The path to the mine grew narrower the further we ventured, as if the mountain itself were clamping its rocky jaws shut to choke our final breaths. We weren't just a group of men; we were the wreckage of fathers whose hearts had been scorched by utter despair. Beside us walked that relentless Fleet Street journalist, gripping his fountain pen as if it were a tactical dagger, his eyes never ceasing to scan the bleak surroundings with the sharpness of a hawk hunting for prey. We were tracking the scent of death over jagged, unforgiving ground, and the darkness around us wasn't merely an absence of light—it was a black beast lying in wait in every cavernous corner.
The vast wealth owned by Mortimer Holdings did not tempt us; even if they poured tons of their blood-soaked gold into our palms, it wouldn't equal the price of a single tear from our daughters' eyes. The government had abandoned us, our pleas struck from the ledgers of legal protection, so we decided that night to become both the law and the executioners at once.
Suddenly, a faint, flickering lantern light glimmered at the end of the damp passage. Two guards in faded, soot-stained clothes stood there, idly flicking the safety catches of their sidearms on and off with lethal boredom. Farid—who hadn't tasted sleep for a week—could no longer restrain the madness in his veins. He rushed forward in a frenzied silence before exploding into a hoarse, agonizing scream:
— "Where is my daughter? I swear to God I will burn this mountain over your heads if you don't speak!"
The first guard turned with terrifying slowness. He said nothing; instead, he raised his heavy pistol and, with a mechanical movement devoid of a single shred of human empathy, pulled the trigger.
(BANG!)
The roar of the gunshot inside the enclosed tunnel was like an earthquake that shook our very souls. Farid's body froze mid-stride, his eyes widening in shock, before he collapsed to his knees and fell face-first into the freezing mud.
The guard spat casually onto the ground and called out toward the shadows behind him:
— "Servants! Carry this carcass away... the hounds in the back pens haven't been fed in two days. Throw him to them."
His colleague rubbed his eyes sleepily, muttering in annoyance:
— "Damn it... when will this cursed shift end? My head is about to split."
The killer replied coldly, holstering his smoking weapon:
— "Two hours... then we head to the tavern for a pint. Hang in there, man. Every now and then, one of these desperate rats loses his way and ends up down here. We kill them, throw them to the dogs, and move on. I'm getting sick of this routine, honestly. What do you think about taking a vacation soon?"
We stood paralyzed in absolute shock, the bitter stench of gunpowder mixing with the copper smell of Farid's blood, making us violently nauseous. But the journalist grabbed us firmly by our coats, dragging us behind a massive limestone boulder, and hissed like a venomous snake:
— "If you give in to the shock now, you are digging your daughters' graves with your own hands. We won't enter by force... we use a distraction."
One of the broken fathers stepped out into the lantern light, stripping off his heavy jacket. He began moving in front of the startled guards with hysterical, erratic gestures, dancing and swaying his body as if the grief had completely snapped his mind, singing a cracked, broken lullaby. The guards froze, stunned by the spectacle, and one burst into a mocking laugh:
— "Look at that! It seems another rat has lost his mind from pure terror!"
In that exact second, when their vigilance dropped to zero, the journalist and James sprang from the darkness like lightning. James smashed the back of the first guard's skull with his iron fist, while the journalist wrapped his arms around the second man's throat, strangling him until his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. We seized their dropped weapons and pushed deeper into the rocky, suffocating bowels of the mine.
In the heart of the subterranean maze, the rocky cavern suddenly opened up to reveal a luxurious, pristine wooden lodge built right inside the vast stone vault—a sickening joke of wealth planted in such a filthy, miserable place. The journalist crept forward on silent footsteps, but just as his fingers brushed against the polished brass doorknob... the door swung open on its own.
