Previous Chapter (14) - Garry | First Chapter - Camila
Darkness.
That was the first thing Jessica registered. Not just the absence of light from the blindfold, but a profound, suffocating blackness that seemed to have weight and texture. It pressed in on her from all sides.
The next thing was the smell. A cloying mixture of old, damp concrete, industrial cleaner, and something else… something metallic and vaguely sweet, like old pennies. The smell of fear.
And then, the sounds.
For what felt like an eternity, the air had been filled with the most ungodly noises she had ever heard. It was the Russian. The giant from the studio, the one who had looked spoken those kind words and promised she would be safe.
It started as laughter. A deep, booming, almost cheerful sound. But it had quickly devolved. The laughter became jagged, hysterical, punctuated by wet, choked sobs and ragged, desperate gasps for air. It was the sound of a man being torn apart from the inside out, his own voice turned into an instrument of torture.
Jessica was huddled on the thin, lumpy mattress in her cell, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her hands clamped over her ears. But she couldn't block it out. The sound seeped through her fingers, through the concrete walls, and burrowed deep into her brain. She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with a terror so profound it felt like it was dissolving her bones. Every horrifying shriek, every pain-filled laugh that echoed down the hall was a prelude, an overture for the opera of agony that she knew would be her own.
And then, it stopped.
The sudden, absolute silence was a thousand times more terrifying than the noise had been. The silence meant they were done with him. The silence meant they were coming for her.
She held her breath, listening, waiting. Her entire world narrowed to the sound of her own frantic, hammering heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Any second now, she would hear the heavy, confident footsteps. Any second now, the key would turn in her lock.
She was next.
The silence in the aftermath of the Russian's torture was a taut, humming thing, a held breath waiting for the next horror to begin. Jessica, huddled in her cell, squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensed for the inevitable sound of footsteps approaching her door.
Instead, the silence was shattered by a sound so alien to this place that for a moment, her brain couldn't even process it.
CRACK.
It was not the sound of a fist hitting flesh or a bone snapping. It was a deep, powerful, percussive sound, like a giant snapping a celestial whip. It was a sound of pure, concussive force that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Old Print Works.
Jessica flinched violently, a small, terrified squeak escaping her lips.
Out on the main factory floor, she heard a collective, panicked shout from a group of men. Voices overlapped in a confused, angry cacophony.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Where did that come from!?"
And then, one voice, cold, sharp, and furious, cut through the panic, an unmistakable air of command in its tone. It was the man who had brought her here. Marco.
"SNIPER!" his voice roared. "EVERYONE GET THE FUCK INSIDE! GET OFF THE STREET! NOW!"
The frantic, running footsteps of multiple men thudded on the concrete, their panic a stark contrast to the cold authority in Scout's voice. A moment later, the main door to the cellblock was thrown open. It was Marco.
He was furious. His smooth, confident pure from back in the apartment was changed into a sharp, frightened bark. His cool, predatory demeanor completely gone, replaced by the raw intensity of a hunter who had just realized he was the one being hunted. Jessica could hear a second set of heavier footfalls and the laboured breathing of someone hopelessly out of their depth.
"They know where we are," Scout snarled, his voice getting closer. "Frankie's screaming for a broadcast to prove we're still in control. We need to put on a show."
"And you," he snapped, "are going to get the talent ready."
The second set footfalls stopped at the command and Jessica heard a low growl of resentment. From the sound of it, the second man, the heavier one, resented being ordered around like Marco was now doing.
With a final, rumbling grunt at Marco, the large one stomped over to Jessica's cell. He fumbled with the key before he managed to get the lock open. The heavy mesh door screeched open.
"You heard him," a voice came from the door if the cell, the voice a low, gravelly bark. "Showtime."
Jessica didn't move. She was paralyzed, not just by fear, but by a profound confusion. The sniper, the panic, the shift in power—it was a chaotic, terrifying whirlwind she couldn't comprehend.
"NOW!" The man bellowed.
