Page 94 of Misery
But breathing—the blood pattern suggests movement. Struggle. Fight.
"He's alive," I say. "Or was an hour ago."
"But where the fuck is he now?" Dag kicks an empty oil drum.
The sound echoes through the empty space, bouncing off concrete and coming back hollow.
I study the scene. This is staged. Deliberate.
Every detail here has been placed with purpose.
Thiago wants us to know Ivar was here.
He wants us to see the blood—the fear. The futility. But why? What's the game?
Then I see it.
Scratched into the dust on a broken window. "TICK TOCK."
"He's fucking with us," Magnus says, reaching the same conclusion. "Leading us around like dogs chasing our own tails."
My phone buzzes again:
Getting warmer. But still so cold. Better hurry. Daddy's looking pale. He keeps asking for his little girl. Should I tell him what we've done to her? What we've watched her do?
This time I show Magnus.
His face darkens like storm clouds.
"That's him? Thiago?"
"Yeah."
"How does he have your number?"
"We grew up together. He knows everything about me." The admission burns coming out. "My phone number. Where I live. How I think. Everything."
The weight of that admission hangs in the air.
Everyone processing that the enemy isn't some random cartel soldier but someone from our past.
Mypast.
Someone who knows our weaknesses because he helped create some of them.
"Jesus Christ," Rio breathes. "You're saying this psycho knows club secrets?"
"No. He was gone before I prospected. But he knows me. And Emil. That's enough."
"Enough for what?" Tor demands.
"Enough to predict what we'll do. Where we'll look. How we'll react."
"We need to regroup," Runes decides. "Back to the clubhouse. This ain't working. We're playing his game on his board."
The ride back is bitter.
Twenty minutes of wind and engine noise that can't drown out my thoughts.
