Page 68 of Buried Past

I was a target now. There was no other way to see it. No cover or allies visible. Only me on a concrete altar, waiting for whatever Hoyle's men planned next.

Did they want to remake me as their newest asset?

I kept one hand in my pocket—thumb resting on the trigger the way Michael had drilled into me years ago—while I pulled the other out loose at my side. Nothing in my posture screamed cop or soldier. I was a tired man in a hoodie.

At 12:02, I detected movement.

Two men appeared at the far corner, stepping out from behind a wide steel column. Both wore trim suits. Clean lines and good tailoring.

The taller one had a tablet case tucked under his arm. The shorter one moved with twitchy energy at his side.

They approached me slowly. No swaggering, only deliberate movements. The shorter man stopped six feet away, close enough to talk, and far enough that I couldn't reach him without warning. His partner covered my right flank, cutting off the side angle.

The tall one studied me as he spoke. "Punctual. We appreciate that in a man facing extinction."

"Hard to be anything else when you're holding all the cards."

He didn't smile. "Time's not on your side, McCabe."

When he unzipped the case, the tablet's screen glowed in the midnight shadows, and then there he was—a static shot of Dorian.

His face was a mess of swelling and impact bruises, blood running from a gash along his hairline down to his jaw. They'd shredded his shirt down the front, one shoulder exposed.

Across his collarbone, a razor-thin slice still leaked red. His left eye had vanished under swollen skin. Resting on his lap, pristine and unmistakable: today'sSeattle Times. Proof of the current date.

I stared at that screen like I wanted to reach through it. Everything in me clenched. I barely controlled the urge to tear the tablet from his hands, slam these men into the stone behind us, and make someone pay for violating Dorian's body.

I breathed deeply. One. Two.

Calm would buy time. Time might buy Dorian.

The shorter one spoke. His voice was soft, almost bored. "You surrender, and we stop the bleeding."

My skin crawled, but I kept my face neutral and professional. "Where was this taken?"

The tall man's grip on the tablet shifted. "That's irrelevant—"

I angled my head, peering in. "Industrial lighting, maybe. Fluorescents. Sounds like a ballast hum in the background. I think I can hear compressors cycling on. Who's handling his interrogation?"

The shorter one narrowed his eyes. "You're stalling."

I shrugged. "It's a hell of an operation. Would be a shame not to admire the craftsmanship."

And then, without moving the rest of my body, I tapped the burner in my pocket: three presses, pause, two more. The screen stayed dark, but I felt it vibrate once. Michael's ghost signal had gone live.

I pushed the phone deeper into my hoodie and exhaled through my nose.

The tablet twitched—pixels scrambling into static.

Then a flicker.

Then chaos.

Not degradation, hijack.

Michael was in. He'd rerouted their surveillance.

"Signal's not degraded," the tall man muttered, tapping frantically. "The device is failing." He shook it, achieving nothing. Their primary surveillance link to Dorian was dying in real-time.

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