Chapter-12
1206 Words
Chapter 12 – Crossroads of Blood
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Rain had turned to fog.
A thin mist clung to the backstreets of Valemont like a lingering whisper, swirling between the crumbling warehouses and shattered glass of a forgotten district. Dante stood at the edge of a cracked sidewalk, staring down at the blinking neon sign of a junk shop that hadn’t been open in over a decade.
But the back door?
The back door had recently been used.
Aria was behind him, silent but watchful. She’d insisted on coming, despite Dante’s warning. She knew he’d protest—he always did—but this time, she didn’t give him a choice. She needed answers just as badly. Maybe more.
Killian’s voice crackled softly in their earpieces.
“We got motion on the north side. One guy, big, armored coat. Probably armed. He’s pacing—nervous. Might be watching for someone.”
“Or waiting,” Dante muttered.
**“Still want to go in quiet?” Killian asked.
Dante’s fingers brushed over the gun under his coat.
“No. I want him to see me.”
---
The junk shop had once been a front for an arms dealer named Reyes, a paranoid ex-mercenary with a fondness for outdated military tech and explosive cigars. He was also a known associate of Nico Verratti back when Verratti still wore suits and masks.
Dante stepped into the back alley, followed closely by Aria. She moved lightly, her nerves hidden well, but not well enough for him to miss the way her hand trembled slightly near her side.
He tapped twice on the rusted back door. Silence.
Then three taps.
A moment later, the door cracked open. A gun barrel poked through the gap before the door swung wider.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Reyes said with a grin.
“So are you,” Dante replied.
---
Inside, the junk shop was even more decrepit than Dante remembered. Shelves of rotting books, dusty radios, old land mines, and boxes filled with spare ammunition. The entire place smelled of iron and oil.
Reyes was older, heavier, his left hand shaking slightly from a nerve injury he refused to get treated. He eyed Aria curiously.
“Bringing a civilian into my den? You getting soft, Moretti?”
“She’s not a civilian,” Dante said flatly. “She’s smarter than both of us put together.”
Reyes chuckled. “That’s not hard.”
Dante didn’t smile.
He tossed a photo onto the table—one of Verratti and Luca, timestamped just two months after the family m******e.
“Tell me where this was taken.”
Reyes looked at it, then froze. His jovial face hardened.
“You shouldn’t be chasing this ghost, Dante.”
“He’s not a ghost. He’s my brother.”
Reyes sighed, sat down slowly, and pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He didn’t light it. Just held it.
“That picture was taken at the Claybourne Transport Yard. One of Verratti’s old military routes for moving blacksite cargo. He used it to move people off-grid.”
**“Including Luca?” Aria asked.
Reyes nodded once.
“That yard was decommissioned. Then suddenly it reopened under a shell company six months ago. The same month you returned, Moretti.”
Dante’s expression didn’t change.
“Why reopen it now?”
Reyes finally lit the cigar. Smoke spiraled around his face.
“Because he knew you’d come. And he wants you to find what he left behind.”
---
Three hours later, they arrived at the Claybourne Yard.
Fog clung to the chain-link fences. Floodlights flickered. A single guard booth sat near the entrance, long abandoned—but not empty. Inside, Killian was already waiting, running surveillance on a portable rig.
“Two heat signatures in the northwest hangar,” Killian said. “One walking. One... not.”
Dante and Aria shared a glance.
They moved fast. Silent. No headlights. No comms. They circled the yard, avoiding cracked concrete and rusted train tracks until they reached the hangar.
Inside, it smelled of old fuel and forgotten trauma. Train cars lined the loading bay—some locked, some open. A figure paced near a cargo container, muttering.
Then Dante heard it.
A voice.
“He’s coming. He’s coming for me. They said he wouldn’t, but I know better.”
It was Luca’s voice.
But the man speaking wasn’t Luca. It was a mimic—a desperate soul, brain-scrambled, repeating fragments from someone else’s past.
Dante stepped into view.
“Where is he?”
The man froze. Thin, wild-eyed, he wore tattered fatigues and a tracking bracelet on his ankle. He blinked as if seeing Dante for the first time.
“They took him… back to the Hollow. Back to where it started.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to a wall. Carved into the metal panel were the words:
“Vanguard Hollow - 47°N / 113°W.”
Coordinates.
Before Dante could ask more, the man collapsed. A needle protruded from his neck.
Aria turned just in time to see a shadow retreat across the opposite side of the yard.
“Someone else is here!”
Gunfire erupted.
Dante shoved Aria behind a crate and returned fire. The shooter—hidden behind a railcar—was precise, methodical. Every shot aimed to disable, not kill.
A message.
They were being watched.
Dante charged forward, rounding the car—only to find the shooter gone. But left behind was a single item.
A calling card. Glossy. Black.
One word etched in silver:
“Sable.”
---
Back at the safehouse, Aria sat with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at the card. The name meant nothing to her.
But Dante?
He’d gone pale when he saw it.
**“Who is Sable?” she asked quietly.
Dante answered with a whisper.
“The one who trained Luca. The one Verratti sends… to finish things.”
Killian entered the room, holding a USB drive.
“The mimic’s bracelet had a data chip. Scrambled military logs. I cleaned one file enough to hear this.”
He hit play.
A voice—clearly Luca’s—filtered through static:
> “I know he’s coming. I hope he remembers me. I hope I still remember myself.”
Then silence.
---
That night, Aria and Dante stood on the rooftop.
Valemont glowed beneath them—ugly and alive.
**“You okay?” she asked softly.
He stared into the city, jaw tense.
“I don’t know what’s worse—finding out my brother’s alive… or finding out he’s been used like a weapon.”
Aria touched his hand.
“You’ll bring him back.”
He looked at her finally. His walls, his armor—cracking.
“And what if he doesn’t want to be brought back?”
She stepped closer.
“Then we’ll remind him who he was. Who he still is.”
The silence between them was full of fire. Of pain. Of everyth
ing they hadn’t said yet.
And behind them, in the shadows of a nearby rooftop, someone watched.
A woman in black.
Eyes like ice.
Lips curved into a smile.
Sable had arrived in Valemont.
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- Writer
