Page 94 of Descent

Legs. Arms. Everything works.

Everythinghurts.

Especially my head. I take my time sitting up, assessing the damage. Manageable.

The second bed across from me is empty. Slept in.

My next question answers itself as the bathroom door billows steam and a man steps out wrapped in a towel. Dom.

“Morning, Iron Man. You used to love it when I called you that as a kid.”

“I must have been a fucking idiot back then too.”

“We wondered. Didn’t talk. Never smiled. Thought you were a broken toy. Eva always swore that you’d live up to your name, that you were just as slow to change as iron.”

“I get it. My name means iron. I speak Italian,” I rattle off in monotone. Already, I kinda hate this guy.

“Just trying to help you remember. Circe said you’re missing a few marbles.”

“Maybe I’m better off without.”

“Suit yourself. I got stories galore if you decide you want ’em. Nobody else left to share them with you.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Look, I just did what I had to, to survive. You look like you’ve done the same and worse.”

Wish I had a snappy comeback to that. Avoiding his gaze, I snatch the TV remote and turn it on. Anything’s better than this god-awful family reunion.

I surf for a bit, easing back and propping myself against the headboard. Nothing. Talk show. Tabloids. Sports.

Haven’t watched a game in…

Hm. I must have been into basketball. Sounds kind of familiar.

I’m flicking through faster when the door unlocks, Dom and I both reaching for our guns.

“Relax it’s just me,” Circe hums, bags of takeout crinkling in her hands.

“Finally, I’m starving.”

“I could eat.” I’m still clicking through channels when I see smoke and fire. My bag drops to the floor as Circe absently tries to hand it to me. “Shh!”

Cranking up the volume, I stare transfixed at the scene playing behind a news banner. Circe pauses. Her keys hit the floor. Dom watches stunned, a burger halfway to his open mouth.”

“Be advised, the following clip we received anonymously this morning is shocking. Viewer discretion advised.” The banner swipes away, revealing a drone shot of a desert road. A burning caravan. Bodies. Gunfire. Explosions.

“Details are still scarce, but from what we can tell, early yesterday this U.S. Marshals’ caravan was attacked by multiple assailants. As you can see, there were mass casualties, includingofficers from the Marshals’ office, FBI agents, and soldiers. The identities of the masked assailants are as yet unknown.”

We all exchange glances as the anchor passes the baton to another host.

“Thank you, Tom. While both agencies involved have refused to comment, sources within the government have given credibility to rumors that the target of the attack was none other than notorious criminal Domenico Vipera, a known mob affiliate who was taken into protective custody just a few years ago after his arrest.”

A clip plays, a statement by the FBI. Deny. Distract.

“While our own government has declined to address the issue of a criminal on the run, a representative from Interpol addressed the international community just hours ago, claiming that Vipera was en route to extradition in a trade with the US to serve time for crimes committed in Europe.”

Cut to a podium. London. The banner crawls, announcing Special Agent Morrigan. A rich, flawless British accent reads from a prepared document.

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