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The pick-up truck lurches, and Henry slams into the cold metal of the truck bed yet again with a muffled groan. Pain sears through his ribs like an electric shock. The rough fabric bag cinched around his neck scrapes raw against his skin, every breath a strangled fight as he is thrown from side to side. His bound wrists slip uselessly against the ridges, the plastic zip ties biting into his skin as he tries to brace himself.
He counted the jolts at first, but the turns were too sudden, too often, and finally he gave up.
Maybe it is the lack of oxygen, maybe the adrenaline crash, but Henry is feeling strangely detached as the truck continues to recklessly speed along the dirt track, presumably to a more remote destination where he will either be kept or dealt with.
He has tried to wriggle free, angling for the tiny toolkit hidden in the bottom of his shoe, but the position of his body and the motion of the truck have made it impossible. For now, escape is not on the table.
With nothing else to occupy him, his mind has turned traitor, replaying every mistake of the last twelve hours in painful detail.
The thing is—Henry rarely makes mistakes. Not because he is perfect, but because he simply can’t afford mistakes in his line of work. Not when the consequences are as disastrous as today.
When the orders had come through to pressure one of their assets into giving him intel that he already knew was likely to put him into a predicament, he hadn’t said no. He had still gone ahead and flown to the middle of nowhere, without backup. Because he knew he had no choice but to do it alone in case anything was to go wrong. And how right he had been about that in the end.
His asset had seemed skittish from the start, constantly checking his phone and not meeting his eyes. It was easy to rationalise it away—after all, what Henry was demanding was potentially high-risk, and Henry had to make subtle threats against his family to finally get him to agree. He should have listened to his instincts, but he also knew that he couldn’t well come home empty-handed with nothing but an excuse about a feeling. Feelings don’t matter in this job.
So like the fool he is, he went to the basement club on the outskirts of town with nothing but his gun, his phone, and a location pin for Bea with the short message “Check-in at 0800”. His asset had given him the nod to join him in the backroom where he claimed a contact of his would talk to him.
Henry’s face had already been on the floor, a knee in his back, zip ties around his wrists before the door to the room had even clicked shut.
What had come next was nothing that he hadn’t already lived through more times than he could count with his fingers. The backdrop and props change every time, but the choreography stays the same: Questions. No answers. Threats. Silence. Then the cavalry—their fists, their boots, their toys.
The cavalry this time had been a gorgeous man with dark curls who had leant in to softly whisper “Tranquilo, cariño… ya lo he hecho” in a way that was more devastating than the punch that followed.
He must have been a new recruit, eager to prove himself, but Henry had almost smiled at how clumsy the hits had been, never hitting his critical organs and less forceful than he had expected. Henry has endured far worse at the hands of his own brother. He still thrashed and cried out anyways, feeling bones snap under the repeated blows and blood choking his throat. Being too stoic is a tell that he tries to avoid in interrogations.
Once they had finally given up—clearly, they were suspicious, but not too clever—and dragged him to the car, he was bleeding and bruised, but probably only had a few broken ribs.
The truck jolts again, then abruptly screeches to a halt. Henry is hurled against the cab head-first, stars bursting in his vision.
The engine idles, diesel fumes filling the air, and the passenger door slams open. Before he can brace himself for it, Henry is roughly dragged off the truck by his legs and dumped on the gravel. All the air leaves his lungs as his bruised hands dig into his ribcage on impact, and he bites down hard on the rag that had been stuffed into his mouth to stifle the scream that is bubbling up. He tastes blood and dust.
A small part of his brain is still trying to rationalise that this isn’t as bad as Istanbul, or even his initial training in the company’s basement.
Then there is the unmistakable clatter of a shovel landing next to his head. His mind goes blank.
Footsteps are drowned out by the engine’s roar. Then the sharp command, “Encárgate de él.”
He hears the shot ring out in the darkness just a fraction of a second before the bullet strikes him with a dull thud. For a moment, there is just the pulse in his ears and one ragged breath, suspended in time. But then the burning pain lashes through him like a wildfire. He has been stabbed, punched, shot, electrocuted to unconsciousness, and yet nothing can ever prepare anyone properly for the shock of the impact, the world narrowing to just one point of awareness.
He can’t breathe, the cloth around his nose too tight, the gag suffocating him. Warmth is soaking his shirt, the ground uneven beneath him.
At the very edges of his consciousness, a car door bangs shut, and the truck speeds off, leaving him choking in silence.
He knows it’s now down to maybe minutes. If he can find a way to free his hands and stop the bleeding, he might still have a chance of getting out of this.
But the pain comes in unrelenting waves, dragging him under further and further. Sounds dimming quickly, the world tilting.
And then—hands. Strong, steady, urgent. He screams into the gag as they roll him, ribs grinding, vision whiting out.
“Shhh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” a quiet voice breathes in his ear, soft American consonants blurring his dizzy thoughts.
Plastic snaps, his wrists free. Then the zip tie at his throat, hood lifting.
All he can see for a few blinks is the night sky, the air cool on his sweat-drenched skin. Then his gag is cut away by the same man who had stuffed it between his teeth hours before, dark curls falling into eyes that are now staring at him with frantic concern.
“They should be gone, but try not to be too loud,” the man murmurs urgently, and Henry only has a second to brace himself before soft fingers are examining his shoulder. He bites his lip and manages to stifle the scream building up again as the man lifts his chest slightly to run his fingers along the wound.
The world is fading slowly, more and more black clouding his vision.
“Mierda,” the man hisses, gently lowering him back to the floor. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”
Henry blinks his eyes back open, trying to make sense of what is happening.
“It’s a clean through-and-through, but you’re losing too much blood,” his rescuer explains. “I need to work fast, but I don’t have many supplies with me. No painkillers either, we’ll have to do this the hard way, sorry.”
“Who are you?” Henry forces out.
“Someone on your side,” comes the clipped reply. A grim smile flashes in the darkness. “Let me guess, MI6?”
Henry stiffens. Rule number one: admit nothing. But the reaction would have been a give-away anyways, and he is too tired to care.
“How—” he manages.
“Your accent’s good, but not that good. You can’t fool a Southern boy,” the man drawls mockingly, unwrapping a packet of gauze. “And no one—no one—walks into a nightclub in a white Ralph Lauren shirt. Dead giveaway. Shit, even a La Martina polo would’ve been smarter.”
Henry blinks, blood sticky at his temple. He is bleeding out in the dirt, and this man is critiquing his wardrobe. Irritated, he presses out, “You talk an awful lot.”
The man laughs quietly, taken off-guard. “Story of my life.”
Then the man’s hands are back on him, tugging at buttons, stripping open his shirt with efficient speed. Henry can’t lift his head, only hears the shuffle of fabric. Fingers brush his chin, forcing his mouth open. Warm leather slides between his teeth.
“Bite,” the man orders softly.
He must have passed out because when Henry comes to, the belt has disappeared and his mouth feels dry, the pain now a constant throb in his chest. He watches steady and experienced fingers finish up a neat pressure bandage across his shoulder.
“Military?” Henry croaks.
A smile crosses the man’s features but he only continues tucking the end of the bandage neatly under his armpit.
“I’ve messaged a doctor in town that I trust, he should be here any minute now. I need to get moving before they wonder whether I’m any good at digging holes.”
Henry nods, barely. He watches the man straighten up and thread his belt back through his jeans.
He has no reason to ask or even know. Nothing good could ever come from knowing. Still, it is now or never, and Henry chooses without thinking.
“What’s your name?”
The man glances back. Grins like he enjoys the question. “I’m Alex.”