Luther made his way down, followed by Corey, followed by Luther’s uncle, Sam P., who stepped delicately for a huge man. Corey carried a tripod and a small video camera. Black material swung from his belt—Max realized they were ski masks. The ski masks went with the scimitar in Sam P.’s hand. “Really?” Max said. He lay on his cot, legs crossed at his feet, hands clasped behind his head. “Get up, asshole,” Corey said. “It’s time for your close-up.” Max obliged. He was calm now, as if he were in the eye of a hurricane, and the hurricane was his own rage. The rage would be easy to tap, but he could control it. “Where’s my mark?” “Knock it off, jerko,” Corey said. “Do what you’re told and everything’s going to turn out fine. Otherwise…” He made a slashing motion to his throat. “You really think a video will change Talia’s mind?” They ignored him as they set up the tripod facing the wall. The lighting here was not the best, but Max thought it would only enhance the terror of the scene.
