Page 25 of Theta

Killian straightens, stretching sideways with a hiss. "Yes, I've fuckin' got it, asshole."

"Killy, just play along," I breathe, as the goons march us along the dock toward shore. "The time will come."

He's radiating rage, which is disconcerting; I've never seen Killian angry before. Nervous, anxious, excited, sad, worried, high, drunk, goofy, spazzy…yes. Angry? Never. And in this case, he's gone right past mere anger into the kind of stewing, simmering fury that forebodes bloodshed in the very near future.

"Yes." His voice is heavy and hard and low. "It certainly will." He says this with a venomous glare over his shoulder at Chief Goon, who, foolishly, doesn't seem to realize his danger.

"Save it, Killy," I whisper, crush-gripping his hand.

He inhales deeply, chest and shoulders swelling—holds it…nods a few times, and then lets it out slowly through pursed lips, like a leaking inner tube.

In the intermittent flashes of lightning, I try to glean information as to our whereabouts. The buildings, as we leave the marina, are low and blocky, none more than two or three stories, with the rectangular shapes of window A/C units and small balconies. We cross diagonally over a 3-way intersection and follow a street running away from the marina; small hatchbacks and compact sedans are parked nose to tail on either side of the street—I see Fiat Pandas, Dacias, Fiat 500s, Toyota Yarises, all compact and subcompact cars; the license plates are the long white rectangles with blue borders on either side bearing the 12 stars of the EU. And then we pass by a shop window with a small handmade sign written in crabbed, all-caps Italian, advertising something or other for 25 euros.

I pretend to stumble into Killian. "We're in Italy somewhere," I murmur.

"I don't think we were in transit the whole time," Killian murmurs back. "Been thinking and trying to remember. I think we were anchored for a good part of the time. But somewhere in Italy doesn't really narrow it down all that much."

I snort. "I mean, at least we have a general idea?"

“True."

"Shut up!" Chief Goon snaps. "No talking."

Killian's shoulders tense and his hand involuntarily clenches painfully around mine. I squeeze back. "Breathe, Killy. Not yet. Play along."

Our route through the town is circuitous, winding and switching back this way and that while traveling ever further from the shore. The rain has slackened here, farther inland, mainly due to the buildings blocking the wind, although the occasional gust still swirls through the roadway. It's still torrential, but now it's merely a vertical deluge and not the windblown fury of a storm on the open ocean.

Finally, Chief Goon stops at a seemingly random doorway and gives the door three hard pounds with the bottom of his fist. There's a pause, the rattle and click of locks being turned, and then the door is yanked open inward, the opening filled by a large male frame, a bearded face, and the yawning threat of a large-caliber handgun barrel.

Words are exchanged in what sounds like a complicated pidgin of Italian and whichever language these goons speak—it sounds possibly Bulgarian or some kind of non-Russian Slavic language, albeit I’m only guessing based on my very limited knowledge of such things. It doesn’t sound to me like these guys know each other very well, and neither of them speaks the other’s language to any degree of fluency, requiring the mishmash. After the brief exchange, we're admitted through the low, narrow doorway.

Within, the ceilings are low and the walls close. It's a small flat, the door opening into the main living area, which features a microscopic kitchenette, a ratty, threadbare couch, a mismatched pair of decades-old armchairs, a large flatscreen TV from at least twenty years ago, and a scratched, glass-topped coffee table littered with empty wine and beer bottles, an overflowing ashtray, a box of .45 rounds and several magazines, a stack of Italian nude magazines, and a scratched and battered Android smartphone.

The air is close, hot, and smoky. In the kitchen, a kettle spews steam on the two-burner range and begins to let out a shrill whistle. A short hallway at the back of the living space leads to a bathroom on the right and, presumably, the only bedroom at the end.

Chief Goon rips off his poncho and tosses it on the ancient tile floor, shaking and scrubbing the rain off his head; the other two do the same while Killian and I stand just inside the door, dripping and shivering.

Chief Goon confers with our host, who is a huge, burly man of about forty with a thick, bushy back beard and a long, greasy ponytail. With a gesture, the host indicates the room at the back.

"Go. Window is small and has gate on it," Chief Goon says. "Is no escape."

"Can we get a blanket or a towel or some tea, or something?" Killian asks. "Unless you want us to get pneumonia and die."

"Go. I will see."

"Killy, just c'mon," I urge, tugging him toward the darkened room. "It's hot in here. We'll dry off soon."

He lets me guide him to the bedroom; a switch just inside the door turns on a bare lightbulb overhead, illuminating a bedroom as spare and aged as the rest of the flat—the same tile floor, dented and scuffed whitewashed plaster walls, the only attempt at decoration a beer advertisement from the sixties, and a double bed with a brass frame, naked mattress, and a drab green, army-issue wool blanket folded at the foot end.

There's a single, small window with bars on the outside; even if it wasn't barred, it's so small I doubt Killian could get his shoulders through it.

Killian, shirtless and dripping, looks tense and furious, his jaw ticking as he takes in our surroundings. "Step up from the container, I suppose," he mutters. "At least there's no piss bucket."

I pat his pec. "And we have light. I can see you, now. " I cup his cheek. "Hi."

He stares down at me, the fury draining out of his features, his expression softening. "Hey." His eyes scan my face, drop down to scan my body, then flick back to my face. "You're fucking gorgeous, Story."

I snort. "If you're into the whole drowned rat look, sure."