B2: Chapter 25 - Confidential Public Relations - II

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  Jeremy was too big for the trunk of a car.

  After a good fifteen minutes of awkward twisting, he managed to kick out one of the tail-lights, but it didn't help much. On top of that, they'd removed the mechanism to open the trunk from the inside. He was trapped. Worst of all, his gun had been crushed by the golem. The barrel had been flattened. It would never fire another shot.

  Well... they're probably not gonna kill me. No reason not to off me back at the motel. Jeremy took some small comfort in that. After a good thirty minutes though, he stopped trying to count corners, as he realized they had long-since left Tacoma—heading west, if he'd counted right.

  Shit, what about Hudson and Stebbins? He could have gone after them after he took me out of the picture.

  Stebbins is smart, he'd get the kid out. I've got bigger problems right now.

  The truck bucked hard, before settling into a constant rumble. They were heading off-road, wherever they were. Jeremy tried to brace himself against the trunk walls as they bounced along, but a few nasty hits and his head started to spin. By the time the truck grinded to a halt, he was well and thoroughly lost.

  The trunk popped open without warning. Before Jeremy had a chance to react, a fresh golem lifted him up into the air. It held him tight, like he were trapped inside a loop of concrete moulded right up to his skin. He couldn't move an inch, but at least he could finally see.

  They were deep in a forest. What forest? Fuck if I know. I don't do nature. All he could tell was that there wasn't a sign of civilization in sight, and even the canopy was too thick to see anything above. They could be absolutely anywhere, him and the three men standing in front of him. Jeremy recognized one of the wingmen from the bar, though still no useful identity.

  Facing Jeremy was an intense man with a black spiked rod clutched tight between his fingers. His brown hair was grown out long, along with a full thick beard on his chin. His eyes were cold, dark blue, narrow and barely visible in the light from the lantern sitting on the hood of the truck. He was wearing thick, outdoor camping gear—but to Jeremy's surprise, he was actually quite clean. None of the dirt or smell he'd expect from a guy who'd been living alone off the radar for six months.

  "Brian Hendricks, right?" Jeremy started, trying to keep a light tone.

  The golem squeezed him tighter. A spike of pain shot up through his spine. Jesus Christ.

  "Quiet," Brian murmured. His hand was in his jacket pocket, balled into a fist.

  Jeremy sighed and waited. It wouldn't take too long, if he understood how those stones worked.

  "I didn't get anything," said the man on the right.

  "Same."

  "Wait," said Brian, still locked in a death glare with Jeremy. Not that Jeremy was returning the favor. Mostly, he just felt bored. I'm not what you're fuckin' lookin' for, so can we move on? Minutes later, Brian finally nodded, and his hand left his pocket.

  "Thank God," Jeremy muttered.

  Brian shook his head. "God left this place a long time ago."

  Left you, maybe. He rolled his eyes. "Are you gonna let me down?"

  "No." Brian took a few steps closer, eyeing Jeremy suspiciously. "I don't trust you."

  Only one of us is a fuckin' murderer here. "You got all the cards. I'm not even armed."

  "You helped them."

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