KOLE
The air in the subterranean bunker smelled of damp limestone, rust, and the metallic tang of old blood.
A single halogen bulb hung from a frayed black cord over the iron interrogation grates, buzzing in a steady, maddening hum that vibrated through the concrete walls. It was one in the morning, but the late hour did not exist inside the deep cells. Time was irrelevant down here.
The five captured mercenaries hung in a neat, miserable row, their wrists chained securely to the heavy overhead water pipes. Stripped completely bare, their skin glistened with a mixture of cold sweat and filth from the courtyard mud.
I stood three feet away from the lead hunter, my hands casually tucked into the pockets of my charcoal trousers. My suit jacket was unbuttoned, my posture relaxed. Near the
