Page 25 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter sixteen

Dorian

T he first thing that reached me was the sound of water finding its way through corrugated metal somewhere above, each drop landing with a hollow ping against what might have been an oil drum.

Next, I heard an electrical hum, that particular frequency of cheap fluorescent ballasts that made your teeth ache if you listened too long.

My head throbbed like someone had used it for batting practice. Copper flooded my mouth—blood, but not fresh. One eye was swelling shut, the orbital bone tender when I tried to blink. I held perfectly still.

First rule: take inventory before you act.

The taste of motor oil hung thick in the air, mixed with something sharper—acetone, maybe, or industrial solvent. My nose burned with each shallow breath. The floor was concrete beneath me, cold seeping through the steel chair legs.

Gradually, details assembled themselves into something coherent. High rafters stretched overhead, disappearing into shadows that the weak overhead bulbs couldn't penetrate. Industrial space. Big enough to swallow sound. Not some basement or residential garage—professional warehouse space.

Plastic bit deep into my wrists where they'd been yanked behind the chair back. My ankles, too, were secured tight enough that circulation was starting to fade. Zip ties, not rope. Not handcuffs.

No gag. No hood. No attempt to muffle or blind me.

It was a presentation, meant to display the damage and show what happened to people who crossed certain lines. The chair faced a large overhead door—loading dock, probably. Easy access for vehicles. Easy cleanup if things went wrong.

This isn't a killing scene. It's theater.

Each shallow breath gave me more information.

Sharp stabbing along my left side meant cracked ribs, at least two, maybe three.

The old injuries from the highway accident had never fully healed before this new trauma was layered on top.

My body was keeping score of every insult, every forced march, and every night of broken sleep.

The deep ache in my lower back suggested kidney bruising, but no blood in my mouth meant no internal bleeding I couldn't handle. My lungs pulled in clean air, and no fluid rattled around inside.

I could work with it. I'd worked with worse.

I ran through the damage like a field medic doing triage—categorizing injuries by severity and operational impact. The facial swelling would limit my peripheral vision. The ribs would restrict sudden movements, but my legs felt solid, joints responsive when I tested them with micro-movements.

This wasn't amateur hour. Someone had calibrated the beating with precision—enough trauma to look convincing, but not enough to incapacitate—pain as drama, not as punishment.

The chair sat dead center under a single fluorescent bulb, creating a perfect pool of harsh white illumination. It was classic cinematic interrogation staging—the subject spotlit, questioners invisible.

The chair faced the entry straight on, positioned for an audience. For viewers who needed to examine the merchandise before making a purchase. Or, before deciding what to do with me next.

The thought crystallized as I absorbed more details. If they'd wanted me dead, I'd be dead. If they'd wanted information, I'd be hanging from chains with electrical cables nearby. Instead, they left me battered enough to look broken, conscious enough to react, and placed for maximum visual impact.

Whoever had orchestrated this wasn't interested in what I knew.

They were interested in what I meant to someone else.

Matthew.

The realization was like cold water splashing my face. It wasn't about me at all. I was a lure.

A memory swept into my mind without permission, triggered by the bite of plastic against my wrists. I'd crumpled to the sidewalk after the knife attack left me to bleed out only a block from the hospital.

I heard feet running toward me. When I opened my eyes, I thought I was hallucinating or possibly even dead. It was Farid.

"Control the story," he'd said as he half-carried me to his waiting car. "You're dead to them now."

I faded in and out of consciousness as he drove.

"You'll need stitches," he'd said. "I'll take you to someone who knows field medicine. He won't ask the wrong questions."

Farid practically dragged me up three flights of stairs to a door. Before he left, he kissed my cheek. "You're my brother—always."

Emotion chased the memory from my mind, threatening to crack the professional distance I'd built around everything that mattered. I forced it down, back into the locked compartment where feelings went to die.

Longing never helped.

Sentiment got people killed.

A heavy door clanged somewhere in the warehouse's depths, the sound echoing off high walls. Footsteps followed—measured, confident, unhurried. The person approaching had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would end.

Time to focus.

The zip ties and fluorescent hum brought me back to the present, but something lingered—the knowledge that Farid saved my life, and it might have cost him his.

He saved me to give Matthew something back, not to tear him open again.

The footsteps grew closer, echoing off the bare floors and walls.

There was a faint metallic jingle layered into the rhythm.

Not keys. Not gear. A tag on a lanyard, maybe.

Something bureaucratic pretending to be benign.

My stomach turned. I'd heard that sound before—at a briefing I wasn't supposed to attend.

My head dropped forward, chin meeting chest as if consciousness itself had become an unbearable weight. My shoulders collapsed inward. Erratic breathing wracked my body.

Perform helplessness. Breed their arrogance.

Testing the restraints required only tiny movements. The chair legs had been anchored deep into the concrete, probably with hardware meant for industrial equipment. The ankle restraints threaded through the metal framework left zero latitude for movement.

My right heel pressed against a chair leg, confirming what mattered most. A microblade waited in its boot compartment, polymer-thin and razor-sharp.

Searchers expected obvious weapons and typical hiding places.

Paranoia had taught me that survival gear belonged in spaces so mundane they became invisible.

My approach crystallized with mechanical clarity. Proximity first—draw them within reach. Absorb whatever they delivered without revealing my capacity for resistance.

Extract intelligence through conversation. Humans revealed key information when they thought they were secure.

Strike from apparent defeat.

The boots were near now. My internal mantra surfaced, words that had sustained me through impossible situations: Survival demands only one quality—the refusal to surrender when surrender seems rational.

Externally, I maintained the illusion of collapse while my internal systems hummed with readiness.

Showtime.

The warehouse door groaned open, scraping against runners. Bright light from outside cut through the gloom, making me squint through my swollen eye. The doorway blazed white for a moment before my vision adjusted.

The footsteps stopped outside the circle of harsh light from the overhead bulb. Clever positioning. They could see me clearly while staying hidden in the shadows. It was a textbook intimidation setup, probably learned from some corporate security manual.

Let them think they're in control.

They wanted me to crack first, begging for answers and showing the kind of psychological breakdown that should follow a beating. It was standard prisoner psychology.

I lifted my head slowly, letting dried blood crack at the corner of my mouth. I made sure they could see the damage done to my face. Give them a moment to appreciate their handiwork.

Then I spoke, my voice rough but steady: "You're late."

Two words that flipped their script. Not pleading or desperate—only mild professional irritation. Like they'd missed a scheduled appointment.

React to that, asshole.

The figure stepped into partial light, and my blood turned to ice. I knew that scar along the jawline, the way the left shoulder sat slightly higher than the right. Someone I'd trusted. Someone who'd eaten at the same table and shared the same safehouses.

He moved like someone trained by the same men who taught me. He'd watched me vanish, and he came back wearing their leash.

My stomach curdled—not from fear, but the kind of disappointment that rewrites everything you thought was true.

Ercan. Alive. The nineteen-year-old I delivered to Hoyle.