Orwen sat at his desk, a dim lamp casting long shadows across the cramped room as he methodically jotted down notes. His pen scratched across the page with a steady rhythm, each word calculated and precise. Across from him, Alzees sat slumped in the chair, his eyes darting around the room nervously. The cold bite of the wooden chair pressed into his back, and though his hands were free, he felt more trapped than ever.
Alzees had spilled everything, laid out the details like a confession. The people he had met at the market, their connections to deeper criminal organizations, and the murky underworld that seemed to stretch far beyond the flea market. It had all come tumbling out of him, the fear of Orwen breaking his resolve. Now, he sat in the silence of the aftermath, his heart pounding, wondering what his fate would be.
"So," Alzees stammered, licking his dry lips nervously. "I've told you everything, right? I can leave now, yeah? You said you'd let me go."
Orwen didn't bother looking up from his notes, his expression unreadable as he continued writing. The silence stretched on, suffocating, as Alzees fidgeted in his chair. Finally, Orwen set down his pen with deliberate slowness, and for a fleeting moment, hope flickered in Alzees' chest. Maybe he would walk out of here alive after all.
Orwen stood, straightening his jacket as he turned to face Alzees. His smile, small and cold, crept across his face. "You've been... helpful, Alzees. Very helpful. But letting you go?" He shook his head slowly. "I never said that."
Before Alzees could react, Orwen pulled a taser from his pocket and fired it at him. The prongs hit Alzees square in the chest, and his body convulsed violently as electricity surged through him. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.
Orwen pocketed the taser with a sigh, shaking his head as if Alzees had disappointed him. He pulled out his PDA and quickly typed a memo to Zughaib, sending the details of the next step in their operation. Alzees had given up all he could, and now it was time to move forward.
---
Meanwhile, Zughaib walked briskly down the crowded street, still in his funky Englishman disguise. The ridiculous look, complete with loud patterned clothes and sunglasses, had served its purpose so far, keeping him relatively anonymous in a city. But now, every step he took felt more dangerous, more exposed.
His PDA buzzed in his pocket, the quiet hum alerting him to a new message. Without breaking stride, he slipped the device out and read the message from Orwen.
"It's done."
Zughaib's jaw tightened as he slipped the PDA back into his pocket. There was no time to waste. He continued down the street, his eyes scanning the area, until he spotted what he was looking for—an old diesel pickup truck parked on the curb, the engine idling.
A Patriot southerner, clearly drunk, sat on the tailgate, a beer bottle in hand. His broad shoulders and thick arms suggested a man who had seen plenty of bar fights, but the glazed look in his eyes told Zughaib the alcohol had dulled whatever senses he had left. As Zughaib approached, the man glanced up, his bleary eyes focusing on the odd-looking figure approaching him.
"Well, lookee here," the patriot drawled, his Southern accent thick as syrup. He squinted at Zughaib, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Ain't you just the finest Brit I ever done seen. Wotcha doin' here, Mr. Queen's Guard? You lost or somethin'?"
Zughaib, unphased by the mockery, stopped in front of the man and shrugged casually.
The man raised an eyebrow as he noticed Zughaib staring at his truck, still grinning. "Thinking of Borrowin' my truck, huh? Ain't nobody borrowin' my truck."
Before he could finish his sentence, Zughaib moved with blinding speed. He grabbed the man by his collar, flipping him over the side of the truck with a swift, practiced motion. The man hit the pavement hard, his beer bottle shattering on impact. Before he could even register what had happened, Zughaib delivered a brutal kick to his chest, the sound of cracking bones filling the air.
The man gasped for air, his eyes wide with shock and pain as he writhed on the ground. Zughaib didn't give him a second glance. He hopped into the pickup, gunning the engine as the truck roared to life. The sound of tires screeching drowned out the man's moans as Zughaib sped off, leaving the broken patriot behind.
---
At the same time, back near the highway, the two suitmen stood over the lifeless body of the rabid man they had shot earlier. His twisted, contorted form lay still on the ground, but the suitmen were cautious, their weapons still drawn as they approached.
One of the suitmen crouched down, checking the man's pulse, though they both knew it was unnecessary. The rabid man was dead. With a grunt, the suitman reached into his pocket, pulling out a bodybag. As the suitmen worked together to bag the body, the driver of the coupe kept an eye on the fog-covered road, his senses alert.
Something flickered in the mist—a shadow, moving in the distance.
The driver narrowed his eyes, stepping forward as he tried to make out the figure moving through the fog. His heart skipped a beat when he realized what it was—the driver of the black van, limping toward them. The man's clothes were soaked in blood, his face pale, but his eyes burned with an unsettling intensity.
Before the suitman could raise his gun, the van driver pulled a pistol from his waistband and fired. The shot hit the suitman square in the chest, sending him stumbling back. But the second suitman was faster. He dropped to one knee and fired a clean shot at the van driver's legs, sending the man crumpling to the ground.
Blood pooled around the van driver's knees as he gasped in pain, but his eyes remained defiant. He muttered something under his breath, his voice barely a whisper.
"Donec tenebrae..."
The suitman frowned, stepping closer to the fallen driver. "What did you say?"
The van driver's lips twitched in a strange smile, but before he could speak again, the suitman raised his gun and fired a final shot, killing him instantly.
The fog thickened around the scene, the silence settling over the road like a shroud. The suitman holstered his weapon and walked back toward the coupe. They had what they needed. The mission wasn't over, but this part was.
---
Alzees awoke to the sensation of cold air against his bare skin. He groaned, blinking as the foggy streets of Wither St. came into focus. His head throbbed, and as he sat up, he realized with growing horror that he was shirtless, his wallet and phone gone. His body ached, bruises covering his torso, but there was no time to dwell on his pain. He was alone, abandoned, with no idea where he was or how he had gotten there.
Panic set in as Alzees stumbled to his feet, clutching his arms for warmth. He had no idea what Orwen had done to him, but he knew he had to get out of there fast. Desperation clawed at his mind as he began walking, his steps unsteady, his eyes scanning the empty streets for any sign of help.
After what felt like hours of wandering, the faint sound of an engine caught his attention. Alzees turned, his heart skipping a beat as he saw a diesel truck rolling slowly toward him. Relief washed over him, and he raised his hand, trying to flag the driver down.
The truck pulled up beside him, and Alzees squinted at the driver. Something about the man seemed familiar, but in his delirium, Alzees couldn't quite place him.
The driver—Zughaib in his funky Englishman disguise—looked down at Alzees with a bemused expression.
Alzees hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. He knew that voice, but the disguise threw him off. Still, he had no other options. "Aye man... thanks for stopping by me mate...," Alzees said, his voice shaky as he climbed into the passenger seat.
As the truck pulled away from the curb, Alzees leaned back, exhaustion overtaking him. Something nagged at the back of his mind, something about the driver that he couldn't shake. But in his state, he shrugged it off. For now, he was just glad to be out of Wither St.
Little did he know, he had just climbed into the lion's den.