasoline. Then came the sound, the roar of an engine struggling against a steep incline, and the rattle of metal against metal. Finally, the pain. A dull, rhythmic throbbing at the base of my skull where the Butcher had pressed his thumb.
I opened my eyes, expecting the soft velvet of my canopy bed or the leather of the Rolls Royce.
Instead, I was staring at the rusted ceiling of a truck cab.
I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't cooperate. My wrists were bound tight in front of me with rough hemp rope that bit into my skin. I was wedged awkwardly in the cramped backseat of a pickup truck, surrounded by crates that smelled of oil and gunpowder.
"She’s awake."
The voice
