Free Web NovelChapter 108: Chapter 108 - Concious
Malcolm’s POV
The crate carrying Iyisha passed him first.
Four men had it lifted between them, arms flexed, grips sure, moving in step like this was nothing more than unloading supplies, and Malcolm caught the brief flash of her inside it, her body folded tight, her hands wrapped around the bars as the crate tilted toward the house steps.
Someone laughed.
"Careful," one of them said, adjusting his grip, "don’t bruise the merchandise before it even gets inside."
The front door opened. Warm light spilled out. The crate disappeared inside, swallowed whole, and the sound of the door closing landed hard and final.
Then the hands on Malcolm tightened and yanked him the other way.
Malcolm let himself be pulled, head angled just enough to see what they thought he would miss.
Men everywhere.
At least twenty, spread out across the yard, rifles visible, pistols on hips, positions overlapping, patrols slow and deliberate. This was not a sloppy camp. This was a base. A farmhouse gutted and repurposed, a clean front and a working back, vehicles parked in order, fuel stacked, crates marked and waiting.
"Hell of a catch tonight," one of the men said as they dragged him past a truck. "That girl alone’ll pay for a month."
"And this one," another chimed in, giving Malcolm a rough shove forward, "he’s gonna be a favorite. Look at him."
A third laughed, eyes dragging over Malcolm openly. "Yeah. Too pretty to waste. Might not even make it past the first night."
"Careful," someone snorted from behind. "You’re startin’ to sound a little gay."
The laughter came quick and easy, loose with certainty.
Two of the men did not laugh.
They walked a few steps back, eyes sharp, watching Malcolm instead of joking, hands never leaving their weapons, posture tight in a way that said they understood risk even if the others didn’t.
The shed door came into view, squat and utilitarian, set back from the house like something meant to be hidden.
They shoved the shed door open and forced Malcolm inside, night air stripped away in an instant, replaced by the thick stench of oil, dust, and old metal that clung to the walls like residue from too many past uses.
"Sit him," someone said.
Hands reached for him.
That was the line.
Malcolm moved.
The timing was wrong enough to snap their rhythm clean in half.
"What the—"
The chair shrieked as it tore sideways across concrete, metal screaming as Malcolm drove his weight back hard, his shoulder slamming into the man closest to him before the grip on his arms could lock in.
His ribs took the hit unbraced and the man staggered with a sharp, startled grunt, stumbling into another.
Shouts broke out. Someone cursed.
Hands came at him again, rougher now, faster, trying to force him down, to get rope on him before he could find leverage. Malcolm twisted, muscles burning, breath controlled, every movement fueled by a single brutal calculation.
He could wait.
He knew that.
He could let them sit him, let them bind him, let time stretch until an opening presented itself. That was how survival usually worked.
But time was the one thing Iyisha did not have.
The image of her being dragged toward the house flashed sharp and unforgiving in his mind, the crate lifted like cargo, the door closing behind her, and something cold and absolute settled in his chest.
Could she wait?
The answer landed fast and merciless.
No.
Malcolm drove his elbow back blindly, felt it connect with something solid, heard breath leave a body in a harsh sound that cut through the room. The chair scraped again, legs catching, tipping just enough to throw balance into chaos as he fought to stay standing, to stay moving, to stay between restraint and collapse.
Rope brushed his wrist.
He tore away from it, pulse pounding, jaw clenched so hard it ached, knowing with brutal clarity that every second he bought here was a second she might still be alive in there.
And that made hesitation impossible.
"Jesus—"
The second man lunged and Malcolm’s free hand snapped up, catching him under the jaw, fingers digging in, hauling him forward with brutal leverage. The third reached in at the same time and took a sharp head-butt square to the face, the crack loud enough to make everyone freeze for half a second.
"What the fuck—"
"Hold him—"
The room erupted.
The man in Malcolm’s grip made a strangled sound as Malcolm dragged him do hard across his own body, twisting the chair just enough to put a body between himself and the others. The bindings strained. One ankle slipped half an inch. Enough to change angles. Enough to make it messy.
