Chapter 2 - THE SAFE HOUSE BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDSMarcus woke to the smell of antiseptic, burning cedar, and damp earth.
There was no neon here, no hum of city traffic, only the steady, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere deep underground and the low, comforting crackle of a fire. He tried to sit up, but agony flared across his ribs, a white-hot reminder of the bullet graze and the severe beating he had taken before the ambush.
"Don't move unless you want your stitches to pop," a voice commanded from the shadows.
It wasn't the girl’s voice. It was raspy, weathered, belonging to someone who had smoked cheap cigars for forty years.
Marcus blinked against the amber glow of a kerosene lamp. He was lying on a narrow cot inside what looked like an old drainage vault retrofitted into a makeshift bunker. The walls were lined with rows of encrypted comms gear, old maps of the city overlaid with red pins, and weapons caches that rivaled a small militia's armory.
Sitting in a battered leather armchair near a wood-burning stove was an old man with a silver beard, wearing a mechanic’s jumpsuit stained with grease. On the concrete floor beside him, resting its massive, scarred head on its paws, was the dog. It watched Marcus with intelligent, amber eyes that held zero warmth, yet absolute awareness.
"Where is she?" Marcus asked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
"Getting food," the old man replied, tossing a small metal bolt from hand to hand. "And before you ask, your name is currently at the top of every police blotter and every hit list in the tri-state area. Victor has declared himself the undisputed king of the Cole syndicate. He’s already looted your safe deposit boxes and put a five-million-dollar bounty on your head."
Marcus stared at the ceiling, a cold fury overriding the pain in his chest. Victor. His own blood. The cousin he had pulled out of a debtor's prison ten years ago and handed half the docks to.
"You saved me," Marcus said, shifting his gaze to the old man. "Why? Men like me don't get second chances for free."
"I didn't save you," the old man chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "Iris did. And she doesn't do things for free, Marcus. Nobody does in this city."
The heavy iron door at the far end of the bunker creaked open, and Iris stepped inside, shedding her oversized yellow coat to reveal a faded grey sweater that was far too big for her frail frame. She was carrying a plastic bag filled with canned soup and fresh bottles of water. She didn't look like a savior; she looked like an orphan who had lived through a warzone.
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Yet, when she walked over to Marcus’s cot and set the bag down, the air in the room shifted.
"You're awake," Iris stated, not as a question, but as a minor logistical note. "Good. Because your cousin is throwing a party tonight at the Grand Meridian Hotel to celebrate his ascension. And we need to talk about rent."
