Page 60 of Buried Past

My hands shook as I fumbled with my truck keys. The engine turned over on the second try. As I backed out of my parking space, I saw Kayla in the station doorway, radio already in her hand.

The sedan's engine revved once, then fell silent.

I drove home with Michael's words echoing:Less than a day remains.

My building looked normal from the street—no obvious surveillance, no black vehicles at strategic angles—just another converted warehouse in Fremont.

I climbed the stairs with my keys ready, but didn't need them.

The door stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped into my violated home. Overturned furniture. Broken dishes. A dark stain on the hardwood that might have been coffee or blood.

Dorian's burner phone lay on the kitchen counter, the screen cracked but functional, and there were seven missed calls and four text messages from an unknown number. The most recent message was a photo: Dorian zip-tied to a chair in what looked like a warehouse, conscious but beaten.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just stared at the phone like Dorian might speak through the screen. My knees gave out,and I sank to the floor, the phone slipping from my hand and skidding across the hardwood. I didn't reach for it. I couldn't. I just sat there, hands curled uselessly in my lap, heartbeat crashing in my ears.

Then I saw the note tucked under my salt shaker, written in block letters:

FEDERAL BUILDING. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. OR THE McCABES BECOME COLLATERAL.

Chapter sixteen

Dorian

The first thing that reached me was the sound of water finding its way through corrugated metal somewhere above, each drop landing with a hollow ping against what might have been an oil drum. Next, I heard an electrical hum, that particular frequency of cheap fluorescent ballasts that made your teeth ache if you listened too long.

My head throbbed like someone had used it for batting practice. Copper flooded my mouth—blood, but not fresh. One eye was swelling shut, the orbital bone tender when I tried to blink. I held perfectly still.

First rule: take inventory before you act.

The taste of motor oil hung thick in the air, mixed with something sharper—acetone, maybe, or industrial solvent. My nose burned with each shallow breath. The floor was concrete beneath me, cold seeping through the steel chair legs.

Gradually, details assembled themselves into something coherent. High rafters stretched overhead, disappearing into shadows that the weak overhead bulbs couldn't penetrate.Industrial space. Big enough to swallow sound. Not some basement or residential garage—professional warehouse space.

Plastic bit deep into my wrists where they'd been yanked behind the chair back. My ankles, too, were secured tight enough that circulation was starting to fade. Zip ties, not rope. Not handcuffs.

No gag. No hood. No attempt to muffle or blind me.

It was a presentation, meant to display the damage and show what happened to people who crossed certain lines. The chair faced a large overhead door—loading dock, probably. Easy access for vehicles. Easy cleanup if things went wrong.

This isn't a killing scene. It's theater.

Each shallow breath gave me more information. Sharp stabbing along my left side meant cracked ribs, at least two, maybe three. The old injuries from the highway accident had never fully healed before this new trauma was layered on top. My body was keeping score of every insult, every forced march, and every night of broken sleep.

The deep ache in my lower back suggested kidney bruising, but no blood in my mouth meant no internal bleeding I couldn't handle. My lungs pulled in clean air, and no fluid rattled around inside.

I could work with it. I'd worked with worse.

I ran through the damage like a field medic doing triage—categorizing injuries by severity and operational impact. The facial swelling would limit my peripheral vision. The ribs would restrict sudden movements, but my legs felt solid, joints responsive when I tested them with micro-movements.

This wasn't amateur hour. Someone had calibrated the beating with precision—enough trauma to look convincing, but not enough to incapacitate—pain as drama, not as punishment.

The chair sat dead center under a single fluorescent bulb, creating a perfect pool of harsh white illumination. It was classiccinematic interrogation staging—the subject spotlit, questioners invisible.

The chair faced the entry straight on, positioned for an audience. For viewers who needed to examine the merchandise before making a purchase. Or, before deciding what to do with me next.

The thought crystallized as I absorbed more details. If they'd wanted me dead, I'd be dead. If they'd wanted information, I'd be hanging from chains with electrical cables nearby. Instead, they left me battered enough to look broken, conscious enough to react, and placed for maximum visual impact.

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