Dang, my neck itches.
I bobbed my head left and right, trying to scratch. It would be a lot easier if my hands weren’t tied behind my back. At least that rope was soft – the rope tied tight just below my chin was prickly as all get out. And why did he have to make it so tight, anyway?
“Any last words?”
The voice sounded familiar. I glanced over my shoulder, taking another gander at the gentleman standing in my blind spot. Average height, stocky. The black hood made it a little difficult to tell for certain, my guess it was Jim Samson. Or maybe Carl Summers.
“Any message for your mother?” I spit on Jim/Carl. It was a pathetic attempt, trying to spit over your shoulder with a giant knot pulled tight against your ear. Jim/Carl snorted, and the crowed let out a collective jeer. Someone hit me in the chest with an old cabbage.
Hm. Maybe it’s Frank Bell. I thought he was in Tucson.
The man in the black hood reached for the rusted lever. I caught a glimpse of his wrist and saw the scar.