82

Deacon is a brute of the highest order, who probably got his training in Juan’s school of charm for asshats, and half drags me, half lets me walk on my own feeble legs down the corridor to an elevator. Only stopping to bark orders at another guard sat at a desk nearby, before shoving me inside and taking me down to a level that has an air of aircraft hangar. The doors slide open to reveal a large, empty garage like space, in semi darkness, with concrete floors, and strip lighting on the ceiling, which stands a good twenty feet above us. The space is huge and there are three trucks parked at the far end on what looks like a platform, which I’m assuming raises up. It’s dull, definitely many degrees colder, and seems like a part no one frequents all too often.