She then felt a huge, muscular hand clamping around her bicep, and hauled her roughly to her feet. The strength in his grip was absolute, and she stumbled out into the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the cold, grimy concrete. He didn't bother with cuffs or restraints. He just dragged her by the arm, his pace fast and impatient, pulling her out of the relative quiet of the cellblock and into the chaos of the factory floor.
Jessica could hear Marco behind them, his movements coiled and dangerous, like a panther pacing behind a lumbering bear.
Then Jessica was brought to a shuddering stop. She could sense more light through her blindfold and assumed they were now at the large table the hulking Russian man was on earlier. Jessica whimpered. Then she heard a snip and felt the zip ties around her ankles and wrists fall away.
Jessica felt a shove toward the table with a force that made her trip, her knees banging painfully against the padded edge. "Get up there," the large man snarled.
Her hands shaking, she scrambled onto the table. The large man was on her in an instant, his movements rough and impatient. He grabbed her right wrist and cinched a heavy leather cuff around it, pulling the strap so tight it bit into her skin. He moved to the other wrist, then her ankles, his breath coming in angry, frustrated huffs.
When she was secured she felt the man pull away her blindfold.
The light was blinding. After an hour or more in absolute darkness, any amount of light would have been disorientating, but there were multiple large studio lights pointed at the table.
Gradually Jessica's sight came back to her and she was able to look around. She spotted a large man that must have been the one who took her out of the cells.
Jessica noticed the large man would throw daggers in the direction of Marco from time to time.
Jessica looked for Marco and saw he had moved to the tech desk at the side of the studio. He stood with his back to them, impatiently tapping commands into a console, his focus entirely on getting the broadcast feed routed and secured.
Just as the large man was checking the bonds on Jessica’s left ankle, the main studio door banged open. Two men, their faces pinched with a nervous, focused energy, rushed in, hoisting professional-grade video cameras onto their shoulders.
"Get your angles," Scout commanded, without looking up from the console. "We're live in five minutes. Make it look good."
One of the cameramen circled the table, zooming his lens in on Jessica's face, the red recording light a malevolent, unblinking eye. The other took up a position at the foot of the table, focusing on her bare, exposed feet.
The large man finished the last strap and straightened up, cracking his massive knuckles with a sound like rocks grinding together. He looked over at the open door of the clinic on the far side of the room, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
Jessica's gaze followed his.
And she saw him.
The Russian. Wardog.
He was slumped, unconscious, in a fucked-up looking chair that was a grotesque hybrid of a dental unit and a gynecologist's table. His arms were strapped down, and his feet were bare, locked into elevated, chrome stirrups. He was a wreck. His face was a swollen, bruised mess, and his hands… his hands were just a bloody, mangled ruin. But he was alive.
The sight of him, broken but breathing, was a small, cold comfort in the face of her own impending doom.
Standing over Wardog's elevated feet was the doctor, Atkins. His face was slick with a sheen of cold sweat. In his hands, he held a small, dark stone mortar and pestle. He was grinding the contents with a frantic, desperate energy, his movements jerky and uneven.
Jessica could see flecks of the substance inside the mortar. It was a vibrant, almost unnaturally bright green paste.
The large man saw him too, and his already frayed patience snapped.
"HURRY UP, DOC!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the cavernous studio. "We ain't got all day! The subscribers are waiting!"
"Frankie says to remind him about Sophie if he gets any slower," Marco added, his voice a cold, tactical blade that cut through the air. He still hadn't turned from the console, but the threat was unmistakable.
Dr. Atkins flinched as if he'd been struck, his grinding becoming even more frantic.
Satisfied, the large man turned away from the clinic. He started to walk toward the main studio door, presumably to check the perimeter now that the initial chaos of the sniper shot had subsided.
Jessica looked back at the clinic. The doctor muttered "coming, coming" as he started marching out to the studio. Then he stopped and slapped his forehead and walked back, fast. He got to his station and picked something up, held it over the mortar and turned with a flourish.
