Beyond The Shadow

Chapter 12

Alister’s head snapped back when he came to. His neck ached like someone had dragged him by it. The rope around his wrists dug so deep he could feel his pulse in his fingertips. His ankles were tied too, feet scraped raw from kicking at the floor when they dumped him here.

The light above buzzed like an angry fly. The concrete walls held the cold in like a freezer. He smelled oil, sweat, something sharp like bleach. He licked his lips. Dry. The taste of blood still there from when they’d thrown him down.

A soft shuffle of footsteps made him look up. Four shapes. All black clothes, heavy boots, gloves. All wore the same black mask, a rough white question mark painted over the eyes. But the one who stepped forward made him pause a crisp white tuxedo, like he’d stepped out of a wedding and into a nightmare. The same mask. Black on white. That question mark stared back at him.

Alister spat a clot of blood on the floor between them. “If this is a joke, you overdid the costumes.”

The man in the tuxedo didn’t laugh. He held a slim black folder in one hand. The other hand rested in his pocket. His shoes looked expensive, spotless against the dusty floor.

“You’ve seen our mark before, Hale,” the man said, voice muffled behind the mask but clear enough. “You know who we are.”

Alister forced a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Anonymous. Big scary ghosts in masks. So what’s this? You want me to clap for you?”

He tugged at his ropes. The fibers burned into his wrist bones but he didn’t stop. He wanted to feel something that made sense.

The man stepped closer. Close enough for Alister to smell clean cologne under the sharp stink of the room. “No applause needed. We didn’t come for your praise. We came for your choice.”

Alister barked a laugh that came out more like a cough. “Choice? You hogtie me in some basement, beat my head in, and talk about choice?”

Behind the tuxedo man, the other three stayed still. Like shadows stuck to the concrete. One of them shifted his feet and Alister saw a pistol handle flash under the black coat. He didn’t look away. He wanted them to know he saw it.

The man in the tuxedo opened the black folder. Inside was a simple envelope, plain white. He flicked it open, pulled out a passport and a slim slip of printed paper. He held it out between two gloved fingers but stayed just out of reach.

Alister stared at it. “What is that?”

“A door,” the man said calmly. “A chance. You will wake up in a few hours. This will be in your pocket. Inside is a plane ticket. One seat, first class. Washington Dulles to Zurich. A clean name, clean number. Instructions. You board the flight. You stay quiet. Or you die before you reach the gate.”

Alister’s mouth twitched. “And if I just walk into the nearest police station instead? You know, the old-fashioned way? Tell them everything about you, Edmund, this warehouse?”

The man chuckled once, cold and dry. “Who do you think signed your death note, Hale? Who sent those police to move you? Who swapped the route plan? The Secretary of Defense works for Edmund Sombra. Those guards weren’t your protection. They were your coffin. If we hadn’t taken you, you’d be a bloated corpse by dawn.”

Alister looked at the man’s shoes again. He let that sink in. He knew it made sense. It made him sick, but it made sense. “So what’s your angle then? Why me?”

The man didn’t answer right away. He set the passport and ticket on the metal table next to Alister’s chair. He kept his gloved fingers on it for a moment, pressing it down like a promise or a threat.

“You don’t need all the answers tonight,” he said softly. “You just need to wake up with enough sense to get on that plane. We are not your family. We are not your saviors. We are a door. Step through or stay and rot in Edmund’s mouth. Those are the only truths that matter now.”

Alister felt his breathing speed up. He tugged at the rope again. “I don’t owe you. You think you’re different from him? You think I’ll run when you say run?”

The man’s mask tilted as if he were smiling. He pulled a small case from his pocket. Inside, a glass syringe gleamed under the buzzing light. The liquid inside caught the harsh bulb and turned it silver.

“Etorphine,” the man said, his voice almost pleasant. “You know it? Used for rhinos, elephants. One drop and your lights go out like a switch. You wake up with a clean clock ticking. Nothing more.”

Alister’s shoulders stiffened against the rope. “Or maybe I don’t wake up at all.”

“That depends on you,” the man said. He handed the syringe to the shadow on his left. The man stepped forward, took Alister’s arm roughly. The needle pressed cold and sharp against the skin under the elbow.

Alister jerked but the rope held him. The needle slid in. He hissed through his teeth. The burn was instant. His eyes flicked back to the tuxedo mask. “Tell me why. Say something real for once.”

The man leaned in, voice low enough to feel like a whisper pressed to bone. “Because you are useful alive. For now. Because Edmund wants you dead more than he wants you forgotten. Because you don’t trust the right people and trust the wrong ones too much. Because you still think you’re alone.”

The room began to tilt sideways. The bulb above him stretched into a smear of light. His lips moved but nothing came out. The masked man’s words blurred like water slipping through his ears.

“Gate thirty-two. Dulles. One chance. After that, you’re food for the dogs.”

Alister’s last thought before the black took him was simple. He pictured Hannah’s face, pale in the back of that courtroom, eyes wide. He wanted to tell her he hadn’t run. That they dragged him out the back door and shoved him through hell with his hands tied.

But she wasn’t here. Only the masks. The cold floor. And the sound of his heartbeat slowing under the white hum of the light.

Everything went quiet. Then the dark swallowed him whole.