A heavy wooden table had been brought in, stained dark with things Dante didn't want to imagine. They forced him down onto his back, the impact sending a fresh starburst of pain through his broken ribs. One guard pressed a knee into his sternum, driving the air from his lungs while the other strapped his wrists to the table legs. They then lifted his legs, folding them back and securing his ankles to the same restraints, leaving him arched and helpless.
Krueger watched it all with the detached interest of a scientist observing an insect. He held something in his hand. A towel. It was coarse, military-issue, and clean. That was somehow the most terrifying part.
"You know, Dante," Krueger said, his tone chatty as he unfolded the towel, "the body is a remarkable thing. It will do anything to breathe. It will betray the mind, the heart, the soul. All for a single, desperate gasp of air."
He moved to Dante's head, his shadow falling over his face. Dante’s breathing was already coming in ragged, shallow pants, his heart fluttering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Krueger draped the towel over Dante’s face. It was rough against his skin and smelled of bleach. It blocked out the meager light, plunging him into a suffocating, fabric-lined darkness. Panic began to coil in his gut.
"This isn't about pain," Krueger's voice continued, muffled now. "Pain, you can fight. This is about instinct. This is about drowning on dry land."
Dante heard the metallic scrape of a bucket being picked up. He braced himself, tensing every muscle, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
The water didn't just hit. It poured. A steady, relentless stream cascaded onto the towel, and instantly, the fabric became a seal. The water soaked through, cold and shocking, and then it was in his nose, his mouth, pouring down his throat. His body seized, a violent, convulsive rejection. His lungs screamed, burning for air that wasn't there. He was drowning.
The instinct to survive was overwhelming. His back arched off the table, straining against the straps with a force that threatened to tear his muscles from their bones. His head thrashed from side to side, but a guard's hand clamped on his forehead, holding him immobile.
Bubbles erupted from his lips, frantic, useless pleas for mercy that wasn't coming. His mind, a fortress of discipline and training, shattered. There was only the water, the pressure in his chest, and the blackness pressing in from all sides.
Just as his consciousness began to fray, the flow stopped. The towel was ripped away.
Air.
He sucked in a huge, shuddering, desperate breath, followed by another and another, each one a searing agony as his brokenribs protested. He coughed, a violent, hacking spasm that expelled water and bile down his chin. He was gasping, sobbing, and utterly broken.
Krueger’s face swam into view, hovering over him, his expression one of mild curiosity. "See? Your body wants to live. It wants to tell me everything. Just let it."
Dante could only shake his head, his body racked with tremors.
"Where is Ford? Where did he take my nuke?" Krueger asked, his voice still gentle.
Dante tried to form the words, to spit in defiance, but only a choked, gurgling sound came out.
Krueger sighed. "A shame."
The towel came down again.
This time, the panic was instant. The moment the towel hit, his body was already fighting, already convulsing. It was worse. He knew what was coming. He knew the depth of the terror and the absolute helplessness. His consciousness flickered. He was going to die here. Like this. Choking on a table in a dark hole.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The towel was gone. Air flooded his lungs, so sweet and pure—a form of torture in itself. He lay there, shivering—a pathetic, drowned thing, his mind a blank slate of terror.
Krueger crouched beside him again, patting Dante's wet cheek with an almost paternal gesture. "I can do this all day, but I think we've made our point. You understand the stakes now."
He stood up and nodded to his men. As they began unstrapping Dante, Krueger walked over to a metal case on the floor and opened it. Inside, nestled in foam, were car batteries, jumper cables, and a terrifying array of clamps and wires.
Krueger picked up a pair of cables, the metal clamps glinting in the dim light. He looked at Dante being dragged, limp and shivering, back toward the chains. "That was the soft way.” Agenuine smile finally graced his lips. "Now, let's try the hard way."
He left Dante to his thoughts.
WAR ROOM
The war room glowed with dual feeds. Falcon Three-One tracking the convoy,
Bravo Team’s drone showing Krueger’s villa. Ian Chase stood at the center, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.
“Two devices confirmed in Krueger’s control,” Martin Bailey said. “One on the convoy, one in Krueger’s villa. We time the strikes together, or we lose both. The third is moving toward an intercept at Airbase 201.”
Mike Johnson didn’t blink. “And Dante?”
