The End Game

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Kyle Rossetti felt the needle puncture his skin and slide deep into his lower back.

Again.

The pain was beyond compare. An electrical spasm ripped through his legs, but the duct tape holding him pressed down against the metal table caused the jolt to rebound back into the bone, then out again toward the surface of his skin in a cycle of reverberating suffering.

Eventually, mercifully, the agony subsided.

“How attached are you to the notion of being able to run?”

The voice came from the man standing directly behind him. That he was a man was all Rossetti knew about his captor. Having not laid eyes on him at any point and with his head taped tight against the table, he had no sense of what the man looked like. The voice was neutral, calm, but filled with purpose. The man’s accent gave away nothing except that he was American, or had at least lived in America for most of his life.

“I can tell you permanent neurological injury is rare,” the man added. “At least, when the needle is inserted by a doctor. Which, sadly, I’m not. The numbness, the tingling and the pain-they could just be side effects of what I’m doing. Then again, they could be signs of irreversible, permanent damage. I couldn’t tell you, either way.”

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