Static crackles. Then Roy, the night supervisor, his voice thick with boredom. "Copy that. Nothing on cameras. Quiet night."
Every night is quiet here. That's why I took the job.
The equipment shed sits at the far end of the compound, a metal structure the size of a small warehouse. Storage for tools, spare parts, maintenance supplies. I check it twice per shift as part of my rounds. The lock is always secure. The interior is always empty except for shelves of equipment and the smell of motor oil.
Except tonight the lock is hanging open.
I stop ten feet from the door. Hand drops to the Glock on my hip. Fifteen years with the FBI taught me that small details matter. Unlocked doors in secure facilities mean someone either forgot protocol or someone's inside who shouldn't be.
"Control, equipment shed lock is open. Investigating."
"Want me to send backup?"
"Negative. Stand by."
I draw my weapon, approach the door from the side. Listen. Nothing. No movement. No voices. Just wind whistling through gaps in the metal siding.
I pull the door open fast, stepping back to avoid silhouetting myself in the entrance. Darkness inside. The floodlights from the yard barely penetrate.
I click on my flashlight, sweep the beam across the interior. Shelves. Equipment. Tool racks. Everything looks normal until the light catches movement in the back corner.
A person. Slumped against the wall.
"Control, I've got someone in the equipment shed. Call for medical."
I move closer, weapon ready, flashlight trained on the figure. Male. Early twenties. Wearing work clothes but no jacket despite the cold. His head lolls to one side. Eyes half-open but unfocused.
"Hey." I nudge his boot with mine. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
I holster my weapon and drop to one knee beside him. Press two fingers to his throat. Pulse present but slow. Breathing shallow. His skin is cold but not hypothermic. Pupils dilated when I check with my light.
Drugged.
I've seen this before. Rohypnol, GHB, or similar. Enough to make someone compliant, confused, easy to control.
That's when I see his wrists.
Bruises. Dark purple lines circling both wrists in perfect bands. The exact size and shape of zip tie restraints. I know these marks. Saw them dozens of times during my years with the Bureau.
My heart rate kicks up. Training taking over despite the year I've spent trying to bury it. I scan the rest of his body for injuries. No visible trauma except the restraint marks. No blood. But when I lift his shirt to check for other wounds, I find more bruises. Ribs. Stomach. Pattern suggests repeated blows over several days.
"Control, update. Victim shows signs of captivity. Restraint marks on wrists, evidence of repeated assault. Alert sheriff's department. This is more than a medical call."
The radio crackles. Roy's boredom is gone, replaced by tension. "Captivity? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Just make the call."
I check the worker's ID badge clipped to his belt. Viktor Petrov. Name doesn't match the employee roster I memorized months ago. Either he's new or the badge is fake.
His eyes flutter. Trying to focus. Lips move but no sound comes out.
"Viktor? Can you hear me? I'm Harlow. You're safe now."
His hand twitches. Reaches for me. Grabs my sleeve with surprising strength for someone this drugged. Pulls me closer.
"Run." His voice is barely a whisper. Slurred. Desperate. "They come back. They always come back."