When he turned, the tail of his long, heavy coat, flared out and accidentally scraped across the sole of the Russian man's bare, upturned foot.
It was the lightest of touches, a ghost of a sensation.
And it was enough.
The giant in the chair didn't stir. He didn't flinch.
He ROARED.
The sound was not human. It was a primal, bestial bellow of pure, unadulterated agony that erupted from the depths of his chest, a sound of such raw power that it seemed to shake the very air in the studio. He was instantly, violently awake, his entire body convulsing against the chair's restraints, his head snapping up.
Through the red haze of his own blinding pain, the Russian's eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto the scene across the room. He saw Jessica, the little bird, strapped to the table. He saw the two cameramen, their lenses pointed at her like the barrels of guns.
And he saw Dr. Atkins.
The doctor, startled by the roar, had frozen for a split second. He was holding a small glass dropper over the mortar, a single, clear bead of liquid trembling at its tip.
Seeing the doctor, the architect of his current agony, about to visit that same hell upon the terrified girl he had promised to protect, was the final spark on a barrel of gunpowder.
The Russian's face, already bruised and battered, turned a deep, mottled purple. The veins in his thick, muscular arms and neck bulged like thick, writhing ropes under his skin. His eyes, already bloodshot, seemed to blaze with a berserker's fire.
He let out another guttural, inhuman roar and threw the entire, formidable power of his upper body against the restraint on his right wrist.
BANG!
The thick, industrial-grade leather cuff, already strained to its absolute limit, snapped. The sound was as loud and sharp as a gunshot, echoing in the suddenly silent studio.
His right arm was free.
Before Dr. Atkins could even process what had happened, before he could drop the mortar or scream for help, Wardog’s free hand shot out.
It was a mangled, ruined thing—a bloody, nail-less mess of broken fingers—but it moved with the speed and lethal precision of a striking cobra.
His massive, blood-caked fingers engulfed the doctor's thin throat.
He squeezed.
Dr. Atkins' eyes, which had been wide with shock, now bulged with a desperate, animal terror. A pathetic, gurgling sound was the only thing that escaped his lips. His face, which had been a pasty white, instantly turned a blotchy red, then a deep, horrifying purple as the oxygen was cut off from his brain. He dropped the mortar and pestle, which shattered on the floor, and his hands flew up to claw futilely at the iron vise that was crushing his windpipe.
The Russian’s grip was absolute. With a final, convulsive effort, he tightened his hold.
There was a wet, popping sound from the doctor's neck. His eyes, already bulging from their sockets, seemed to rupture, a trickle of blood leaking from the corners. His struggles ceased.
The Russian held him for a second longer, making sure, then released his grip.
Dr. Atkins' lifeless body slumped to the floor, a broken doll in a rumpled white coat. The mortar and pestle lay beside him, the sinister green paste spattered uselessly across the sterile white tiles.
The Russian slumped back in the chair, his chest heaving, his free hand trembling with the adrenaline dump. He looked across the room, his gaze locking with Jessica's.
Through the blood and the bruises, through the ruin of his face and the new, gap-toothed hole in his smile, he gave her a look of pure, triumphant reassurance.
You are safe, little bird.
She was safe from the doctor's mixture.
The large enforcer, who had started walking towards the main factory door, spun around at the sound of the strap snapping. He was too late. He saw the doctor drop. He saw the Russian, one arm free, slumping back into the chair, panting like a beast.
"SON OF A BITCH!" He screamed, the words a raw, furious bellow of disbelief. The doctor—their golden goose, the twisted alchemist who turned screams into gold—was gone. And their unbreakable captive was now only half-restrained.
At the tech desk, Marco turned, his face a mask of shocked fury at the complete, catastrophic loss of control. He had been seconds away from starting the broadcast, from reasserting their dominance, and now this. A dead asset, a compromised captive, and a live feed that was about to show nothing but chaos.
"You useless gorilla!" Marco hissed at the large man, his voice a low, venomous thing. "You were supposed to watch him! You had one job!"
