My head hurts.
In the dimness, Pete's eyelids twitched. A dull ache surged from the back of his head, and he finally came to.
A bone-piercing chill came with it. The air smelled damp, like a basement abandoned for years.
Pete struggled to open his eyes, his vision blurry. Instinctively, he tried to move, only to discover that both his hands had been secured to a chair.
In that instant, the political instincts he had cultivated over years as governor of New York State set his nerves on edge.
Memories from before he lost consciousness flooded his mind, and he finally remembered what had happened.
Someone had kidnapped him last night.
Who was it?
Vought, or some political enemy?
Countless possibilities flashed through his mind. Pete tried to survey his surroundings, but it was pitch-black, and he could make nothing out.
"Is anyone there?" Pete tried hard to keep his voice steady.
There was no answer, only a faint metallic clanging that drew closer.
Creak.
An iron door seemed to open, giving off a teeth-grating screech.
Pete looked toward the sound. In the light that spilled in as the door opened, he saw a tall figure walk in, carrying a case.
"Who are you?" Pete asked cautiously.
The man did not answer. A small flame flickered nearby, and then an old kerosene lamp was lit.
Beneath the lamplight sat a man with a lean, muscular build and broad shoulders, dressed in plain black clothes, simple and understated.
His head was lowered as he tossed the spent match aside and rummaged through the case beside him.
Pete narrowed his eyes. In the dim light, he made out a knife in the man's hand.
His heart sank, and his Adam's apple bobbed. Pete could not help leaning back until he was pressed