Blinding electric searchlights snapped on, cutting through the darkness and pinning us in their glare. Dozens of rifle muzzles were instantly aimed directly at our chests. The captain of the guard—a man with sunken cheeks and dead, predatory eyes—stepped forward, a mocking smirk on his lips:
— "Drop the iron. The perimeter is rigged with hidden tripwires, and our lookouts have been tracking your every breath through their field telephones. You walked straight into the slaughterhouse."
From behind the wall of guards stepped a young man dressed in an immaculate blue velvet suit, casually wiping his manicured hands with a lavender-scented handkerchief, looking as though he had just stepped out of a high-society opera house. It was Julian Mortimer. He looked at our ragged clothes with profound disgust, curling his lip:
— "My Word... the wretched stench of poverty reeks from you unwashed rabble! Are you the insects who dared to interrupt my evening rest?"
James, tears of boiling rage spilling down his dirt-streaked cheeks, screamed with all his might:
— "We are the fathers, Mortimer! Where are our daughters?!"
Julian didn't deign to answer. Instead, he gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. A heavy guard stepped forward and drove a brutal boot into James's stomach, dropping the father to the stone floor, gasping desperately for air. Julian spoke with freezing, aristocratic malice:
— "Know your place, you pathetic peasant. You are standing in the presence of a nobleman."
He turned his cold gaze toward the journalist, sneering:
— "As for you... you are entirely pathetic. A Fleet Street hack who truly believes a drop of ink can alter the fate of these lower-class dregs?"
The journalist met his gaze with absolute defiance, his voice steady and unyielding:
— "The British state has drowned in the mire of your corruption, and justice no longer breathes in the courts. That is why I came to deliver it myself... right here in your den."
Julian burst into a sharp, echoing laugh that bounced horribly off the cavern walls, then clapped his hands twice. Heavy iron-bound doors at the side of the lodge swung open. Guards emerged, brutally dragging the young girls out into the light. They were clad in tattered rags, their small faces smeared with tears and coal dust, and the cruel marks of leather whips were visibly etched into their thin arms.
— "Papa!" the little ones cried out in a synchronized, desperate wail that tore our hearts completely out of our chests.
We tried to blindly rush forward, but Julian instantly pulled a silver-hilted dagger from his waistcoat, pressing the sharp blade firmly against the throat of the youngest, trembling girl. He whispered in a terrifying, aristocratic hiss:
— "One more step... and I will paint my leather shoes with her blood. Obey me, my pretty little dolls, from this moment on, or these pathetic men draw their last breaths right before your eyes."
Suddenly, the small, piercing voice of Yara shattered the suffocating silence of terror. She stood tall despite her thin, frail frame, looking directly into the monster's eyes, and shouted with every ounce of strength in her spirit:
— "You are a monster! And I will never obey you... I know my father is coming, and he will tear this place apart to save me from you!"
Julian's manicured features contorted into a mask of pure, unbridled rage. The coldness in his eyes ignited into a psychotic fire. He delivered a savage backhand slap that sent Yara's small body flying across the stone floor, shouting furiously:
— "You insolent piece of trash! How dare you speak back to me? I brought you here to be silent ornaments for my estate, nothing more! Guards! Drag this brat to solitary confinement... I shall personally handle her discipline tonight."
The moment his hand struck Yara's face, I felt something tear violently inside my chest. It wasn't just the echoing sound of a slap; it was the sound of every remaining ounce of my sanity shattering into pieces. I lunged forward like a rabid animal, the iron shackles biting deep into my wrists. I wanted to rip his throat out with my bare teeth, but the dozens of cold rifle barrels pressed hard against my chest reminded me of the cruel reality: my death now meant leaving her entirely unprotected forever.
The guards dragged the weeping girls back into the iron cells amidst their hysterical screams, leaving us paralyzed by absolute helplessness and heavy chains. Julian turned on his heel to re-enter his luxurious sanctuary, pausing for a fraction of a second on the brass threshold without looking back at us. He spoke to his captain in a flat tone dripping with absolute death:
— "Since these dogs have laid eyes on things they should never have seen... execute them all. And ensure not a single trace of their bodies is ever found."