We descended a steep slope, loose gravel sliding under my sandals, branches snapping beneath our feet. I fought the urge to rush, forcing myself to match his pace. The sound of running water grew louder with every step.
At the bottom, the trees opened up.
A small fleet of vehicles waited.
Not ordinary trucks—these were beasts. Modified off-road 4x4s with oversized knobby tires, lifted suspensions, reinforced roll cages, matte-black paint that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Vehicles built to climb impossible inclines. Vehicles built to disappear.
A handful of men stood guard, rifles slung low, faces masked, bodies relaxed but alert. Professionals. The kind Dmitri trusted when everything else had failed him.
The man gestured to the nearest truck.
I hesitated.
Every instinct screamed trap. Screamed run. Screamed don’t get in.
But I climbed inside anyway.
He got behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the frame. Without a word, we lurched forward, bouncing over roots and rocks, following a barely visible trail that hugged the riverbank.
I clasped my hands in my lap so tightly my nails bit into my palms.
Questions burned in my throat.
Is Dmitri alive?
Did he succeed?
Or is this the moment they hand me back—payment for a deal I never agreed to?
The journey stretched on, time losing meaning. The woods thinned into rocky scrubland, the river narrowing into something fast and violent. We crossed a narrow bridge that looked one hard rain away from collapse.
On the far side, the truck slowed.
A massive iron gate loomed ahead—rusted with age but reinforced with fresh steel plating, welded thick and ugly. It looked less like an entrance and more like a warning.
As we approached, the gate swung open.
No guards stepped out.
No checkpoint lights flashed on.
No voices called out.
Just silence.
We rolled through.
The compound stretched out before me like a scar carved into the earth.
Sprawling. Utilitarian. Built for function, not comfort—low concrete buildings squatting under a gray sky, their walls stained with age and neglect. Chain-link fencing ringed the perimeter, topped with coils of razor wire that glinted dully in the light.
A central courtyard lay open and exposed, its cracked surface soaked with old oil stains and something darker.
The smell hit me next.
Diesel. Rust. And beneath it—something sour and unmistakable.
Damp stone. Sweat. Fear.