Looking down in the dark, he found his body covered in…what was that? Mud? A rotting smell stuck to the back of his throat. Somewhere across the room, a fly buzzed against a windowpane. He felt around, found a light on the bed stand, and clicked it on. A smeared handprint across the lamp’s shade doused the room with reddish glow. “Shit.” He jumped onto the cold concrete floor and nearly slipped. Pools of blood stained the white sheets. He looked down. This couldn’t be happening. His forearm had been severed. Rough scar tissue capped the injury. Someone must have kidnapped him. The bastards had cut off his arm. For what? Proof of life. They took his arm! He needed a phone. Rankin would handle this. Whoever did it was fucking dead. “It’s been awhile.” A raspy voice made him jump. “Twenty-seven years. Come to think, it’ll be twenty-eight next week.” Next to a guitar and amp on the far side of the room, a black man creaked back and forth in a rocking chair.
