It was dark when he opened his eyes, or at least he thinks he did. The air was warm and moist, the space smelling like damp mould, and something else. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he tried to move his hands, finding them trapped behind his back. He groaned lowly as pain in his jaw and stomach suddenly flared up. A thought struck him hard and he tensed up. The undercover operation.
The other scent was the musk of drugs. What kind, his fuzzy head couldn’t work out. “Ah shit,” he muttered, wincing as his head spun. He stretched his legs out, not getting far before they pressed against a wall or something like that. He then tried to trace the wall in different directions, sighed when he found his ankles were bound together. He traced them to his right, finding a corner, then going back the other way and finding another corner.
He looked up, or what he thought was up. There a high chance that he was in a wooden crate, the wet material softer than metal but still strong. He got his legs underneath him and struggled to stand. Getting his footing he momentarily forgot his theory until his head connected rather forcefully with a roof. He dropped back down, groaning as his head pulsed, pain flaring in his body again. A small red flashing suddenly caught his eye, coming from his waist band. The wire.
A built in GPS helped keep track of undercover agents when they are lost. He flicked his shoulder backwards, his jacket uncovering to small device that was previously hidden in his waist band. If the red light was flashing it meant they were tracking him. He sighed in relief, his head rolling back to rest against the wall. A sudden bump gently threw his body backwards, harder into the wall. His brain slowly came into focus.
He was on a boat, the steady rocking confirmed that, the bump must have been them docking somewhere. There was nothing else to feel other than the rocking. The he could hear machinery and gradually more noises. Water, people talking then finally chains right above him. The crate was lifted up making his stomach lurch. It was swung around roughly before being dropped heavily onto a hard surface.
He groaned lowly as he struggled to sit up, pain blinding him in his shoulders and back now, he’d also hit his damn head again. A large squeaking crack could be heard as one of the walls were pried open and he realised he was now lying down instead of sitting, back pressed against the floor now. His head rolled all the way back, squinting ibn the bright sun that was definitely not Chicago’s sun. He let out another groan, grimacing at the sun, feeling a wetness trickle down his forehead.
“Mr Scott Davies, I presume?” A voice asked, distinctly Australian accented. “Yeah, guessing you’re Robert Sanchez,” he said, eyes slowly adjusting to see the silhouette of multiple men staring in at him. “Please, Bobbie is just fine.” Scott could almost see the smirk on his face. “Get him out of there,” Bobbie said sharply. He grunted as he was roughly dragged out, pain burning his sides now and he cried out.
“Ooo, so sorry about that mate. My boys did a number on you, didn’t they? Yeah,” he trailed off, answering his own question. Scott smirked slightly as Bobbie walked around him. He didn’t think he could stand on his own feet, knowing that if he made the wrong move, he would be dropped by the thugs. But he couldn’t help himself. “Love the way you bring in your guests, wonder if the whole place is as great as the transportation,” he said, smirk still plastered on his face.
Bobbie had stopped in front of him and took a firm step forward. Scott braced himself for a hit to the gut, almost disappointed when he said calmly, “Yeah? It’s first class.” Apparently, Australian’s are harder to anger. There was a pause and he could feel himself being studied. Bobbie was staring at his face, trying to decode his stance, trying to uncover something.
A slow smirk crawled its way onto Bobbie’s face, “Come boys, let’s take our guest to his rooms.” Scott’s chest clenched, hoping this guy had not figured out that he wasn’t actually Scott Davies, an amateur drug dealer in Chicago, but an officer, Officer Adam Ruzek of the 21st District, Chicago Police Department.