I almost laugh as the door closes behind us, sealing off the easy exit and any change of heart.
It all makes sense now.Crowe didn’t let me into his club because he was curious.The instant I said Jag’s name at the door, that made me a loose end he needed to erase.
Skip the foreplay.Welcome to the kill room.
He had a tidy ending in mind but didn’t budget for the bomb.Rookie mistake.
I keep walking, down the stairs, and straight into the part where people disappear.
My nerves riot, and my heart sprints frantically.I don’t let it show.
The underground tunnel echoes with our footsteps.Cameras stud the low ceiling at regular intervals, black lenses staring straight down.Fluorescent strips light the way.No signs on the bare concrete.No sounds of life.
No voices.No crying.No begging.Not even the echo of music bleeding from above.
I should be performing.I should be cracking maniacal jokes, flashing the inked grin, and playing the role of damaged goods.But my tongue is two sizes too big, and my throat is trying to swallow itself.
I don’t know if Jag is missing body parts or broken beyond recognition.I don’t know if Dove is here or already dead.I run through the worst versions in my head and force myself to accept them now, here, before they can knock me flat later.
Hope is crushing.Preparation isn’t.I keep my face loose, breathing measured, and hands motionless while I brace myself for whatever waits at the end of this tunnel.
Crowe slows.
Ahead, a single steel door interrupts the corridor.One guard stands watch, rifle held at rest, eyes forward.He doesn’t blink at my Glasgow smile, my skirt, or my open vest.He doesn’t react to any of us.
Not until Crowe nods at him.
He pulls open the door and steps aside.
“Inside.”My heart rate goes ballistic, but I keep my voice even.“All of you.”
When Crowe hesitates, I lift my hand and wave the switch in his face.
“All the crows.Including their rapey daddy.”I drop my voice to a stage whisper.“That’s you.”
The guards file inside, and Crowe follows.The room beyond smells like disinfectant, metal, and something I refuse to identify.
I step over the threshold last, close the door, and…
My heart stops.
The scene hits like an explosion in my chest.
Jag is on his knees against the far wall.Shackles bite into his wrists, his arms wrenched back and chained high enough to keep him from collapsing forward.
A brutal contraption forces his head upright.It straps to his face, leather cinched tight, and metal prongs prying his eyes open, refusing him the mercy of blinking.
He knows he’s not alone, but he can’t turn his neck.He can’t see me by the door.
His bloodshot eyes leak red-tinged tears and fury.Dried blood cakes his throat and chest.New bruises bloom over old ones.Ten days’ worth.
He’s barely recognizable.Except for the pants.He wears the same gray sweatpants from the video of his capture.
My chest buckles, straining to release a roar.My lungs seize, breath hitching fast.Panic claws up my spine, wanting out through my throat.
I don’t let it.I lock everything down, face blank, eyes flat.They can’t see it.They cannot know.
“Wolf.”Oliver’s voice snaps through my earpiece.“I can hear your breathing.Slow it down.Now.”
