He was my message in a bottle. You’re going to do something for me, Mason. You’re going to disappear. What? If you go back to them now, they’ll know I got to you. They’ll know I know and they’ll circle the wagons. I need them paranoid. I need them wondering. I dragged him to my truck. I didn’t throw him in the trunk.
That’s amateur hour. I put him in the passenger seat and engaged the child lock. I buckled him in. We’re going for a ride. I said I drove him 20 m out of town to an old abandoned grain silo I had scouted years ago for training exercises. It was isolated, soundproof, and terrifying at night. I walked him inside.
The space was vast, and echoed with every step. I zip tied him to a support beam. I gave him a bottle of water. I didn’t beat him. I didn’t touch him. You stay here, I said. You think about what you did. You think about the number 31. You’re leaving me here. He cried. I’ll freeze. It’s 50°. I said, “You’ll be uncomfortable, but you’ll live.” Tessa might not.
