He was blindfolded, his hands were cuffed behind his back, and his legs bound with heavy plastic restraints. Their tingling soreness told him he'd been out for at least an hour. A band of surgical tape held a cotton swab in place on the inside of his right elbow, but he didn't feel drugged. They'd taken his blood? He lay still, feigning sleep as he drank in the sensations of his prison. The floor throbbed with the regular pulsation of a semi on an interstate, and the way it rocked told him he was probably in a storage container on a flatbed trailer. The cold was not refrigeration, though he could feel an icy draft against his ankles; it was the dead of night, so he'd been out for the entire day. He was not alone. Feet shuffled beside his face, whispers threaded through the gray diesel rumble. He jerked away from a boot that prodded his shoulder. A voice, commanding, with a high Southern drawl, boomed in the small box. "We know you're awake, son. We want some answers." Storch suddenly felt a wave of recognition.
