Move

Move
Hours Later...

The chopper blades thundered over the desolate desert, tearing through the thick veil of night. A pale sliver of moonlight glinted off the aircraft’s frame as it descended, stirring the sand into ghostly clouds that shrouded the mouth of the underground tunnel. Shadows danced in the beam of the helicopter’s landing lights, the darkness swallowing everything beyond their reach.

Carlos didn’t wait.

The moment the skids touched the dirt, he jumped out, the wind from the blades ripping at his white shirt, sand lashing his face. He raised his arm to shield his eyes, jaw locked, steps fast and direct. Two SS agents in black tuxedos followed closely behind, their eyes scanning everything.

His boots hit the edge of the tunnel. The wind calmed behind him as the blades slowed, but Carlos was already brushing the sand off his chest, muttering under his breath.

“Where is the prison?” he snapped, glaring at the nearest agent.

“Just five minutes down this tunnel, sir.” The agent bowed deeply, nervous. “SUVs are already coming up from the lower platform to pick you up—”

“I don’t have time for that,” Carlos barked, already marching forward.

They followed.

The tunnel swallowed them in dim orange light, echoing with the sharp taps of leather soles on concrete. Within minutes, the first checkpoint appeared— steel doors, reinforced walls, and a handful of stunned guards.

No one said a word.

Every officer stationed along the path straightened instantly at the sight of him, offering deep bows. Not a single one dared make eye contact.

Carlos passed through all three checkpoints like a storm parting the sea.

Inside, he halted. His breathing calm, but his eyes dark.

“Where the fuck is the warden?” he asked, cold and razor-sharp.

Before the agents could respond, heavy boots clanged down the nearby staircase. The warden— short, thick mustache, shaking fingers— appeared in a rush, his uniform slightly undone.

“Welcome, sir,” the warden said, rushing into a bow so deep his head nearly hit the floor. “We… we weren’t expecting you this evening.”

Carlos stepped forward, nose to nose.

“Where the fuck is my wife?” Carlos asked, each word punched out like a bullet. “Where the fuck is Cynthia?”

The warden's lips trembled. “There’s been an incident, sir—”

Carlos’s fist flew without warning.

CRACK!

An uppercut landed directly under the warden’s jaw, lifting him off the ground slightly before he crumpled to his knees, blood already pouring from his nose.

Gasps echoed. The agents remained still. The guards frozen.

Carlos stood over the kneeling man, both fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Where. The fuck. Is my wife?”

The warden didn’t answer immediately.

Carlos’s eyes narrowed to slits. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Answer me.”

The warden shivered, dropped his eyes to the blood now dripping between his fingers onto the cold floor.

“She escaped, sir,” he said, voice shaking. “With a Lieutenant. It was a high-level, well-organized plan, we believe there was—”

THUD!

Another punch. This one to the top of the skull. The warden hit the floor face-first, arms sprawled, groaning.

Carlos’s breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling with slow fury. “You’re going to die for this.”

The warden whimpered. “Please…”

Carlos crouched, staring at him like a predator watching a wounded prey.

“Is it true she’s pregnant with my child?” he asked, his voice low but deadly.

The warden coughed, turned his face to the side, red seeping out of his mouth. “Sh-she was pregnant… but we’re not sure it’s yours. The bitch might be lyin—”

CRACK!

Carlos’s boot landed squarely in his ribs.

“AGHHH!” the warden screamed, curling up in pain.

“Shhh…” Carlos whispered, crouching down again, calm now— dangerously calm. “What gave you the effrontery to call my wife a bitch? In my fucking presence?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the warden cried out, voice warped by blood, his face barely recognizable. “I’m sorry please.”

Carlos looked at him with contempt, then grabbed him by the collar, yanking him halfway up, blood dripping down the man’s chin onto Carlos’s shoes.

“I should kill you right now. But I won’t.”

Carlos threw him back to the floor like garbage.

“Because today is Sunday,” he continued, wiping his hand on the man’s uniform. “And I keep my holy day holy.”

He stood tall.

“But I give you seventy-two hours. Three fucking days. If she isn’t found by then—”

He turned slightly, looking around at the guards and agents watching in silence.

“—a whole lot of heads are going to roll.”

He stepped over the warden’s body, the leather of his shoes slick from the blood on the floor.

Then he paused. Looked back.

The warden coughed again, groaning, still twitching.

Carlos stepped closer, lowered his head.

“And if you ever open your mouth about my wife like that again…”

He didn’t finish.

Instead, he leaned in, spat in the man’s face, and turned.

“Move,” he ordered his agents.

The guards parted without a sound.

Carlos walked out— his fury echoing long after he disappeared down the hallway.