Ford swallowed hard, voice shredded. “Then tell me what I have to do.”
FORTY-TWO
UNKNOWN LOCATION
Consciousness returned not as a wave, but as a series of brutal, staccato jabs. The world reassembled itself from agonizing fragments. The grit of sand grinding into his cheekbone with every shallow breath; the searing, unforgiving bite of metal cuffs that had already worn the skin over his wrists to a raw, weeping pulp; and a deep, rhythmic throb in his left side, fractured ribs screaming with each expansion of his lungs. A tacky, crusted mat of blood pulled at the hair along his temple, the wound a tight knot of fire.
A single, sputtering lantern cast long, dancing shadows from the corner, its weak light doing little to push back the oppressive darkness of the rough-hewn stone walls that sweated a damp, earthy cold. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, old blood, and something metallic and sharp.
Dante forced his head up, a groan tearing from his throat as the muscles in his neck protested. Every nerve ending was alight, a live wire of pain.
Heavy footsteps echoed down a stone corridor. The grating shriek of a bolt being drawn, then the low groan of a metal door swinging open on rusted hinges. The silhouette filling the doorway was a nightmare made of flesh, one he knew in his bones.
Krueger stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with the solid, final clang of a tomb door sealing. In one hand, he carried a simple metal chair, its legs scraping against the stone floor like nails on a chalkboard. He placed it directly in front of Dante and sat, his posture unnervingly relaxed. He exuded a predatory calm that was far more terrifying than overt rage.
“Rise and shine, Master Sergeant Olivo, Rafe Moretti, or should I call you Sergeant Olivetti, Seventh Cavalry, employed by Chase Security? You had me fooled you were Air Force.” Krueger’s voice was a soft, intimate rasp. “I had them fooled I was Army. The CIA taught me well.”
Dante remained silent, his breaths shallow and controlled, conserving energy, gathering his resolve.
Krueger leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “You were a harder catch than most. I’ll grant you that. A real ghost in the sand.”
Dante’s gaze locked onto his, a clash of cold iron. He would not give Krueger the satisfaction of a response.
A slow, predatory grin stretched Krueger’s lips. “Oh, good. The lights are on. I was genuinely concerned I’d have to resort to a bucket of water. So dreadfully cliché, don’t you think?”
Dante didn't flinch, didn't blink. He was stone.
With deliberate slowness, Krueger reached into his coat pocket and produced a folded photograph. He held it between two fingers, letting the moment hang in the air before unfolding it. Shannon, clear as day, boarding the C-130 in New Orleans. The duffel bag was slung over her shoulder, her hair braided tight, her face set with a determined focus he knew so well.
Dante’s pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. The pain in his side vanished, replaced by a cold dread that was infinitely worse. Krueger had help close to her.
Krueger’s eyes glittered with malicious triumph as he watched the shift. “Ah,” he breathed, the sound a venomous hiss. “There it is. The tell.”
He tapped the photo with an elegant finger. “She’s something, isn’t she? Tenacious. Smart. The kind of eyes that see everything. A real predator.”
He tilted his head, a gesture of mock curiosity. “Did you know they call her Falcon now? Quite the reputation she’s building.”
Dante’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. It was a microscopic betrayal, but Krueger was a master of spotting cracks in the armor.
“That means she survived again.” A chilling laugh bubbled up from Krueger’s chest. “She flew right into my desert, my little hunting ground, and she’s still soaring. It’s… insulting.”
Dante’s voice finally emerged, a low, guttural growl stripped of all warmth. “What do you want, Krueger?”
Krueger’s smile was all teeth, a flash of white in the gloom. “Oh, Dante. I want it all. I want her screams to echo in these halls. I want to see the light die in her eyes, just as I will in yours.”
He leaned in so close, Dante could smell the sour scent of stale coffee on his breath. “But we’ll start with you. We’ll start with peeling back every layer of that stoic military discipline. We’ll find the man underneath and break him into a thousand pieces. Because when she comes for you—and she will—I want her to find what’s left of you. I want her to watch me finish the job.”
Dante glared up, his eyes burning with a hatred so pure, it felt like a weapon. “You will never touch her.”And you will never touch Ford. I did my job.
Krueger’s grin widened, a grotesque mask of glee. “You’re in no position to make promises, Dante. You’re a guest in my house. And in my house, I decide who gets touched and who gets broken.”
He rose, tucking the photograph carefully into the breast pocket of Dante’s shirt, right over his heart. The gesture was a violation, a brand, a promise of horrors to come.
Krueger stepped back toward the door, his silhouette once again a monstrous shape against the faint light from the corridor. “Sleep well. Savor the quiet. Tomorrow… we begin.”
The door slammed shut, the boom of it reverberating through Dante’s bones. The lantern flame sputtered violently, then settled into a weak, lonely flicker. Dante closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, forcing it into a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He began to turn the pain into a weapon. He prepared to survive.