The large man, flustered and enraged, looked around the studio. They still had a show to do. Frank Romano would have their hides if they went dark. But they needed a presenter. They needed a host.
"YOU!" he barked at a nearby goon, one of the new reinforcements who was staring at the dead doctor with wide, useless eyes. "Where's Pip? Get him here, NOW!"
The goon flinched, taking a half-step back. "Uh, Frankie's orders, boss," he stammered. "Pip stays in the Quiet Room 'til he says so. Punishment for… for sleeping on the job when the girls were freed."
The large man looked like he was about to explode. "Christ! Fine! Nails, then! Where the fuck is Nails?!"
"Uh… Nails went to Medical, boss," the goon squeaked, terrified. "After… after the big guy fainted… he went downtown to get his broken arm plastered up."
"ANYONE!" The large man roared in pure, unadulterated frustration, his gaze sweeping the room for any competent face. "GET ME ANYONE WHO CAN—"
"They're gone, you idiot," Marco snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, the last of his patience evaporating. "Slick is dead. Nails is at the hospital. Pip is in timeout. It's just us."
He took a deep, steadying breath, the professional killer reasserting control over the situation. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with a venomous disgust. "I'll do it myself. Get the feed running. I'll talk them through the warm-up."
He took a step from behind the desk, moving toward the main camera, ready to step into the spotlight with a grimace.
At that exact moment, the main factory entrance door burst inward.
It exploded off its hinges with a deafening, metallic CRASH, ripped from its frame as if by the hand of God Himself. It flew three feet through the air and slammed into the factory floor, sending a shower of sparks and concrete dust into the air.
Framed in the new, gaping doorway, silhouetted against the dark, rainy night outside, stood two figures.
They were clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by ballistic helmets and gas masks. They moved with a fluid, predatory grace, their HK416 assault rifles held at the ready, sweeping the room for targets, a pair of red lasers cutting through the smoke and dust.
The first person they saw in a position of authority, the man standing in the center of the chaos, about to take control of the show, was Marco.
Next Chapter (16) - Nadav
Darkness.
That was the first thing Jessica registered. Not just the absence of light from the blindfold, but a profound, suffocating blackness that seemed to have weight and texture. It pressed in on her from all sides.
The next thing was the smell. A cloying mixture of old, damp concrete, industrial cleaner, and something else… something metallic and vaguely sweet, like old pennies. The smell of fear.
And then, the sounds.
For what felt like an eternity, the air had been filled with the most ungodly noises she had ever heard. It was the Russian. The giant from the studio, the one who had looked spoken those kind words and promised she would be safe.
It started as laughter. A deep, booming, almost cheerful sound. But it had quickly devolved. The laughter became jagged, hysterical, punctuated by wet, choked sobs and ragged, desperate gasps for air. It was the sound of a man being torn apart from the inside out, his own voice turned into an instrument of torture.
Jessica was huddled on the thin, lumpy mattress in her cell, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her hands clamped over her ears. But she couldn't block it out. The sound seeped through her fingers, through the concrete walls, and burrowed deep into her brain. She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with a terror so profound it felt like it was dissolving her bones. Every horrifying shriek, every pain-filled laugh that echoed down the hall was a prelude, an overture for the opera of agony that she knew would be her own.
And then, it stopped.
The sudden, absolute silence was a thousand times more terrifying than the noise had been. The silence meant they were done with him. The silence meant they were coming for her.
She held her breath, listening, waiting. Her entire world narrowed to the sound of her own frantic, hammering heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Any second now, she would hear the heavy, confident footsteps. Any second now, the key would turn in her lock.
She was next.
The silence in the aftermath of the Russian's torture was a taut, humming thing, a held breath waiting for the next horror to begin. Jessica, huddled in her cell, squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensed for the inevitable sound of footsteps approaching her door.
Instead, the silence was shattered by a sound so alien to this place that for a moment, her brain couldn't even process it.
CRACK.
