Page 11 of Dark Soul

“You’ll have it.”

4

* * *

Dark

Dark sipped his cup of cheap, instant coffee, the hot drink made only vaguely more palatable by the chocolate flavoring the manufacturers had added.

If he’d discovered anything after three days of roaming this building and eating food delivery, it was that the Swiss loved to add chocolate to anything and everything.

As soon as he’d signed on the dotted line, British, whose real name was Thorne, had revealed they were in a renovated warehouse in the outskirts of Zurich—formerly the Swiss headquarters of a well-known global furniture brand. He’d removed the handcuffs and told him he was now free to go anywhere in the building, but not to go outside.

So Dark had spent his time exploring the place.

The bottom floor had been the offices, while the top floor had been designed to house traveling executives, so the company wouldn’t have to pay for hotel rooms. Dark was currently staying in one of the studio apartments, and it was nicer than any military housing he’d ever stayed in. He didn’t even want to compare it to the prison he’d just walked out of.

The basement of the building, originally housing returned stock and files, had been renovated and contained a brand new gym and training facility. That space was probably the reason Dark hadn’t gone mad yet. He’d run and biked hundreds of miles, then hit all the punching bags he’d been able to find, wishing one of them would hit him back.

It felt strange to walk around without handcuffs. He remembered the deafening click they’d made as British—Dark was going to have to get used to thinking of him as Thorne—had taken them off. And even though he knew the handcuffs themselves didn’t mean anything—even though he was no more free than he’d been before—he knew he would remember that particular sound for as long as he lived.

And hope never to hear it again.

When he’d gotten tired of working out, he’d gone back to exploring the empty building. It was strange to find himself completely alone, when for so long he’d had absolutely no privacy—yet another thing you got used to in prison. There were always people around you or, at the very least, cameras keeping track of what you were doing. There were no cameras here, as far as he could tell. But maybe they were just better at hiding them.

Thorne came and went, apparently trusting Dark to stay put. And he would, because he’d made that deal, and because what he had now wasn’t real freedom. Real freedom was sitting in his pocket, signed by the president of the United States himself—a chance to go back to the Rangers, or at least to go home with an honorable discharge. So no, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Yesterday morning, a dozen boxes of gear had arrived, along with a young man and woman, both of them pale, freckled, and clearly scared to death of Dark. After introducing themselves quietly as Carrie and Pascale, they’d proceeded to ignore him as they began sorting through the boxes of gear.

Dark hadn’t stuck around, since both soldiers—and he was ninety-nine percent sure they were soldiers, even though they wore civilian clothing—looked so uncomfortable in his presence, but the bits he’d seen were top quality, including military-grade weapons, drones, body armor, advanced night-optical devices and thermal-optics devices. It made him wonder, not for the first time, who he was getting into bed with.

He sighed as Thorne walked into the kitchen, a bunch of colored folders in his hands.

Looks like I’m going to find out.

“This is your team. Study these, and let me know if you have any pressing questions. The rest of the team should start arriving tomorrow.”

Dark made no move to grab them—took another sip of his coffee, just to irritate the man who’d kept him waiting for three fucking days.

“Shouldn’t I get to pick the team I’m going to be leading?”

The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Let me be very clear, Dark. You weren’t my first choice for the job. I’m not even sure you’re qualified to lead this team. But I’m certainly not going to explain my choices to you or waste time asking for your opinion when it doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t your first choice for the job? You wound me, Thorne.”

“Just study the fucking files.” It sounded more like fecking, the way he said it. Dark had to smother a laugh.

Dark finally took the files from the other man, set them down on the table in front of him, still unopened.

“Are these people … like me?” he asked cautiously.

His handler—for it was clear now that’s what Thorne’s role in all of this was—nodded, at least doing Dark the courtesy of not pretending he didn’t understand what he was asking.

“Like you … yes.”

“How do you know they’ll say yes?”

Are they all chasing my same pipe dream?