Mark leaned his back against the damp concrete wall, feeling the cold seep into the marrow of his bones. The stench of urine, stale sweat, and rusted iron were his only constant companions. Every time he closed his eyes, the faces of his fellow FBI agents killed in the Casso Mafia ambush flickered in the dark.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed against the concrete, followed by the heavy thud of tactical boots.
"You aren't allowed to die. The Boss wants you kept alive."
Claudine's voice was flat and devoid of emotion. The iron cell door opened with a long screech. Two giant guards stood behind her, hands never straying from the grips of their weapons, ready to fire if their battered prey made a sudden move.
Mark raised his face slowly. The neon light from the hallway tortured eyes that had long grown accustomed to the darkness. His lips were cracked and dry, and deep purple bruises covered his protruding cheekbones.
"I'm still breathing," he croaked.
