2026-03-29 22:29:07
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I DON'T KNOW YOU
Six months changed everything.Marcus Jr.—he called himself Marcus Reed now—sat in the language lab practicing Arabic. His tutor said he had an ear for it. Natural talent. Already conversational after six months of intensive study.The compound had become home. He knew every hallway. Every room. Every guard by name. This wasn't prison anymore. Just where he lived.Miranda had been true to her word. No torture. No threats. Just opportunity. Training. Education. Everything a kid could want if the kid was being raised to be a weapon.Combat skills had improved drastically. He could disassemble and reassemble six different firearms blindfolded. Could execute hand-to-hand techniques that would injure adults. Could run tactical scenarios that most soldiers would struggle with."What's your name?" Miranda asked during one of their daily sessions."Marcus Reed.""And before?""I don't remember." That was a lie. He remembered. Remembered being Marcus Kane Jr. Remembered his parents. Remembered
DESPERATE
Six weeks later, Marcus Jr. still couldn't quite believe the food.Real meals. Three times a day. Hot. Prepared by an actual chef. Steak. Pasta. Vegetables that didn't come from cans. Dessert. The first week he'd eaten until he was sick because his body wasn't used to having enough.Miranda watched him eat breakfast—eggs, bacon, fresh fruit—and smiled. "Better than what your parents gave you?"Marcus Jr. didn't answer. But yeah. It was better. The past year he'd been eating whatever they could scrounge. Dumpster food sometimes. Donated meals from shelters. Nothing like this."You've gained seven pounds," Miranda said. "Healthy weight. Growing boy needs nutrition."The apartment—he refused to call it a room—had everything. Big TV with every streaming service. Video games. Books. A computer with internet access (monitored, obviously, but still). A bathroom that was bigger than most places they'd stayed.His parents had made him live in abandoned buildings. Sleep in cars. Wear secondhand
I WANT MY PARENTS
Ava wasn't moving.She lay on the cold warehouse floor with blood pooling around her torso, and she wasn't moving. Her chest rose and fell—barely—but that was it. Just shallow breaths. The kind that said dying.Grayson fought against the guards holding him. Didn't care about broken bones or torn muscles. His wife was bleeding out ten feet away and he couldn't reach her."Ava! AVA!"She didn't respond. Might not have even heard him.Marcus Jr. had gone completely still. Not crying anymore. Just staring at his mother with eyes too old for a nine-year-old. He'd seen people die before. Knew what it looked like.Emma was still crying. Sobbing. Traumatized by violence she'd never imagined existed. She'd thought getting kidnapped was the worst thing that could happen. Then she'd watched a woman get shot. Now she was breaking apart in a way that would take years of therapy to maybe fix.Miranda holstered her gun. "Hospital's about ten minutes from here. Fast ambulance could get her there in t
IT WAS SUICIDAL
The thing about nine-year-olds is they don't understand "impossible."Marcus Jr. stood in front of his father with his arms crossed, chin jutted out in that stubborn way that reminded Grayson way too much of himself at that age. Except Grayson had never planned rescue missions when he was nine. He'd been worried about baseball and homework, not kidnapped friends and armed mercenaries."I'm going after Emma.""No. Absolutely not.""She's my friend.""I know she's your friend. That's exactly why this is a trap. Miranda took her to get to you."Marcus Jr.'s jaw tightened. "So what? I'm supposed to just leave her there? Let them hurt her?"Grayson knelt down, trying to meet his son's eyes. The kid wouldn't look at him. "Marcus, listen to me. You're nine years old. Nine. You can't—""I can shoot. You taught me.""That doesn't mean—""I can fight. I've done it before.""Against other kids! Not trained killers!""Emma's scared right now." Marcus Jr.'s voice cracked. "She doesn't understand wh
I LIED
The supermax facility looked like fortress designed by paranoid architects.Concrete walls thirty feet high. Guard towers every hundred yards. Electronic surveillance covering every inch. Multiple security checkpoints. Metal detectors. Body scanners. Dogs trained to detect contraband.Getting in was difficult. Getting out would be nearly impossible.Grayson knew it was trap. Knew Carter had lied. Knew every step toward that prison was step toward death.Went anyway. Because desperate people make desperate choices. Because every other option had failed. Because maybe—just maybe—Carter actually had information worth the risk.The security process took two hours. Strip search. Documentation verification. Background checks. Every procedure designed to ensure visitors weren't smuggling weapons or contraband.They found nothing because Grayson brought nothing. Just himself. Walking into lion's den unarmed because anything else would have been confiscated anyway.The visiting room was exactl
INTO THE PRISON
President Harold Blackwell was everything America wanted in a leader.War hero. Distinguished military career. Bronze Star. Purple Heart. Tours in three combat zones. The kind of service record that couldn't be questioned.Successful businessman after military retirement. Built technology company from nothing. Sold it for billions. Created jobs. Generated wealth. American dream personified.Charismatic. Articulate. Presidential. Camera loved him. Voters loved him. His approval rating after first year exceeded seventy percent. Higher than any president in fifty years.Nobody knew he was Miranda Reed's puppet.The campaign funding had been hidden expertly. Two billion dollars funneled through shell companies. SuperPACs with misleading names. Charitable organizations that weren't charitable. Layers upon layers of financial obfuscation.Legal. Technically. Campaign finance laws full of loopholes large enough to drive trucks through. Miranda's lawyers had exploited every single one.Blackw
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