Somewhere underground.
The room was cold. Stone walls. A single bulb hanging from rusted wire.
Beckett was strapped to a steel chair, his wrists bound tight with barbed cable. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and a split above his brow. One eye was swollen shut. His shirt, once white, was soaked—sweat, blood, and whatever Ashcroft’s men had done to him.
Across from him stood a man in black. Silent. Patient. Watching.
A scalpel in one hand. A cigarette in the other.
“You scream a lot,” the man finally said, tone almost bored. “But you’re not good at it. Sounds like a dying coyote.”
Beckett tried to spit. His head barely lifted. His throat was shredded from hours of screaming and begging.
Now, he was just trying to breathe.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
Damie