"Get back— get back—"
One of the armed men swore under his breath, shock cutting through his voice. This was not how this part went. This was supposed to be easy.
Malcolm shoved again, forcing space where there should not have been any, breath controlled, eyes clear beneath the cloth. Hands clawed at him now, no longer confident, fingers slipping on sweat and fabric.
"Fuck, he’s strong—"
The two men with weapons stepped in at last, movements no longer lazy, no longer amused. Malcolm felt the shift instantly and knew it just as fast.
This was the line.
If he pushed now, someone would panic.
And panic meant bullets.
He released his grip deliberately.
The sudden lack of resistance threw them off again.
"What—"
Something scraped behind him. A chair leg hit metal. One of them swore and lunged for the table, hands moving fast, urgent.
Malcolm twisted, bracing for steel.
Knife.
That was what he expected.
What he saw made his stomach drop instead.
A syringe.
He tried to wrench away but the angle was wrong, leverage gone, strength already burning hot and thin from exertion. The needle drove into muscle and the world tilted almost immediately, heat flooding his veins like liquid fire.
The man he’d been holding groaned as Malcolm let go completely, his fingers betraying him, numbness racing faster than thought.
"What did you give him—" someone snapped.
"Enough," another answered, breath uneven. "Enough."
Malcolm hit the floor hard, shoulder first, then cheek, concrete cold and unforgiving. He tried to push up and his arm responded late, heavy, useless.
That was when the silence hit.
Not laughter.
Not triumph.
Just a stunned pause.
"...What the fuck was that," one of them muttered.
Another swallowed audibly. "He almost got loose."
Malcolm lay there, breathing slow despite the drug dragging him under, jaw tight with humiliation and calculation both, forcing his mind to stay present as long as it could.
The drug did not take him cleanly.
It crept instead, heavy and wrong, flooding his limbs with heat that turned thick and sluggish, muscles responding a half second too late, then another, then another, like his body was sinking through wet sand while his mind stayed cruelly sharp.
His vision blurred at the edges but did not black out. Sound warped, stretched, yet every voice still reached him.
"Shit," one of them said, sharp now, no laughter left in it. "What did you give him?"
The man with the syringe looked down at it, then back at Malcolm, then back again, confusion flickering across his face. "Same as always."
"Bullshit," another snapped, stepping closer, eyes wide now, unsettled. "That was a dose for three people."
"That much’ll kill him," someone else said, not joking anymore. "You’re gonna stop his breathing."
Malcolm forced air into his lungs slowly, deliberately, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, his head lifting just enough for his eyes to find them through the haze. His body sagged, shoulders heavy, spine refusing to hold him upright without effort, but he did not go limp.
He did not fade.
He looked at them.
The room went quiet.
"...Why isn’t he out," one of them whispered.
Malcolm swallowed thickly, the motion slow and visible, and the act alone seemed to unsettle them more than the fight had. His hands twitched against the floor as if remembering strength they could not fully access, fingers curling and uncurling with stubborn insistence.
"He’s still conscious," one said, disbelief creeping into his voice.
They hauled him upright again, movements rough but cautious now, like men handling something that had already bitten once. Malcolm’s legs dragged uselessly beneath him, knees threatening to fold, yet he forced them to lock when they reached the chair, forced his weight to hold long enough to sit instead of collapse.
Metal rang as they shoved him back into place.
Wrists were bound again, tighter this time, cutting deep, rope biting into skin as if they were trying to erase the possibility of movement altogether. His ankles followed, straps cinched hard, no slack left, no room for error. Someone cursed softly as Malcolm tensed involuntarily, breath shuddering but controlled, eyes never closing.
The man who had joked earlier stared at him now, unease written plain across his face. "He should be gone."
Malcolm’s head dipped forward slowly, chin brushing his chest, breath heavy but steady, the drug weighing him down in layers, yet his awareness stayed stubbornly present, refusing to slip.
They stepped back from him when they were done, not laughing, not boasting, watching instead as if waiting for him to finally disappear inside his own body.
He didn’t.
He stayed.
