Honestly, he might be able to get himself out, but he didn't want to rock the boat. He didn't want more added to his sentence.
The man tugged on the handcuffs once more, sending a painful jolt up Gripp’s arm, which let him know that he would be injured for trying to tamper with them before he bent down and started to place the shackles around his ankles. He looked at the guards, each of them watching him with blank expressions.
The guy snapped everything into place and gave a sharp nod when the last click locked everything together. He almost was tempted to tease the guy, asking why they were so scared of him, but he held his tongue.
He was smelly enough without someone shitting their pants and then sharing a vehicle with him.
"To the car," the guy barked, pointing the gun up a little higher. "And don't do anything stupid.”
He wasn't going to argue. Anywhere was better than here. As long as he got a shower, he didn't care where he was headed.
But he was intrigued. Where would they be taking him? There was no way it was because of his hard work. They weren't going to transfer him for that. So, what exactly was it?
THREE
GRIPP
The shackles clanked at Gripp’s wrists as he moved. The ones on his feet were even noisier. Even though he couldn’t shift, he still had considerable strength despite the draining handcuffs, and the heavy weight of the chains meant little to him.
Still, they were tough enough to keep the strongest shifters from fighting. Not that he could fight back, even though he desperately wanted to.
Inside a government-looking building, Gripp and the guys walked down a wide, featureless hallway, guards flanking him front and back. In terms of making an escape, he was currently in the best possible situation so far.
They were on the way to see the general, and Gripp didn’t know if this was going to be bad news or not. They could be prepared to execute him, for all he knew. The soldiers around him didn’t speak … he didn’t expect them to. Asking questions wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Ahead, a guard opened a door, and they were admitted to the general’s office. General Nydia herself sat behind a big desk, watching him. To her right stood a soldier at attention, and Gripp did a double take when he saw it was his old pal Cannon.
He raised an eyebrow, but Cannon didn’t react. Only the slightest twitch of Cannon’s lips showed he had caught the movement. Gripp tore his eyes from his friend’s impassive face and looked at the general.
She studied him, her chin resting on her joined hands. He stood quietly between the guards, his mind spinning, trying to figure out what was going on.
“Gripp,” the General said. “We have a proposition for you.”
Gripp’s eyes flicked to Cannon, who was no help. He just kept staring forward. Gripp looked back at Nydia.
“I’m anxious to hear it,” he said.
The general smiled, and Gripp did not like it at all. It was the cold look of someone setting a trap, knowing its prey would fall into it very soon.
“There is a current mission that we believe you’d be perfect for. It’s very dangerous. Only someone of your skill set would have any hope of succeeding and getting out alive. You will be given your freedom if you can complete this mission.”
Hope surged through him. He tried to move his hands, and the cuffs jingled against his wrists.
“What are the details?” Gripp asked.
“In Eblax, there’s a mining operation of considerable concern. We’ve had two investigative journalists disappear in the area. Recently, we were sent this video.”
General Nydia took out a small remote and pointed it at the wall. A screen flickered to life, and Gripp watched carefully. He could already tell by the way a solitary, bedraggled figure sat on a chair in the center of the frame this was going to go badly.
A black bag was ripped off the guy’s head. The bad guy who stood behind him wore a full-face mask. They concealed their own identities but clearly wanted the viewers to know who the victim was.
“It’s Wes, one of the most well-known investigative journalists in the business,” Nydia said softly.
Gripp watched while the bad guys shouted to each other and roughed up the prisoner a bit. Then, one of the bad guys stepped up to the reporter and laid a huge machete against the man’s neck. Seconds later, he was decapitated.
“They have another reporter imprisoned there, or so we believe,” the general said. “Her name is April. April Meinham.”
She clicked a button on the remote, and a young girl appeared on the screen. It was only a still photograph, but Gripp was stirred by her beauty. Her brown eyes were deep and dark, her hair a pale gold halo around her pretty face.