“You sure we’re in the right place?” Raoul asks the driver while I reach behind the seat and put muscle into pulling out a couple of vests. The things weigh a ton, much like the Fed one I had on a few weeks back.
“Coordinates say we’re here, boss.” The driver keeps his eyes on the road.
“I don’t like it,” I mutter. This doesn’t look fucking right. They said we were meeting a surgeon. I fasten the straps of the jacket securely,
“You said Reed’s got backup ready?” Raoul asks. He’s frowning out at the field we’re heading through. The driver turns onto a narrower track, leading to a large building ahead. The sprawling wooden structure looks like it’s been nailed together haphazardly. A strong breeze might blow it down.
“He’s got a team in the town nearby if we need them.” Reed gave me his word he’d give me some time to get a head start…after he saw what they did to Andy, he didn’t try to talk me out of this. And the man owes me half his career. I trust him to stick to the plan. Though now, I’m wondering if we might need help after all. This is looking more and more like a setup.
The Range Rover pulls to a halt, and we cautiously get out, silently easing the doors shut. The other vehicles ease up alongside us.
The place seems abandoned…until Raoul gives a low whistle from the other side of the car. When I look over at him, he’s crouched down, his gun gripped firmly. He raises one hand, points at his eyes, then points forward. There’s a black BMW parked in the shadows behind the building. In front of it is a silver sedan of some sort. The Beemer has Whitlock’s name written all over it – I can’t imagine the man taking a cheap ride anywhere.
One of Raoul’s men scurries up to the building, boots soundless in the deep grass. He flattens against the side, spins, kicks the door in, and darts inside. A moment later, he steps out, giving us the thumbs up. We spread out and move quickly, keeping low, though this whole thing seems fishy.
As I get inside, I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The room is enormous. And empty. I’m sure of it. There’s nothing in here but dust and cobwebs. Although there’s a wooden wall up ahead, and light streams through the cracks between the panels.
We move silently toward it, the men fanning out to the sides as Raoul and I reach the wall. Up close, I see there’s a roughhewn door in it. I reach for the rudimentary handle but stop as a muffled sound comes through. A strange beeping. Something I recognize but can’t quite pinpoint.
Raoul and I exchange sharp glances. The last time we were in a situation like this, what we found wasn’t pretty. But Andy is safe at home right now.
That doesn’t mean that Whitlock isn’t up to his old tricks. Entertaining himself with another victim? But then why would the clinic have called us?
I shake my head to clear it. I’m overthinking this. And then a hoarse shout has me stiffening again.
The sound’s coming from beyond the wall. It’s a man. Screaming insults. Enraged, no doubt about that. It’s not Whitlock – though that doesn’t surprise me – he tends to have that effect on people.
I silently pull open the door, and Raoul steps in, gun raised. Throwing caution to the winds, I’m so close on his heels that I almost step right into him as he stops. And then he backs up.
Fuck! What the fuck is he doing?
He backs up another step, shaking his head. I move past him. The rest of the men have moved in too now. As we stare in horror at the scene in front of us, I hear someone gag.
“Jesus Christ,” Raoul chokes out.
Chapter 16
Mateo Ricci
In the center of the room, in a pool of white light, a man is standing dressed in a surgeon’s smock and cap. His mask is down, though, and I look into a face contorted with hate. In one hand, he’s holding a handgun, aiming it at us.
It’s shaking so badly that I’m sure he has more chance of shooting his own foot than hitting any of us. In the other hand, there’s a scalpel. His white surgical gloves are coated in blood to the wrists.
“Don’t- don’t come any closer!” he shouts. His voice lacks the strident fury we’d heard just moments ago. He’s terrified of us. I hear a muffled sound and turn my eyes back to the scene that had me choking in horror a second ago.
Mark Whitlock is strapped to a surgical bed, his face and chest a bloody mess. A cloth is stuffed in his mouth. As I look at him, he turns his head. Glazed eyes are pleading, though it’s almost as if he’s unsure what’s happening. I see his throat work, and that muffled sound comes again.
“Easy,” I say to the doctor, keeping my voice even. I raise my hands, holding my gun in the air, showing my finger is off the trigger. “Easy now. We’re not here for you.” I look back at Whitlock.
Fuck. Jesus… Fuck!
The man has carved entire pieces of his flesh away. I feel a surge of heat as nausea rolls in me because that’s not the worst of it. Where his thighs are spread out, there’s nothing more than a mess of flayed skin and ruined flesh.
“Christ,” Raoul says again. I know he’s looking in the same direction.
“I…I…I told you! Don’t come any closer!” the man screams again.
“Dr. Gabriel?” I ask. “You’re Dr. Gabriel, right?”
