Chapter 120
[Marcus's POV]
I pushed my shoulder against the heavy wooden door. The planks groaned, resisting, then gave way with a dull scrape of metal against stone. My flashlight beam swept across the interior as Derek moved up behind me, weapon raised.
The room was circular—maybe twenty feet across. Bare stone walls, slick with moisture and patches of green moss. Nothing else. Just emptiness and that damn chair in the center.
A metal folding chair. And tied to it, a young man.
My breath caught for half a second. He wore a filthy gray hoodie and jeans, hands bound behind the chair back with thick rope, ankles fixed to the chair legs. Silver duct tape sealed his mouth. His eyes—wide, terrified—locked onto my flashlight beam.
He started thrashing immediately. Muffled sounds—"Mmph! Mmph!"—escaped around the tape. Desperate. Frantic.
"Gabriel Anderson?" I called out, moving forward. My voice echoed off the stone. "We're police. We're here to get you out."
The kid's eyes went wider. He shook his head violently, body straining against the ropes. The chair legs scraped against the floor. More muffled sounds, louder now, more urgent.
"Marcus." Derek's voice was low behind me. "Something's off. His reaction doesn't make sense."
I waved Derek off and kept moving toward the chair. The kid was probably traumatized—hell, I'd be losing my mind too if I'd been tied up down here for twenty hours. He just needed to see we were real, that we were here to help.
Derek stayed near the doorway, flashlight beam sweeping the walls and ceiling. His weapon stayed up, his posture alert.
I reached the chair and dropped to one knee beside the young man. Up close, I could see the raw skin around his wrists where the ropes had chafed, the tear tracks on his dirty face. My hand reached out, fingers finding the edge of the duct tape.
"It's okay," I said quietly. "You're safe now."
I ripped the tape off in one quick motion. The sound was sharp, violent in the confined space.
The kid gasped, sucking in air. I opened my mouth to ask—Are you Gabriel Anderson?—but he cut me off before I could form the words.
"You shouldn't have come here!" His voice was hoarse, cracking with fear. "Get out! Get out now! Run!"
The words hit me like cold water. My hand froze, the pocket knife I'd pulled halfway out of my belt hanging in midair.
"What?" I stared at him. "What are you—"
"It's a trap!" He was crying now, tears streaming down his face. "You have to leave! Please, God, just go!"
Derek's voice sharpened behind me. "What situation?"
My pulse kicked up. Every instinct screamed at me to look around, to check the shadows, but I forced myself to focus on the kid. "Talk to me. What's happening?"
But I was already moving, knife out, sawing through the ropes at his wrists. They were thick nylon, industrial strength. Whoever had tied him up hadn't wanted him getting free.
The first rope snapped. Then the second. I moved to his ankles, cutting quickly.
"Listen to me." My voice came out harder than I intended. "You're coming with us right now. We'll get you out, we'll get you safe, and then you can tell us everything. Understood?"
The last rope parted. His legs were free.
I expected him to stand, to run. Instead, he slid off the chair and collapsed onto the floor, body shaking. He curled into himself, hands clutching his head.
"Too late," he whispered. "It's too late. We're all dead. We're all fucking dead."
Derek was beside me now, weapon still up but eyes on the kid. "What the hell is he talking about?"
I grabbed the young man's shoulder, trying to make him look at me. "What do you mean, too late? What's—"
"Bombs!" He screamed it, the word echoing off the stone walls. "They're everywhere! In the walls, under the floor, everywhere! He said—he said if anyone came for me, we'd all die down here! All of us!"
My blood turned to ice.
I straightened slowly, flashlight beam sweeping the room with new eyes. The walls—those bare, empty walls. My light caught on something I'd missed before. A slight bulge in the stone, maybe three feet up. And there—near the ceiling—a thin wire running along the edge where wall met rock.
"Derek." My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "Tell me you see that."
His flashlight joined mine. The wire was copper, thin as thread. It disappeared into a crack in the stone. And there—another one. And another.
The kid on the floor let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I tried to warn you. I tried. But you came anyway. You fucking came anyway."
My hand moved to my radio automatically. "Base, this is Reid. We have a—"
Static. Dead air.
"Derek." I kept my voice level. "Radio check."
He pulled his radio, tried to transmit. Nothing. He met my eyes, and I saw my own fear reflected there.
The kid pulled himself into a sitting position, back against the chair. His eyes were hollow. "He knew you'd come. He knew. Said cops always come for the hostages." A bitter laugh. "Guess he was right."