“Where are we?” Cristy demanded, and it wasn’t demanded from a position of power. She was bound in handcuffs, and being walked along with a veil over her head. She was in the capture of Duke Cane, who for the last week, had proven to be unkillable.
Duke Cane answered her question. “Underground.”
Cristy could have guessed that.
Duke Cane felt her disdain, and changed his answer. “Hell.”
Cristy could have guessed that too.
They stopped walking.
“I want to say more,” Duke Cane admitted there. “But I’m bad with my words. You were special, Cristy.”
Duke Cane unsheathed his claymore of a knife. Grey metal shot through Michael Jackson. Cristy only flinched, and then it was over.
Duke Cane withdrew his knife from her chest. He wiped the blade clean. He looked at her for a while.
© Ray Underscore Thompson, November 2015