The man let go and Ryker thudded to the ground. He tried to look around and figure out where the hell he was. The yard they were in was brightly lit by various spotlights. The fact it was still night told Ryker he hadn’t been unconscious long and that they hadn’t travelled far. The ground was wet but it wasn't raining anymore. There were a number of cars and vans in the yard. Then Ryker spotted the outline of the white farmhouse. He was at the ranch.
Ryker was grabbed suddenly by his ankles. Someone, maybe more than one man, pulled him. His body flipped over onto his front and his face scraped painfully across the ground as he was dragged along. They moved off the yard and into the large barn that stood alongside the farmhouse.
Ryker heard the clanking of metal, then what sounded like a pulley.
Seconds later, his body was hauled into the air and he was left dangling by his ankles. His body swayed back and forth, his head at least a couple of feet off the ground. Ryker swivelled, looking around the room. It was big, maybe forty feet square. The ground was smooth concrete, and the walls and roof were corrugated metal. It was brightly lit with four large round overhead lamps. He noticed some large silvery troughs, tools, some racking. He looked up – or down? – at the ceiling. It was lined with hooks and pulleys.
A barn? Or an abattoir perhaps?
Whatever it was, it no longer appeared to be in use. It was too clean, in appearance at least – it smelled old, musty. Some remnants of its previous use.
One of the goons stepped toward Ryker, a glinting metal object in his hand. Ryker flinched as the blade came closer to him, then sighed with relief when he realised it was only a pair of scissors. The man snipped away at Ryker’s shirt. Then haphazardly cut down the legs of Ryker’s jeans until he was left in just his boxers, socks and shoes.
After that the two men walked away and Ryker was left alone. At least he thought he was. Swinging his body and craning his neck he tried to get as full a view of the room as he could. He certainly couldn't see anyone. And it was quiet. Very quiet.
Ryker looked at his feet. It was rope tying his ankles together. Wedged between his ankles was a large metal hook, the tied rope slung over it. If he could use his strength to lift his torso and grab the chain above the hook, he’d be able to pull the rope free.
But his hands were tied behind his back.
Perhaps if he swung with enough ferocity, the rope on his ankles would loosen. Or maybe even the rope would jump and slip from the hook.
He had to try something.
Ryker swung his body back and forth. It took every ounce of strength he had to build up momentum.
Within a minute or so, his body was moving in a large arc, nearly a full half circle, the air rushing against his face. Every now and then the rope nudged an inch or so in the hook’s groove .
A little more and it would come out.
If he could keep it going...
Ryker heard a door open and then the soft sound of footsteps. He turned his head, mid-swing, and saw legs approaching. Four men. Maybe five.
He moved more frantically, twisting his body this way and that. Grunting and groaning and then shouting in both anger and sheer determination.
The roped jumped again. It was agonisingly close to coming free. But the men’s feet were edging closer and closer. They were moving casually, no urgency. A contrast to Ryker’s frenzied movement.
Ryker gave it everything he had. He thought the rope was about to come free, but it slipped back into position at the last second. Still Ryker kept going. The men were just a few steps away, then...
A man stepped forward. The same one who’d earlier snipped Ryker’s clothes away. He reached out and grabbed Ryker as he hurtled toward him. The man stumbled back as he took the moving weight. Then with absolute calm, he brought Ryker to a stop.
So close.
Ryker initially bucked and jolted against the man’s strength but Ryker soon went placid. He was huffing, his breathing fast and heavy from the exertion of trying to free himself. His head was spinning from the constant motion. The whole room around him seemed to be swinging still. A wave of nausea passed through him before he regained his focus.
It was only then that Ryker took a proper look over each of the men in front of him. He recognised them all. Two were the goons who’d dragged him from the car, one with a shotgun in his hand, the other holding on to Ryker. Then there was Sergei, standing back from the other two. Next to him was the old man – the boss – his shinning walking cane in his hand.
The old man spoke. His words were calm and slow, no sign of angst or anger. He was speaking Georgian and Ryker didn’t understand any of it.
‘He’s asking you if you speak Georgian,’ Sergei said in English. At least his best attempt at English.
Still, it was something of a surprise. It was the first time Ryker had heard the Vor speak. His voice was gravelly and heartless.
‘No,’ Ryker said.
Sergei responded to his master. Then said in English, ‘But you do speak Russian.’
Ryker didn't respond. Giorgi took a step forward. Sergei matched his stride. The two goons stepped away to the side.
‘This place used to be a farm,’ Giorgi said in Russian. In the more distinctive tongue, the old man’s voice sounded sharper, more clear and confident. A contrast to his doddering appearance. ‘Cattle mostly. This room was used to house some of them.’
‘You’ve done a good job of clearing the shit out,’ Ryker said. ‘Just four lumps left.’
The boss took a moment’s pause. Ryker wondered whether the old man would send a goon over to exact punishment for the slur.
No. Whatever Giorgi had planned was still to come.
‘But that was many years ago,’ the old man said. ‘Now I use this room for storage. Mostly we bring the new girls here. Soften them, ready them for trade. Cattle. Like the old days, in a way. I’m also using the land as a ranch for toro bravo – Spanish fighting bulls. It’s quite an operation. Bullfighting has becoming a passion of mine. This farm, the land, will once again flourish. How the world changes. You see, the farmer who used to own this place, he had no money. He owed me a lot of money. I gave him a simple choice. Give me the land. And everything on it. And I’d go away. A simple choice. He didn’t take it.’
Giorgi took another step forward. Sergei unbuttoned his shirt. Ryker stared at the swirls of black ink on his skin underneath.
‘Instead,’ Giorgi said, ‘in the middle of the night he walked naked across the whole farm, acres and acres of land, a twelve inch kitchen knife in his hand, and he slaughtered every beast in this place. Bulls, cows, the young too. The floor in here was a sea of blood. It was on the walls, the ceiling. And then, in front of the twitching bodies and the corpses of his livelihood, he took that knife and he cut his own throat. I found him the day after, face down in that sea of red.’