“I want a name!”
“There isn’t one,” Ian insisted.
Grady gestured to the array of tools and weapons, a mad surgeon’s tableau. Ian took a steadying breath, preparing for the inevitable.
Grady selected a large mallet, tapping it against his open palm, giddy as a child with a new toy. “Trust me. I’ll get a name out of you, even if I have to break every bone in your body to get it.”
Ian repressed a shudder, reminding himself to breathe and think, plan. Let Grady have his fun. While distracted with his sick games, he’d figure a way out of this hellhole. And when he did, he’d pay this fucker back in spades.
* * * *