He stands tall, faceless behind his balaclava. He handles me like luggage. Dead weight.
The headlights illuminate a rusting industrial skeleton rising from the snow. Corrugated metal sheets flap in the wind, banging against steel girders like a chaotic drumline. Dark tunnel mouths gape like open wounds in the side of the mountain. Conveyor belts stretch upward into the dark, silent, and broken.
A relic of a time when men tore the earth open for profit. Now it’s a tomb.
“Move.” A shove between my shoulder blades sends me stumbling forward.
We walk toward the main structure, a low concrete blockhouse with narrow windows protected by wire mesh. A generator thrums somewhere nearby, acting as a heartbeat for the dead facility. Yellow work lights buzz overhead, casting sickly, jaundiced shadows on the snow.
A steel door opens.
Heat rushes out, smelling of kerosene and stale coffee.
I stumble into a room that resembles an old foreman’s office, recently converted into a tactical command post. Maps cover the peeling paint on the walls. Folding tables hold laptops, radios, and weapons.
The air inside burns warm, dry, and stagnant. Three men wait for me inside.
Two soldiers dress in the same winter camouflage as the ones who took me. They stand at parade rest, rifles slung across their chests.
The third man sits behind a metal desk in a charcoal wool coat over a suit, without tactical gear or weapons, looking like he just stepped out of a boardroom in D.C., crisp and incongruous against the backdrop of peeling linoleum and industrial decay.
He stops typing and looks up.
Mercer.
I’m not surprised.
He stands, smoothing the front of his coat.
“Dr. Kincaid.” His voice flows soft and cultivated, designed for hushed conversations in corridors of power.
“I apologize for the rough transport. My team lacks finesse.” He gestures to the soldier behind me. “Cut her loose.”
The soldier shifts his weight.
“Sir, she’s a flight risk.”
“She’s in a concrete bunker five miles from the nearest paved road in a blizzard. Where is she going to run? To the wolves?” Mercer smiles, the expression failing to reach his cold, dead eyes. Shark eyes. “Cut them.”
The soldier pulls a knife. I flinch, instinct overriding logic. The blade slides between my wrists.Snap. The plastic gives way.
My arms fall to my sides. The rush of blood back into my hands hits like agony, a burning pins-and-needles sensation making me gasp. I bring my hands forward and rub the red welts on my wrists. I refuse to cry. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of breaking.
“Sit.” Mercer points to a metal chair bolted to the floor in front of the desk.
I sit. My legs tremble. I plant my feet flat on the concrete, forcing the muscles to lock.
“Do you know who I am?” He sits back down, crossing one leg over the other.
“I know what you are.” My voice grinds raspy and dehydrated. “You clean up the senator’s messes.”
His smile tightens at the corners with annoyance.
“I prefer ‘Crisis Manager.’ It holds a better ring to it.” He opens a silver case on the desk. Extracting a bottle of water and a packet of antiseptic wipes, he slides them across the desk toward me.
“Clean your hands. You’re bleeding.”
I look at the cut on my palm from scrambling out of the truck. It oozes dark blood.
