Page 89 of Whispers in the Dark
Friday
The penitentiary infirmary was quiet—nightshiftcalm, the kind of stillness that made secrets feel safe. But not for Pratt, the med tech.
He stood just outside the supply closet, phone pressed to his ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “They were here,” Pratt said. “Marcel and Killian. They questioned Dr. Fields. They know about Elias. They know Charlotte Everhart visited Ward.”
A pause.
“They put it together, Monroe. Marcel’s not guessing anymore. He knows.”
The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm. “You spoke to no one else?”
“No, ma’am,” Pratt said quickly. “Just you.”
Another pause.
“Good,” Monroe said. “Thank you, Pratt.” She ended the call.
There was a beat of silence,then she pressed some buttons: “Send the order,” Monroe said. “Take Marcel.”
Somewhere in the world, Alex Marcel was already walking into a trap.
The cell tower light blinked red in the distance as Monroe stood alone in her high-rise office, the city a blurred sprawl behind her. The phone in her hand was silent now, her other hand already moving to the secure tablet on her desk.
She keyed in the authorization code with practiced ease. The order was clean, surgical: Priority Delta – Contain Marcel. No public disruption. No trace.
Across the screen, the message sent. The confirmation blinked once.
It was done.
Alex steppedout of his black SUV into a dimly lit parking garage in Pierre. Charlotte had dropped him at his car parked at her house before heading back to Sophie’s. The concrete echoed under his boots. He tugged his jacket tighter as he moved toward the elevator, unaware of the eyes tracking his every step.
Brad had split off three hours earlier to check in on Mara. Alex had set up a meeting with an old contact—a former militia member who owed him too many favors to say no.
The garage was silent. Too silent.
Alex paused. A feeling—sharp, instinctual—twisted in his gut. He turned just slightly, his hand brushing against the holster at his side.
A whisper of movement behind a pillar. A shadow where none should be.
“Hey, Stanton,” Alex said sharply. “You there?”
No answer.
Then—too late—he saw it: the glint of a suppressed weapon sliding up from the dark.
The first shot hit the wall beside him, a silenced pop that echoed like a cough. Alex ducked behind a support beam, drew his weapon, breath ragged.
“Not a good idea,” he muttered, scanning the shadows.
Another figure emerged from the other side, flanking him. Two.
They were coordinated. Clean. Trained.
He fired a shot. One went down hard.
But the second…
A flash of movement, a sharp strike to his ribs, the sound of his gun skidding across the concrete. A knee to his back. He hit the ground hard.