It was not the sound of a fist hitting flesh or a bone snapping. It was a deep, powerful, percussive sound, like a giant snapping a celestial whip. It was a sound of pure, concussive force that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Old Print Works.
Jessica flinched violently, a small, terrified squeak escaping her lips.
Out on the main factory floor, she heard a collective, panicked shout from a group of men. Voices overlapped in a confused, angry cacophony.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Where did that come from!?"
And then, one voice, cold, sharp, and furious, cut through the panic, an unmistakable air of command in its tone. It was the man who had brought her here. Marco.
"SNIPER!" his voice roared. "EVERYONE GET THE FUCK INSIDE! GET OFF THE STREET! NOW!"
The frantic, running footsteps of multiple men thudded on the concrete, their panic a stark contrast to the cold authority in Scout's voice. A moment later, the main door to the cellblock was thrown open. It was Marco.
He was furious. His smooth, confident pure from back in the apartment was changed into a sharp, frightened bark. His cool, predatory demeanor completely gone, replaced by the raw intensity of a hunter who had just realized he was the one being hunted. Jessica could hear a second set of heavier footfalls and the laboured breathing of someone hopelessly out of their depth.
"They know where we are," Scout snarled, his voice getting closer. "Frankie's screaming for a broadcast to prove we're still in control. We need to put on a show."
"And you," he snapped, "are going to get the talent ready."
The second set footfalls stopped at the command and Jessica heard a low growl of resentment. From the sound of it, the second man, the heavier one, resented being ordered around like Marco was now doing.
With a final, rumbling grunt at Marco, the large one stomped over to Jessica's cell. He fumbled with the key before he managed to get the lock open. The heavy mesh door screeched open.
"You heard him," a voice came from the door if the cell, the voice a low, gravelly bark. "Showtime."
Jessica didn't move. She was paralyzed, not just by fear, but by a profound confusion. The sniper, the panic, the shift in power—it was a chaotic, terrifying whirlwind she couldn't comprehend.
"NOW!" The man bellowed.
She then felt a huge, muscular hand clamping around her bicep, and hauled her roughly to her feet. The strength in his grip was absolute, and she stumbled out into the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the cold, grimy concrete. He didn't bother with cuffs or restraints. He just dragged her by the arm, his pace fast and impatient, pulling her out of the relative quiet of the cellblock and into the chaos of the factory floor.
Jessica could hear Marco behind them, his movements coiled and dangerous, like a panther pacing behind a lumbering bear.
Then Jessica was brought to a shuddering stop. She could sense more light through her blindfold and assumed they were now at the large table the hulking Russian man was on earlier. Jessica whimpered. Then she heard a snip and felt the zip ties around her ankles and wrists fall away.
Jessica felt a shove toward the table with a force that made her trip, her knees banging painfully against the padded edge. "Get up there," the large man snarled.
Her hands shaking, she scrambled onto the table. The large man was on her in an instant, his movements rough and impatient. He grabbed her right wrist and cinched a heavy leather cuff around it, pulling the strap so tight it bit into her skin. He moved to the other wrist, then her ankles, his breath coming in angry, frustrated huffs.
When she was secured she felt the man pull away her blindfold.
The light was blinding. After an hour or more in absolute darkness, any amount of light would have been disorientating, but there were multiple large studio lights pointed at the table.
Gradually Jessica's sight came back to her and she was able to look around. She spotted a large man that must have been the one who took her out of the cells.
Jessica noticed the large man would throw daggers in the direction of Marco from time to time.
Jessica looked for Marco and saw he had moved to the tech desk at the side of the studio. He stood with his back to them, impatiently tapping commands into a console, his focus entirely on getting the broadcast feed routed and secured.
Just as the large man was checking the bonds on Jessica’s left ankle, the main studio door banged open. Two men, their faces pinched with a nervous, focused energy, rushed in, hoisting professional-grade video cameras onto their shoulders.
"Get your angles," Scout commanded, without looking up from the console. "We're live in five minutes. Make it look good."
