Chapter 14 - The Interrogation
The wounded operative—a hardened mercenary bearing a faded scorpion tattoo on his inner wrist—gritted his teeth against the pain, pressing his hand against his bleeding knee.
"Go to hell, old man," he spat, blood flecking his lips. "You can't stop the syndicate. Even if you kill me, the director is already tracking your daughter's phone."
My blood ran cold. I dropped my rifle, grabbed him by the tactical collar, and hoisted him off the floor with terrifying strength. "Where is she?"
"She left... thirty minutes ago," the operative wheezed, a sadistic smile breaking across his pale face. "Her camping trip... wasn't a coincidence. We intercepted her comms yesterday. A decoy team picked her up before she even left the driveway."
I didn't hesitate. I drew a heavy zip-tie, secured his wrists behind his back, dragged him into the basement, and locked him inside the reinforced concrete storm shelter.
Upstairs, I grabbed my satellite phone—the one I thought I had destroyed in the incinerator weeks ago (I always kept a spare military-spec relay hidden in my truck chassis). I punched the emergency global broadcast frequency.
"Extraction team alpha-three," I barked into the mic, my voice stripped of all human warmth, reverting entirely to the commander who once hunted warlords across continents. "We have a active hostage situation. Target is my daughter. Activate all regional tactical assets. I want every satellite, drone, and federal intercept team locked onto her cell signal right now."
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"Signal acquired, Commander," the synthetic voice replied instantly. "Target is moving north toward the abandoned Briarwood industrial rail yard. ETA for our tactical air support is six minutes."
"Make it four," I said, running out to my truck. "Or there won't be anyone left to rescue."
