THE HOSTAGE'S DILEMMA
I know that tattoo.
My mind races, flipping through memories, desperate to place it, to deny it. Where have I seen it? When? The image flashes into my mind with a sickening clarity, an unwelcome, terrifying memory.
The very first time Aaron’s men took me. I remember their faces, their cold eyes. One, a giant of a man with a thick, scarred neck, had that exact tattoo inked clearly just below his ear, crawling up his jawline. It was unmistakable. A dark, jagged symbol. I had been too terrified to pay much attention to it then.
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