HONEY AND KNIVES

Holding

The holding cell smelled like disinfectant and old sweat.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sick, white glare that made time feel like it had stopped. No windows. No clock. Just a steel bench, a steel toilet, and four concrete walls that had heard too many confessions.

Dante De Luca sat with his back against the wall.

His shoulder throbbed under the fresh bandage. The FBI medic had done it in 90 seconds and called it "good enough." It wasn’t. Blood had already started to seep through again.

He didn’t make a sound.

Across from him, two other men sat on the bench. Petty dealers. One of them kept looking at Dante’s face and then looking away fast, like he’d recognized something he shouldn’t have.

No one talked to Dante.

No one ever talked to Dante.

The door buzzed.

Two marshals came in. No words. They cuffed the dealer on the left and took him out. Then they came back for the other one.

Now it was just Dante.

Alone.

That was when the trouble started.

Footsteps. Multiple pairs. Not the heavy boots of marshals. Lighter. Faster.

The slot in the door opened. A voice, low.

“De Luca.”

Dante didn’t answer.

“You got 30 seconds before we come in.”

Still nothing.

The lock clicked.

Three men entered. Suits. No badges. Earpieces. One had a scar that cut through his eyebrow. The second had tattoo ink peeking out from his collar. The third just smiled.

“Internal Affairs,” Scar said. He held up a fake ID too fast to read. “We need to ask you some questions about Agent Cole.”

Dante leaned his head back against the wall. “My lawyer’s name is Moretti. Call him.”

“This isn’t that kind of questioning,” Tattoo said. He closed the door behind them. The lock engaged.

The room was suddenly very small.

“You leaked the video,” Dante said. It wasn’t a question.

Scar smiled. “Smart guy. The Bureau loves you. The press loves her. The case is dead. So we figured, why not help it along?”

“You’re not IA.”

“And you’re not going to see trial.” Tattoo pulled something from inside his jacket. Not a gun. A knife. Short. Serrated. “The boss says you talk too much. And she talks too much. So we’re here to clean up.”

The third man, the one who smiled, pulled out a phone. Started recording.

“Last words?” Scar asked.

Dante shifted. The movement pulled at his shoulder and pain shot down his arm. He ignored it.

“You forgot something,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m not alone in here.”

The lights went out.

Not all of them. Just the ones in the cell.

In the dark, there was sound. A chair scraping. A grunt. The wet sound of a fist hitting bone.

Then the lights came back on.

Scar was on the floor, unconscious. Tattoo was on his knees, holding his wrist at a wrong angle. The third man was against the wall, phone shattered at his feet, blood running from his nose.

And Dante was standing. Breathing hard. The bandage on his shoulder completely red now.

The door opened.

Marshals. Four of them. Guns drawn.

“What the hell happened in here?”

Dante sat back down on the bench like nothing had happened. Like his shoulder wasn’t screaming. Like he hadn’t just taken three men with one good arm.

“Self defense,” he said. “They attacked me.”

One of the marshals looked at the broken furniture, the blood, the three men groaning on the floor. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

They dragged the three out. One of the marshals stayed behind. Young. Nervous.

“You alright, Mr. De Luca?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You need a doctor?”

“I need a phone call.”

The marshal hesitated. Then he nodded and uncuffed one of Dante’s hands. Held out a burner phone.

“30 seconds. And I’m listening.”

Dante took it. Dialed from memory.

It rang once.

“Zara.”

Static. Then her voice. Low. Careful. “Dante?”

“They tried to kill me.”

A sharp inhale on the other end. “Where are you?”

“Holding. Cell 4. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Listen to me. The leak came from inside. IA. Or people pretending to be IA. They have the footage. They have the ledger copy.”

“I know.”

“They’re going to come for you next.”

“I know that too.”

A pause. In the background Dante could hear sirens. Or maybe that was in his head.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Another pause. “I’m outside.”

Dante closed his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late.”

The line went dead.

The marshal took the phone back. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Dante said. “But it will be.”

They moved him to a different cell. Higher security. Cameras in every corner this time. Real ones.

He sat on the new bench and pressed his good hand to his shoulder. When he pulled it away, it came back red.

Someone wanted him dead.

Someone wanted Zara ruined.

Someone inside.

That meant the Bureau wasn’t safe.

That meant the only person he could trust was the one person he wasn’t supposed to trust.

The door buzzed again an hour later.

Not marshals.

Reyes.

She looked like she hadn’t slept. She looked at his shoulder, at the blood, at the cameras.

“You’re moving to federal detention in the morning,” she said. “Unless you want to make a deal tonight.”

Dante said nothing.

“We know about the three men. We know they weren’t IA. We know someone paid them.” She leaned against the doorframe. “We also know Agent Cole is missing.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

“Don’t,” Reyes said. “Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That you’re going to break out. That you’re going to find her. That you’re going to burn the whole city down to keep her safe.”

Dante met her eyes. “And if I am?”

“Then you’ll die trying.” Reyes tossed a folder through the slot. It landed at his feet. “Or you’ll use this.”

Inside: photos. Bank transfers. Names.

The man who ordered the hit on Dante.

The man who leaked the video.

The man who was going to kill Zara next.

“Why are you giving me this?” Dante asked.

“Because I’d rather have you angry and alive than dead and right,” Reyes said. “And because if you hurt her, I’ll be the one who comes for you.”

She left.

Dante picked up the photos.

The name on top made his blood go cold.

Not a rival.

Not an enemy.

Someone he trusted.

Someone who was supposed to be on his side.

He crumpled the photo in his fist. The pain in his shoulder was nothing compared to this.

Outside the cell, the night shift changed.

Inside the cell, Dante started planning.

Escape.

Find her.

Kill the man who did this.

In that order.

The lights buzzed.

Somewhere in the city, sirens wailed.

And the most dangerous man in the room wasn’t behind bars anymore.

Not really.