“This is not happening to me.”
All evidence to the contrary, the thought presented itself again. Harper closed his eyes.
“This is not happening.”
He opened his eyes. The scenery was unchanged, as was the pace of his “escort.” The cadre moved in a slow, steady trot over the shattered terrain, dodging chunks of concrete and shell craters. Harper’s body ached from the pounding rhythm. He tried an experimental groan.
“Shut your noise,” rasped a voice from over his head, “Or we might decide to put you back.”
Harper’s eyes closed again as he mulled that over. He was bound head to toe in wide, tight straps. Handles attached to the straps allowed the four men to carry him like a large steamer trunk. Or maybe more like a coffin.
He forcibly derailed that train of thought, and considered that being in the bound custody of the four black-clad strangers was, all things being equal, better than dodging stray bullets in the broken shell of his office building.
At least if this lot shot him, he’d see it coming.