The lights flickered at 3:17 a.m.
Alan was awake—he was always awake at this hour, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the concrete. The flicker lasted two seconds. Three. Then darkness, absolute and sudden, followed by the distant sound of a door that shouldn’t have opened.
His body tensed before his mind caught up. Fifteen years of training didn’t disappear just because he’d stopped wanting to survive.
Emergency lighting kicked in—the dim red glow bleeding through the narrow window in his cell door. The institutional hum of the ventilation system had gone silent. Somewhere in the building, voices shouted. Then stopped.
Twenty-nine months days in federal custody. Twenty-nine months of institutional beige and recycled air and the knowledge that he would never leave these walls as a free man.
He’d stopped caring.
The cell gave nothing of encouragement—metal bunk bolted to the wall, thin mattress, wool blanket that smelled of industrial detergent. A Bible someone had left on the shelf, untouched.
He’d heard that Damien had been killed, along with Crowley, shortly before the election. York Newgate probably had a hand in that, but Alan didn’t know the details.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Alan didn’t move from the bunk.
The lock on his cell clicked. The door swung open.
A guard stood in the doorway—uniform correct, badge in place, but something wrong in his eyes. Too calm. Too professional. He gestured for Alan to follow.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The guard didn’t argue. Just stepped aside.
And there, in the red-lit shadows of the corridor, stood a man in an expensive wool overcoat. A bear of a man, his dark hair swept back. Pale-gray eyes that missed nothing. He stood, hands in his pockets, and smiled like they were old friends meeting for drinks.
He stepped into Alan’s cell.
“Mr. Martin. Or do you prefer Ethan?”
Alan’s gut tightened. No one had called him Ethan in years. “Who are you?”
“Someone with a proposition.” The man’s accent was Russian, educated, precise. “My name is Drago Petrov.”
Great. A Petrov soldier.
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“Even if I’m selling freedom?”
He paused. “Especially then.”
Drago tilted his head, studying Alan with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen. “Fascinating. Most men in your position would jump at the chance.”
“I’m not most men.” Alan turned his face back to the ceiling. “We’re done here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Drago’s voice hardened, just slightly. “You see, we’ve gone to considerable trouble to arrange this visit. Guards bribed. Security systems compromised. A very narrow window of opportunity.” He checked his watch. “We leave in four minutes. With or without your cooperation.”
“Then drag me. But I’m not walking.”
Something flickered in Drago’s icy eyes. Amusement? Respect? Hard to tell.
“I was told you might be . . . difficult.” He reached into his coat and Alan tensed—but what emerged wasn’t a weapon. Just a photograph. “Perhaps this will change your mind.”
He held it up to the red emergency light.
