taxied for several minutes. Kennedy listened for the sounds of other planes, but the world outside was silent. He assumed theyâd taken him to a remote airstrip, which made sense, considering their cargo. He heard a door open and several pairs of strong hands dragged himonto the floor of the main cabin. He felt a hand on his neck and hoped the bag was coming off, but the hand only checked his pulse.
âCan someone please take this hood off?â he whispered hoarsely.
No reply. They werenât even talking to each other.
âPleaseââ he began, but a needle pricked the side of his neck and he was out.
F reezing, foul-smelling water thrown in his face brought Kennedy back to life, and he woke up shivering on a concrete floor that stank of bleach and old blood. They had taken the bag off his head, and his hands and feet were no longer bound. Bright fluorescent overhead lights burned into his eyes. When he could finally focus, he saw he was in a massive meat locker, surrounded by pig carcasses and sides of beef dangling from metal hooks on heavy chains. Bone saws, long knives, and cleavers big enough to fell a tree hung on the wall above a huge steel prep table.
Using what felt like his last ounce of strength, he dragged himself off the floor and got to his feet. His legs, screaming in pain with the jabs of a million pins and needles from hours of bad circulation, buckled, and he wasnât sure if his dead-fish arms could break his fall. A man grabbed him by the arm from behind, steadying him. When he walked around to face Kennedy, he wasnât wearing his balaclava, but Kennedy could tell by the eyes, deep brown and softly menacing, that it was the man who had shot him with the tranq dart at LAX. Definitely Arab, with a full beard and a scar under his eye.
âCan you hear me?â the man asked.
âYes, I can hear you,â Kennedy croaked.
âGood. Do you know your name?â
âFuck you.â
No response.
âDo you know what year it is?â
âWhat do you want, asshole?â Kennedy asked through gritted teeth.
The man rested the barrel of a gun on Kennedyâs forehead.
âIâm not playing with darts anymore, so you should be more polite.â
He walked to the door of the meat locker and knocked, signaling his men to unlock it from the outside. It sounded like they were using a padlock, which meant that the door was not going to be a viable escape route. Two more men entered, and someone outside locked them in again. Both were clean-shaven and also appeared to be Arabs. One of them was short and runty with fierce glowering eyes, and carried a military-style duffel bag. The other was heavyset, with a pockmarked face and huge burn-scarred hands.
They spoke to the man with the beard in what Kennedy thought might be Farsi, their voices intense and increasingly argumentative. During their heated exchange, Kennedy scanned every inch of the meat locker and saw no additional exits. There were large blood drains in the floor though, making it possible to smash through the tile and squeeze into a drainpipe. It wasnât a great option, especially when Kennedy thought about crawling through coagulated animal blood, but it would make it difficult for them to extract him.
A deep, mechanical sound shook the room. Elevator motor. The drains on the floor probably meant he was in the basement, so he might be able to find a way out if he could get to an upper floor. What else? The cold air needed to preserve the meat was likely being pumped into the room from the ceiling, as it would be too heavy to rise. He examined the ceiling for vents. There were a few, but nothing large enough to accommodate him. It was beginning to look like the blood drain was his only option when he saw a large square openingâmaybe four feet by four feetâon the ceiling in the far corner of the room. Maybe an HVAC service port?
His mind was working overtime, analyzing every detail
âCan someone please take this hood off?â he whispered hoarsely.
No reply. They werenât even talking to each other.
âPleaseââ he began, but a needle pricked the side of his neck and he was out.
F reezing, foul-smelling water thrown in his face brought Kennedy back to life, and he woke up shivering on a concrete floor that stank of bleach and old blood. They had taken the bag off his head, and his hands and feet were no longer bound. Bright fluorescent overhead lights burned into his eyes. When he could finally focus, he saw he was in a massive meat locker, surrounded by pig carcasses and sides of beef dangling from metal hooks on heavy chains. Bone saws, long knives, and cleavers big enough to fell a tree hung on the wall above a huge steel prep table.
Using what felt like his last ounce of strength, he dragged himself off the floor and got to his feet. His legs, screaming in pain with the jabs of a million pins and needles from hours of bad circulation, buckled, and he wasnât sure if his dead-fish arms could break his fall. A man grabbed him by the arm from behind, steadying him. When he walked around to face Kennedy, he wasnât wearing his balaclava, but Kennedy could tell by the eyes, deep brown and softly menacing, that it was the man who had shot him with the tranq dart at LAX. Definitely Arab, with a full beard and a scar under his eye.
âCan you hear me?â the man asked.
âYes, I can hear you,â Kennedy croaked.
âGood. Do you know your name?â
âFuck you.â
No response.
âDo you know what year it is?â
âWhat do you want, asshole?â Kennedy asked through gritted teeth.
The man rested the barrel of a gun on Kennedyâs forehead.
âIâm not playing with darts anymore, so you should be more polite.â
He walked to the door of the meat locker and knocked, signaling his men to unlock it from the outside. It sounded like they were using a padlock, which meant that the door was not going to be a viable escape route. Two more men entered, and someone outside locked them in again. Both were clean-shaven and also appeared to be Arabs. One of them was short and runty with fierce glowering eyes, and carried a military-style duffel bag. The other was heavyset, with a pockmarked face and huge burn-scarred hands.
They spoke to the man with the beard in what Kennedy thought might be Farsi, their voices intense and increasingly argumentative. During their heated exchange, Kennedy scanned every inch of the meat locker and saw no additional exits. There were large blood drains in the floor though, making it possible to smash through the tile and squeeze into a drainpipe. It wasnât a great option, especially when Kennedy thought about crawling through coagulated animal blood, but it would make it difficult for them to extract him.
A deep, mechanical sound shook the room. Elevator motor. The drains on the floor probably meant he was in the basement, so he might be able to find a way out if he could get to an upper floor. What else? The cold air needed to preserve the meat was likely being pumped into the room from the ceiling, as it would be too heavy to rise. He examined the ceiling for vents. There were a few, but nothing large enough to accommodate him. It was beginning to look like the blood drain was his only option when he saw a large square openingâmaybe four feet by four feetâon the ceiling in the far corner of the room. Maybe an HVAC service port?
His mind was working overtime, analyzing every detail
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