One of the cameramen circled the table, zooming his lens in on Jessica's face, the red recording light a malevolent, unblinking eye. The other took up a position at the foot of the table, focusing on her bare, exposed feet.
The large man finished the last strap and straightened up, cracking his massive knuckles with a sound like rocks grinding together. He looked over at the open door of the clinic on the far side of the room, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
Jessica's gaze followed his.
And she saw him.
The Russian. Wardog.
He was slumped, unconscious, in a fucked-up looking chair that was a grotesque hybrid of a dental unit and a gynecologist's table. His arms were strapped down, and his feet were bare, locked into elevated, chrome stirrups. He was a wreck. His face was a swollen, bruised mess, and his hands… his hands were just a bloody, mangled ruin. But he was alive.
The sight of him, broken but breathing, was a small, cold comfort in the face of her own impending doom.
Standing over Wardog's elevated feet was the doctor, Atkins. His face was slick with a sheen of cold sweat. In his hands, he held a small, dark stone mortar and pestle. He was grinding the contents with a frantic, desperate energy, his movements jerky and uneven.
Jessica could see flecks of the substance inside the mortar. It was a vibrant, almost unnaturally bright green paste.
The large man saw him too, and his already frayed patience snapped.
"HURRY UP, DOC!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the cavernous studio. "We ain't got all day! The subscribers are waiting!"
"Frankie says to remind him about Sophie if he gets any slower," Marco added, his voice a cold, tactical blade that cut through the air. He still hadn't turned from the console, but the threat was unmistakable.
Dr. Atkins flinched as if he'd been struck, his grinding becoming even more frantic.
Satisfied, the large man turned away from the clinic. He started to walk toward the main studio door, presumably to check the perimeter now that the initial chaos of the sniper shot had subsided.
Jessica looked back at the clinic. The doctor muttered "coming, coming" as he started marching out to the studio. Then he stopped and slapped his forehead and walked back, fast. He got to his station and picked something up, held it over the mortar and turned with a flourish.
When he turned, the tail of his long, heavy coat, flared out and accidentally scraped across the sole of the Russian man's bare, upturned foot.
It was the lightest of touches, a ghost of a sensation.
And it was enough.
The giant in the chair didn't stir. He didn't flinch.
He ROARED.
The sound was not human. It was a primal, bestial bellow of pure, unadulterated agony that erupted from the depths of his chest, a sound of such raw power that it seemed to shake the very air in the studio. He was instantly, violently awake, his entire body convulsing against the chair's restraints, his head snapping up.
Through the red haze of his own blinding pain, the Russian's eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto the scene across the room. He saw Jessica, the little bird, strapped to the table. He saw the two cameramen, their lenses pointed at her like the barrels of guns.
And he saw Dr. Atkins.
The doctor, startled by the roar, had frozen for a split second. He was holding a small glass dropper over the mortar, a single, clear bead of liquid trembling at its tip.
Seeing the doctor, the architect of his current agony, about to visit that same hell upon the terrified girl he had promised to protect, was the final spark on a barrel of gunpowder.
The Russian's face, already bruised and battered, turned a deep, mottled purple. The veins in his thick, muscular arms and neck bulged like thick, writhing ropes under his skin. His eyes, already bloodshot, seemed to blaze with a berserker's fire.
He let out another guttural, inhuman roar and threw the entire, formidable power of his upper body against the restraint on his right wrist.
BANG!
The thick, industrial-grade leather cuff, already strained to its absolute limit, snapped. The sound was as loud and sharp as a gunshot, echoing in the suddenly silent studio.
His right arm was free.
Before Dr. Atkins could even process what had happened, before he could drop the mortar or scream for help, Wardog’s free hand shot out.
It was a mangled, ruined thing—a bloody, nail-less mess of broken fingers—but it moved with the speed and lethal precision of a striking cobra.
His massive, blood-caked fingers engulfed the doctor's thin throat.
He squeezed.
