Delilah Barrinheart
The cold hits first.
It seeps into my spine like it’s hunting bone, not skin—slow, patient, vicious. I’ve lost track of time, of how long I’ve been down here, but I know it’s long enough for the blood on my lip to dry, crack, and bleed again. Long enough for my toes to stop tingling and start burning with that deep ache that says numbness is coming. The concrete beneath me is wet—either from water or someone else’s past—and the ropes around my wrists have chewed deep enough into the skin that my fingers are going numb.
The room reeks of sweat, diesel, and something metallic that I don’t want to name. Copper and rot, threaded with stale cigarettes and mold. There’s a pipe leaking somewhere in the corner, the steady drip-drip-drip loud enough to make me want to scream. It’s like a metronome ticking off the seconds of my remaining usefulness. But I won’t. I haven’t made a sound since they dragged me in. Not a cry, not a curse, not a plea.
They don’t deserve my voice.
The door groans open.
I don’t lift my head. I don’t have to. The boots give them away. Three of them this time. Heavier steps. No panic. No rush. They know I’m not going anywhere. One of them lights a cigarette, the flare of the lighter a brief orange ghost against the concrete ceiling before the room sinks back into dirty gray. The smoke curls sharp and bitter through the room, worming its way into my lungs.
“Australian bitch still doesn’t talk,” one of them mutters in Russian.
I’m Latina even if I was born and raised in Australia but whatever. Let him choke on my silence. Let himdrownin it.
Another voice, rougher. Older. “She will. When she’s ready to die.”
I keep my eyes down. Let them think I’m broken. Let them believe I’m stupid or afraid. Let them think anything—just don’t let them know that I’m counting their steps, cataloging their voices, tracking where they stand from the sound of their breathing and the weight of their boots. Don’t let them know that I’m remembering the last time I saw his face.
Jon.
God, he’s going to come for me.
And he shouldn’t.
If they got me, they’ll try to get him. And if he walks into this—if he walks into anything even close to this—it won’t be a rescue. It’ll be an execution.
“You know we’ve been watching Greenport,” the older one says suddenly, switching languages like he’s bored, like we’re trading secrets over coffee instead of blood. “For months now. Tsk. You Americans are so careless.”
I stare at the ground. A cracked tile. A roach skittering between shadows, antennae flicking as it disappears into a dark seam in the wall. My pulse thuds in my ears, steady, controlled. I don’t let it spike. I don’t give them the satisfaction.
“She knows what we’re talking about,” another one says, kneeling. His knee hits the concrete with a dull thud. I feel his breath at my jaw, hot and sour, as he suddenly switches to English. “You know what I’m saying, don’t you? You understand.”
His accent is thick but clear. He wants me to understand. He wants me to know they’ve done their homework.
I say nothing. My jaw is clenched so tight my molars are vibrating. If I move my mouth at all, I’m afraid something will slip out—words, a curse, a sob. His fingers catch my chin, rough and unforgiving, trying to tilt my face toward his. I resist, muscles locked, settling deeper into the persona of the beaten, exhausted prisoner.
“Her father was smart to disappear,” the man whispers, his thumb digging into the bruise blooming along my jaw. “But it didn’t save you.”
Something fractures deep in my chest.
They know who I am.
Not just my code name, not just that I’m Australian or working intelligence under a buried badge, they know who my father is. They know where I came from. They know me.
I press my lips tighter, a prayer caught between my teeth.
Jon, stay away. Don’t come for me. Don’t be the one they kill to hurt me. Please.
They eventually give up trying to get a rise out of me. I hear one of them spit, the wet slap of it hitting concrete too close to my boot, before the door slams again, the metal vibrating with the force. The sound rings through the room, rattling the chains at my wrists, then fades back into the heavy hum of pipes and distant machinery.
I don’t let myself relax. Not even for a second. I don’t trust silence. Not anymore.
But then it hits.
The quiet.
