Liam tried to move an arm to block the offending rays, but it felt as if his body was encased in quicksand. He blinked instead, and rolled his eyes away from the eastern sky, where the sun, an inferno of orange, hovered. He studied the roof of his truck. Why was he here? He squeezed his eyes shut and worked his mouth, feeling the sticky paste of dried spit on his gums. What the hell was going on? He tried to sit forward, and a stripe of pain more intense than the morning light bloomed across his back. Liam opened his mouth to release a moan, and the night before came rushing back. The letter, the trap, the attack in the garage, his hazy drive back to the hotel. Reaching out, he managed to grab the steering wheel and tried to hoist himself from his slumped position. A Velcro sound filled the cab, and for a moment he wondered how a dozen fishhooks had become embedded in his back. Reality took over a second later—he was glued to the seat with his own blood. Liam settled back into his original spot, his shoulder thudding with the renewed pressure against the console, his fingers alive with pins and needles.
