Chris felt the prickling pains in his hands first, and then in his feet.

He was breathing gently with his chin nestling against the top of his chest. He had a splitting headache, and his tongue felt big and glued to the roof of his mouth. Slowly, he opened his eyes, wincing as shafts of pain shot through his head, then he finally raised his head and looked around.

He noticed that the big metal chair he was sitting on was bolted to the floor, making it impossible for it to be moved or broken. His wrists and forearms were tied to the arms of the chair with stout silk cords, nothing he could cut through or pull apart. His legs were also lashed to the front legs of the chair.

In front of him was a long, metal table behind which were four hardbacked leather chairs. To his left was a metal bed with clean white bedsheets, a big pillow, and a folded covering cloth at the foot. To his right was a porcelain sink, and to the side of that was a small door that apparently led to a washroom. There was a faint smell in the room, like formaldehyde. There was a door to the right of the door facing him, and the upper part of that wall was a big, thick, black glass, and he knew there were people behind that glass looking into the cell-like room.

The walls were clean white, the ceiling made with slices of wood panelling, and a single led bulb blazed somewhere above him. They had taken off his shirt and left him in his white singlet and black trousers. His shoes and socks were off, and so were his wristwatch, beads bracelet and his belt.

These people were professionals.

His hands bunched into fists, but he knew it was useless to struggle against the cords; they were too tight and done by experts. He fought to control the searing wrath that rose in him, a shattering rage that suffused his whole body and made him want to scream and break everything in sight.

He stared balefully at the dark glass fixed in the wall and began to breathe rhythmically to force his rage down. Chris knew they were watching him, and knew they would be down in a while, and then this diabolical mystery would be cleared up, and he would know the real faces behind the fuckery.

Indeed, he was beginning to have an idea of what was going on, yes, from the moment he heard Steve Hollison was a part of MOP. So, this was how that devil had planned it, systematically and with such diabolical guile, and like a fool he had rushed into it, intrigued by the angelic face of Effe Kedem, and she had led him straight to the slaughterhouse.

Devils!

Bloody devils!

***

Outside the room where Chris Bawa was tied up, a man was standing behind the glass partition looking in at the dark face of the handsome, powerful man within.

It was a big corridor, pristine and well-lighted with recessed lights in the roof. It was a huge building with other offices and rooms behind him. This was a safe house, away from the modern city, sitting quietly in the forest of private property.

The man was bald and elderly, wearing a dark suit with a red shirt, no tie, and with huge silver-framed glasses perched precariously on the steep bridge of his nose. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose absent-mindedly for a while. Then he turned away from the dark glass partition and walked down the corridor. He stopped in front of a well-lit room and knocked once.

He waited.

Two minutes later, the door opened, and a beautiful middle-aged woman wearing a long, black dress faced him with a cold, troubled face. Her dark hair had several specks of grey, but her sheer elegance was still a powerful force around her.

“Bill?” she said softly.

“He is up,” the elderly man said simply and turned away, walking leisurely back the way he had come. Behind him, the elderly’s woman’s beautiful face darkened for a moment, and the corners of her lips tightened perceptively.

She turned and looked at the two people in the luxurious living room behind her. Effe was on the balcony with her cold eyes staring unseeingly at the shining surface of the swimming pool in the backyard. She was wearing black jeans with a loose white top, and standing beside her was Steve Hollison. He was in patterned shorts, loafers, and a blue short-sleeved shirt. He whispered something to Effe and gently kissed her on the cheek.

Effe smiled wanly and turned into the room as her mother walked listlessly towards them.

“Who was that?” Effe asked.

“Bill,” Ivy Kedem said curtly. “Chris Bawa is up. Let’s go finish this.”

She looked at her daughter closely when she said this, waiting to see any sign of weakness in her, and feeling a blast of pride when she noticed none. Effe’s beautiful lips set tightly, and her eyes became a shade colder as she quickly dropped the apple in her hand in a glass bowl on the glass-topped table. She turned to the door immediately and began to walk.

Ivy and Steve exchanged glances.

“She’s strong,” Steve said softly. “Don’t worry.”

Ivy sighed and nodded.

“I’m glad,” she said simply. “Come, let’s go.”

***

Chris looked calmly at the elderly, bald-headed man that came inside and stopped opposite the long metal table and regarded him with something like guilt in the depths of his eyes.

The man sighed and cleared his throat.

“You must be having a hell of a headache by now, Mr Bawa,” he said genially and took out a small phial from his pocket as he put a small bottle of water on the metal table. “Your tongue must also feel large in your mouth, you’ll be having some discomforts, a little disorientation, spells of dizziness, all effects of the gas. This small pill will reset you back to normal mode in a jiffy.”

“Where’s she?” Chris asked softly.

Bill looked up, startled, and his eyes widened behind the glasses.

“Who?”

“Ivy Kokou,” Chris said softly. “Where’s she?”

Bill sighed and held up the phial.

“You must take the pill, and some water, Mr Bawa.”

“I don’t want no pill,” Chris replied, defying the pain still lancing through his head. “Where’s she?”

Bill put the phial down on the table, pulled out one of the high-backed chairs, and sat down.

“Have it your way then. If you don’t take that pill, the side-effects could linger for a longer time. About Ivy, she’s on her way.”

Chris did not say anything, but his fierce eyes continued to bore into the elderly man until Bill could not stand it, and he half-turned in his seat to stare at the door.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Chris remained calm as they came in, the three of them. Effe, Steve Hollison, and finally the woman he knew as Ivy Kokou.

Effe was looking at Chris intently, ready for his contempt, his confusion, his query, even hatred. That was what they usually exhibited, most of her victims. What she had not expected, and what she saw, threw her off-guard for a moment.

She had seen those wonderful eyes of his when he confessed his love for her, and she had marvelled at the way his handsome face had been transformed. That was not a feeling she was alien to. All her life, she had seen the look of admiration in the eyes of men, looks that most of the time simply tried to strip her naked, looks of lust that always sickened her.

But she had not seen that in Chris Bawa’s eyes.

She had seen genuine respect and a frank explosion of emotion that had slightly unsettled her.

But that look was gone now.

When their eyes met, she saw a look that no man had ever given her before. It was a look of pure revulsion and undiluted disgust! It was a look one would reserve for a squashed cockroach on his bed, a look of such blatant ill-will and absolute contempt that it made her pause in her stride for a moment.

Steve took her hand reassuringly and led her forward.

Ivy stood behind the chair directly opposite Chris and looked at him coldly.

“We meet again, Mr Bawa, under circumstances I loathe, but had no control over. You forced my hand.”

Chris looked at her with rage spewing from his eyes, and now his hands balled into fists.

“Where’s my daughter?” he grated out.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, man!” Steve said through clenched teeth, and he suddenly pulled a gun from the waistband of his shorts and pointed it at Chris’ face. “Listen up, punk. You make no demands. We talk, and you listen. Capisce?”

That was when a low, animal growl came out of Chris Bawa’s throat. His hands unfolded, and he gripped the arms of the chair, just at the tip, and then his long fingers folded around the slender, curved part… and with another growl, he began to force the metallic arms apart!

The seat was made of cast iron and bolted to the floor. It was hard, unmovable, and should have resisted Chris’ exertion. But, incredibly, the steel creaked, whispered, and began to move apart!

“Jesus Christ!” Bill Dugan cried and, scrambling to his feet, took several steps backwards in alarm, shocked at the sheer, physical brute strength he was witnessing.

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