36. Typhon

36

TYPHON

I 'd made it as far as Athens before I was detained by the "authorities" when I exited the aircraft. It was my third stop since leaving London. Next, I'd planned to head to Malta and remain there under my brother's protection until I could determine if my cover had truly been blown. I got my answer when the men dressed in uniforms led me out of the terminal and into a lift where they knocked me unconscious.

When I woke, I was in a dark, musty-smelling room. I was bound to a chair, surrounded by men wielding various weapons ranging from a baseball bat to an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. They'd used at least one of them on me while I was unconscious, either that or beaten me with their fists, given the pounding in my head and my left eye, which was swollen closed. I could taste the metallic tinge of blood, which meant they'd likely punched me in the mouth too. I was too dry to try to wet my lips to find out.

Even though I couldn't see any of the faces hidden behind their masks, I knew who they were, or at least who they worked for.

While I had no real idea of the passage of time, given how often I was unconscious, I guessed I'd been held captive approximately thirty-six hours. In that time, I'd refused to divulge a fucking thing. In fact, I hadn't uttered as much as a single word.

A man approached and grabbed me by the back of my head, pulling my hair so I faced him. "What do they know?" he asked in an accent that sounded more English than Italian. However, in the haze brought on by whatever drugs they'd given me, coupled with the concussion I likely had, I couldn't place from what region. The other thing I couldn't understand for the same reason was the meaning of his question. What did who know? When my only response was a sneer, another guy hit me so hard that the chair I was in fell backwards. My head hit the concrete floor, and I blacked out.

The beatings continued, yet still, I refused to speak. I had several broken bones, including all my fingers, multiple places where I'd been burned with cigarettes, and more wounds on my torso, where they'd held a hot stick to my flesh.

I was asked the same and similar questions repeatedly. What did I know? What did they know? How much did they know?

During periods of relative lucidity, I figured I'd been taken hostage less than twenty-four hours after receiving the kill order issued by Gerlando Battaglia, head of the Sicilian Syndicate, also known as Macellaio, on Valerio Scaglione, head of the Calabrian crime organization. Less than an hour later, Scaglione had issued the same on Macellaio. While there were other hit men, they could've contracted with, and probably had, both men had called upon me to take out the other.

That it came in the wake of me falling head-over-heels in love was, in a word, tragic.

I'd sworn, vowed, given my oath to die not just for my country, but for freedom throughout the world. When my time came—which may be within a few short hours from now—I prayed I could show the same courage and bravery the man I considered my mentor had when he'd died in action.

I came to, blinking in rapid succession when a ghost stood before me. I had to be dead, but fuck, if I was, why was I still in so much pain? I closed my eyes for several seconds, then opened them again.

The man was still in front of me but was now seated in a backwards chair, his arms folded and resting on the top rung.

I shook my head, blinked a few more times, then focused on his face. I had to be hallucinating. No way in hell—which is where I likely was—could Jekyll be seated in front of me.

"Hello, Typhon," he said in a voice as familiar to me as my own.