Consciousness returned in fragments—pain first, sharp and encompassing, then sound of Maya crying somewhere distant, then the sensation of cold concrete against his cheek. Ral forced his eyes open despite the agony that accompanied even that small movement.
He was in a basement. Not his basement. Somewhere industrial, unfinished, the kind of space that existed beneath aging warehouses in Brooklyn's forgotten districts. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his ribs protesting with every breath that at least three were fractured.
"He's awake," a voice said in Russian-accented English.
A figure emerged from shadow—not one of the tactical operators but someone older, carrying himself with authority that suggested command rather than execution. His suit was expensive, his watch probably
