He pulled it from the drawer and checked. In the drum were only three cartridges.He cocked it and wanted to put a gun to his head. But the hand is not...raised.Someone was holding his hand. There was no one. The house was empty. But someone was holding his hand.And the hand was soft, warm and very strong.She will be happy. They all will be happy, he thought.He picked up his notebook. It was full of the strikeout numbers.They will think it's because of them. Oh, nice. All these empty and dull. ? Zac would cry, to nobody in particular, by return. But the young marine knew he faced three choices: Have his gonads ripped off. Stumble, and be pulled along on his back by the truck. Keep up. So, of course, he managed to raise his pace in short bursts, to keep up with the truck, saving himself in the short term, but alerting his captors to the possibility they could squeeze more out of the frightened but sturdy young marine. As Zac grew tired, the bursts of speed from the truck seemed to. More

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