The makeshift smoke bomb thrown by the journalist detonated with a sharp hiss, sending up a thick, choking gray cloud that felt like our very souls escaping into the damp mountain air. In that chaotic moment, through the stifling coughs of the guards and the frantic, blind muzzle flashes ripping into the mist, my memory violently pulled me back to that dark night... the night we had laid our desperate plan over a decaying wooden table smelling of stale tobacco and sheer despair.
The journalist had pinned the hand-drawn map of the Mortimer mine with a heavy hunting knife driven straight into the table's heart, whispering like a venomous snake into the candlelight:
— "If we enter that den, gentlemen, we may not all walk out. If they surround us, only one must escape at all costs. One to carry the truth back to London, to carry our collective vengeance, and to free our girls. There is no room for collective heroism here—only for strategic survival."
The bitter choice had fallen on me. One of the fathers, wiping cold tears from his hollow cheeks, had asked in a broken voice: "Why Edward? My little girl needs her father."
I had placed a steady hand on the man's trembling shoulder; my grip was firm despite the horror clawing at my throat.
— "Friends," I told them, "back in our school days, no one in the county could catch me on the cinder track. I held the sprinting medals three years running. Though time and the bakery ovens have left their marks on my face, my legs still carry the speed of the wind. I swear before Almighty God, if I am the one who escapes, I will be the father to all your daughters. I will protect your families as if they were my own blood."
At that second, the fathers' glances had shifted from desperate terror to a quiet, heartbreaking surrender. They had smiled faint, ghostly smiles—the silent signing of their own death warrants so that I might live to finish the heavy journey.
Back to the hellish reality of the mine...
The breakout was suicidal in every sense of the word. Through the thick haze, I saw the broken fathers throw their bare bodies directly over the hot muzzles of the rifles, using their own flesh to keep the guards from aiming at us. James was striking out like a madman, his fists swinging blindly as lead bullets tore through the gray mist. In the distance, the guards frantically dragged Julian Mortimer—who was foaming with the psychotic rage of a wounded beast—toward the safety of his pristine wooden lodge.
When the smoke cleared slightly, the stone floor was littered with bodies like mounds of discarded human flesh. The captain of the guard stood trembling violently as he counted the casualties, before turning to whisper in absolute terror into the field telephone:
— "Sir... three of them have vanished from the perimeter. Edward, James, and the journalist!"
Julian stormed out of the lodge, and with a lightning-fast motion, his manicured hand struck the captain across the face with a brutal slap that nearly unhinged the man's jaw.
— "You castrated scum!" Julian screamed, his aristocratic veneer completely shattering. "How did three illiterate rats escape through the hands of an armed garrison?"
Julian spun around and marched down toward the reinforced cellar of the house, where the sickening stench of damp rot hung heavy. There, sitting in a dark corner on a crate, sat a figure that scarcely resembled a human being. Hulking, with cold, dead features, he bore a stark, unsettling tattoo on his massive forearm—the mark of the John Dread Syndicate. He was casually playing with a small, terrified girl who was trembling like a bird drenched in freezing rain.
The massive killer didn't even look up at Julian's frantic entrance; he spoke in a voice as raspy as scraping thorns:
— "I heard the noise topside... you've spoiled my amusement, Mortimer."
Julian screamed, his voice cracking with anxiety: "They escaped! I want their heads, do you hear me? Now!"
The hulking man paused, slowly turning his dead eyes toward the aristocrat:
— "I will bring you their heads. But this stock no longer interests me; the terror has already broken her spirit. I want a fresh one for my collection... an untouched soul, one that hasn't learned to fear me yet."
Julian nodded frantically, completely desperate to cover his tracks: "Whatever you want! Any child you select from the parish logs. Just hunt them down and kill them!"
Outside the cavern, the jagged rocky ground bit viciously into our boots as we sprinted through the dead of night. The journalist gasped painfully, his lungs burning:
— "The flatbed truck... hidden behind that ridge... hurry!"
But suddenly, the blood froze solid in our veins. Emerging from behind a giant limestone boulder was that very same dark figure—the human predator from the John Dread Syndicate. He stood with terrifying, absolute stillness in the moonlight, slowly wiping a long, curved blade with a stained piece of cloth.
He spoke with freezing, clinical detachment:
— "Don't exhaust your lungs running, gentlemen. The distance between us is merely the length of my blade. I have a new prize waiting for me in the cells, and I deeply despise being kept late."
James ignited with a sudden, beautiful fury. The image of his captured daughter, Alexia, and the memory of Mortimer's mocking face flashed through his mind. He screamed at us, dropping into a low, desperate fighting stance:
— "Edward! Journalist! Get to the truck! I'll buy you the seconds you need... GO!"
We hesitated for a terrible heartbeat, but James pushed us back with a roaring command:
— "RUN, YOU IDIOTS!"
The journalist said bitterly, his teeth clenched: "Your sacrifice won't be in vain, James. I swear it!"
As we sprinted up the ridge, I glanced back one final time, and the sight was a living nightmare. The beast moved with an impossible, predatory agility; he seemed to glide effortlessly over the jagged rocks. In less than a breath, he had closed the distance, slipping right behind James's guard. The curved blade flashed like silver in the dim moonlight, and with a precise, mechanical motion, he slit James's throat from ear to ear. James didn't scream; he fell heavily like an ancient oak tree, his wide, dying eyes watching our departure... watching his last hope drive away into the dark.
The journalist threw his final smoke canister at our heels so we could vanish from the sight of that human monster. We reached the hidden truck; I threw myself behind the heavy steering wheel, desperately pulling the choke and grinding the starter until the engine roared madly to life.
As I slammed the truck into gear and sped down the treacherous mountain path, I glanced into the rusted side mirror. The assassin was sprinting down the ridge, utilizing the sharp, steep cuts of the mountain trails to cut off our exit. Because the ancient truck had to slow down significantly to navigate the treacherous, narrow bends, the predator was closing in with terrifying, inevitable slowness.
Then, the journalist turned to me, his face as pale as ash in the dashboard light. He pressed a heavy, rusted metal key into my palm and squeezed my fingers shut over it with immense force:
— "Edward, listen to me very carefully... if he catches us both here, the truth dies. Go to my safehouse on the eastern edge of town. Behind the main bookshelf, you'll find a hidden latch. There lies all my research—every photograph, every ledger, and every official document that incriminates both John Dread and Mortimer Holdings. It is the only bullet left in our gun."
Before I could even grasp the horrific weight of his words, the journalist kicked open the passenger door of the speeding truck and leapt out into the darkness!
Through the dust, I saw his body hit the dirt road, roll violently, and then lunge with all his remaining weight directly at the legs of the assassin, who was just about to leap onto the vehicle's rear flatbed. They locked in a brutal, desperate death struggle in the dirt.
Mustering every ounce of agonizing courage left in my soul, I slammed my boot down on the gas pedal, tears of burning rage blinding my vision. I left my dearest comrade behind in the literal gut of the darkness, roaring down the mountain toward that locked room... toward the terrible truth that had been purchased with the blood of righteous men.