Page 85 of Imperfect Desires

Inside, the air is stale and humid, thick with dust and the faint stench of oil and rot. The hallways are narrower than I anticipated, corridors twisted in sharp angles, every turn a gamble. There are no blueprints, no map—just instinct.

And I always trust my instinct.

We move slower now. Cautious and listening for any approaching interference. Our boots make no sound on the concrete floors. Shadows swallow us, and I become one of them. A lifetime of killing has taught me how to disappear in plain sight. How to become the nightmare that slips between breaths. I signal a stop with a closed fist. Anton freezes at my flank. Two more of our men hold position behind us, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.

A whisper of motion is coming from up ahead. Guards. Maybe two or three. I don’t wait for them to see us. Instead; I step forward—fast, quiet, sure.

The first man turns just as my arm sweeps around his neck. He tries to cry out, but the sound dies beneath my elbow. I twist, and his spine snaps with a muted crack. He drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

The second doesn’t even get that far. Anton’s blade slips under his ribcage and into his heart before he can blink.

The third comes running—too loud, too late.

I don’t give him a chance to draw his weapon.

I meet him in the middle of the corridor, duck low, and drive my shoulder into his gut. He stumbles back into the wall, and I slam his skull against the brick until blood splatters and he stops moving.

Three bodies. Three seconds. I drag them behind a stacked crate and keep moving.

The deeper we go, the more twisted the layout becomes—hallways branching into rooms, blind turns, dead ends. It’s a bunker designed to confuse, to trap. But I don’t stop. Because every second we lose, she suffers. And I’ve already lost too much time.

We reach a hallway flanked by doors. Storage. A boiler room. A barracks. One door creaks open, and a guard steps out, half-dressed, rubbing his eyes.

He doesn’t see me until my knife is buried in his throat. He gasps, wet and gurgling. I hold him up gently as he dies, easing him to the floor so he won’t thud.

Anton gives me a look to say the coast is clear. We keep moving. Every corner we clear, every life we take—it’s not vengeance. It's a debt paid in blood for every hour she’s been locked away in this hell.

We pass another pair of guards talking low in Spanish, distracted near a door marked with reinforced bolts. Anton raises his blade, silent as breath, and pins one to the wall with it, straight through the throat.

The other one barely has time to reach for his gun before I’m on him. My Glock pressed to his temple.

“Take me to her,” I whisper, eyes burning.

He trembles and nods.

Smart man.

Maybe the only smart one in this entire building.

Anton yanks his knife free, and the first body slumps. We leave it where it falls and follow the last man standing. We’re getting close. I can feel it. The tension coils in my gut like a loaded spring. Every breath, every step, is a countdown to her.

We move deeper into the compound, the scent of sweat and metal growing stronger, more human. Somewhere nearby, a generator hums behind the walls, vibrating faintly underfoot. Voices echo from the next corridor—low, casual, careless.

Two men. Guards.

I glance at Anton. He nods once, already reaching for his knife. We round the corner fast and silent. The first guard barely turns his head before Anton’s blade sinks into his neck with a wet crunch. He’s slammed against the wall, pinned there like a gutted animal, twitching but already dead.

The second freezes—eyes wide, mouth open.

Before he can scream, I’m in front of him, the muzzle of my gun pressed under his jaw, angled straight for his brainstem.

He chokes on a breath.

“Where is she?” I snarl.

No theatrics. No bluff. My voice is low, but it drips with violence.

He swallows hard, his entire body shaking. “Wh-who—”

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