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Craige nodded while trying to pick pieces of disintegrating toilet paper from his beard.
“Loomis will be my second on this one.” Johnathan looked at Craige when he said it.
He clenched his jaw and continued to wipe the blue sludge off his face.
“If Loomis informs me any of you so much as stutter when he gives you an order, I will skin you alive after I break every bone in your body twice over. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” All four men spoke in unison, although Craige made a face that suggested he’d rather have chewed glass.
“Craige.”
He lifted his gaze.
“You fuck this up, you’re out. And I don’t mean out of my meta-pack. I mean out of the Clan. You lose everything.”
The argument burned in Craige’s eyes, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“And I won’t transfer you to another location. Instead, you will spend the rest of your life out on the tundra, in a concrete reinforced cell, with a monthly delivery of food and water, a couple of blankets to keep warm, and a bucket to piss and shit in. You will never see another person or the light of day again.”
And he would die. It might take three months or three years, but eventually, the Sarvari would shred him from the inside out when he couldn’t give the creature what it wanted.
It would be an ugly and inhumane death where he’d suffer the Sarvari tearing his body apart over and over until it couldn’t heal anymore, and he purged the ichor.
At least Johnathan could count on one hand the number of men who’d died in that cell out of the thousands of Mah who currently occupied Northern Canada.
Grey made sure every recruit watched the slow and brutal death of the three fools who’d challenged the hierarchy.
Even the most hardened man walked out of that room white as a sheet from the horror of what he’d witnessed. And at least half would puke their guts up.
When Johnathan and his team got back to Manitoba, Craige would spend time in the orientation room, watching that video on replay until the images burned into his retinas.
Maybe then he’d finally understand how seriously Johnathan took Dr. Dante’s wellbeing.
To the rest of his men, Johnathan said, “Any questions?”
They answered as one, “No, sir.”
* * *
Laura’s jet landed at Memphis International at exactly five p.m., and she stepped onto the tarmac fifteen minutes later.
A gold SUV sat near the gates. The passenger door opened, and Max got out.
“Warden Phillips.” He walked over and offered his hand. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show.”
She switched her suitcase to her other hand and took the offer. “There was a delay in Atlanta. The plane didn’t get off the ground until an hour ago.” She nodded at the SUV. “Who are you picking up?”
“You, of course.”
“I have a rental waiting for me.”
“And I canceled it.”
“Why?”
“It’s almost two hours to the Chalet. I figured we could pass the time with conversation. I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather spend my time enjoying the luxuries the Mountain Laurel Chalet has to offer rather than mulling over boring details and ruining a fine dinner.” Max swept a hand in the direction of the SUV. “Your chariot awaits.”
He walked.