Dr. Atkins' eyes, which had been wide with shock, now bulged with a desperate, animal terror. A pathetic, gurgling sound was the only thing that escaped his lips. His face, which had been a pasty white, instantly turned a blotchy red, then a deep, horrifying purple as the oxygen was cut off from his brain. He dropped the mortar and pestle, which shattered on the floor, and his hands flew up to claw futilely at the iron vise that was crushing his windpipe.
The Russian’s grip was absolute. With a final, convulsive effort, he tightened his hold.
There was a wet, popping sound from the doctor's neck. His eyes, already bulging from their sockets, seemed to rupture, a trickle of blood leaking from the corners. His struggles ceased.
The Russian held him for a second longer, making sure, then released his grip.
Dr. Atkins' lifeless body slumped to the floor, a broken doll in a rumpled white coat. The mortar and pestle lay beside him, the sinister green paste spattered uselessly across the sterile white tiles.
The Russian slumped back in the chair, his chest heaving, his free hand trembling with the adrenaline dump. He looked across the room, his gaze locking with Jessica's.
Through the blood and the bruises, through the ruin of his face and the new, gap-toothed hole in his smile, he gave her a look of pure, triumphant reassurance.
You are safe, little bird.
She was safe from the doctor's mixture.
The large enforcer, who had started walking towards the main factory door, spun around at the sound of the strap snapping. He was too late. He saw the doctor drop. He saw the Russian, one arm free, slumping back into the chair, panting like a beast.
"SON OF A BITCH!" He screamed, the words a raw, furious bellow of disbelief. The doctor—their golden goose, the twisted alchemist who turned screams into gold—was gone. And their unbreakable captive was now only half-restrained.
At the tech desk, Marco turned, his face a mask of shocked fury at the complete, catastrophic loss of control. He had been seconds away from starting the broadcast, from reasserting their dominance, and now this. A dead asset, a compromised captive, and a live feed that was about to show nothing but chaos.
"You useless gorilla!" Marco hissed at the large man, his voice a low, venomous thing. "You were supposed to watch him! You had one job!"
The large man, flustered and enraged, looked around the studio. They still had a show to do. Frank Romano would have their hides if they went dark. But they needed a presenter. They needed a host.
"YOU!" he barked at a nearby goon, one of the new reinforcements who was staring at the dead doctor with wide, useless eyes. "Where's Pip? Get him here, NOW!"
The goon flinched, taking a half-step back. "Uh, Frankie's orders, boss," he stammered. "Pip stays in the Quiet Room 'til he says so. Punishment for… for sleeping on the job when the girls were freed."
The large man looked like he was about to explode. "Christ! Fine! Nails, then! Where the fuck is Nails?!"
"Uh… Nails went to Medical, boss," the goon squeaked, terrified. "After… after the big guy fainted… he went downtown to get his broken arm plastered up."
"ANYONE!" The large man roared in pure, unadulterated frustration, his gaze sweeping the room for any competent face. "GET ME ANYONE WHO CAN—"
"They're gone, you idiot," Marco snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, the last of his patience evaporating. "Slick is dead. Nails is at the hospital. Pip is in timeout. It's just us."
He took a deep, steadying breath, the professional killer reasserting control over the situation. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with a venomous disgust. "I'll do it myself. Get the feed running. I'll talk them through the warm-up."
He took a step from behind the desk, moving toward the main camera, ready to step into the spotlight with a grimace.
At that exact moment, the main factory entrance door burst inward.
It exploded off its hinges with a deafening, metallic CRASH, ripped from its frame as if by the hand of God Himself. It flew three feet through the air and slammed into the factory floor, sending a shower of sparks and concrete dust into the air.
Framed in the new, gaping doorway, silhouetted against the dark, rainy night outside, stood two figures.
They were clad head-to-toe in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by ballistic helmets and gas masks. They moved with a fluid, predatory grace, their HK416 assault rifles held at the ready, sweeping the room for targets, a pair of red lasers cutting through the smoke and dust.
The first person they saw in a position of authority, the man standing in the center of the chaos, about to take control of the show, was Marco.
Next Chapter (16) - Nadav
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