Page 55 of Hunted to Be Mine
“Not Specter,” Kruger cut in. “Not Lennox either. Not anymore. A man between names.” He smiled without warmth. “I made sure of that.”
Chapter 13
Selina
Kruger’s building sat in a corner of Prague’s Karlín district, five flights up, no elevator. The stairwell smelled like cabbage and old smoke. The handrail stuck to my palm.
“Last door on the right,” Kruger said, voice rough from Specter’s grip.
He fished out a key. “May I?”
Specter shifted to take point. Metal scraped in the lock. The door opened on quiet hinges into a dim, narrow hallway. I hesitated at the threshold, stepping into the home of a man who claimed he’d built Specter into a weapon.
“Forgive the accommodations,” Kruger said as he stepped in. “Not what I’m used to, but necessity forces certain sacrifices.”
Specter nudged me aside with a touch and went first. He moved through the space, checking corners and doorways. His hand stayed near his waistband, where he’d tucked a weapon.
The apartment was small and meticulously ordered. Too neat for normal living. Temporary shelter, not a home.
Heavy blackout curtains sealed the windows. Thin strips of afternoon light cut across worn floorboards. Smoke lingered in the air, edged with gun oil.
“Please, sit.” Kruger gestured toward a table with mismatched chairs. Command lived in his tone. His body told the rest, deep shadows under his eyes, a soft gut where muscle once lived, a receding hairline teased forward.
Specter kept moving. In the kitchenette, a dented kettle sat on a hotplate. He opened a drawer, took out a knife, and set it on the counter out of Kruger’s reach.
“Old habits.” Kruger gave a tired smile. “I’d expect nothing less from my finest creation.”
Specter didn’t bite. He checked the sofa, came up with a small pistol, popped the magazine, and pocketed both, separately.
Electrical tape crossed the windowpanes in blast tape. Not paranoia. Preparation.
Kruger eased into a chair, movements restrained. Yellow light from a bare bulb carved deeper lines into his face. Training turned on by reflex: expressions, tells, inconsistencies. The analysis never really stopped.
“So this is what he’s become.” Kruger watched Specter. “Interesting.”
Specter finished his sweep and settled at my side, close enough for his heat to reach me. “Sit.” He nodded at the chair across from Kruger.
I sat, spine straight, hands visible. Specter stayed standing.
“I assume you’ve taken precautions against surveillance,” he said.
Kruger nodded and reached slowly into his jacket. Specter tensed. Kruger froze, fingers visible, then set a small black device with a blinking red light on the table. “Signal jammer. Military-grade. No one’s listening. No one’s tracking.”
His gaze shifted to me. “Dr. Crawford. If you’ve stayed alive this long with him, I suppose you’ve learned how to ride out the conditioning episodes. Dresner would be fascinated.”
“I’m not here for compliments.” I kept my tone flat. “We want answers.”
“Direct. Good.” Kruger nodded. “What do you know about Oblivion’s conditioning?”
“I don’t have time for your games.” Specter’s voice cut like a blade. “The orphanage. St. Elisabeth’s. The children. Tell me what happened.”
Kruger’s face didn’t change, but caution tightened his stare. “To understand St. Elisabeth’s, you need to understand what they did to you first. What they made you into.”
“I know what they did.” Specter’s delivery was even. “Conditioning. Memory suppression. Programmed responses.” Each word landed hard.
“You know pieces.”
Specter’s jaw tightened. He gave me a small nod.
