The cold metal of a pistol barrel pressed against Dean's forehead, the dim light flickering above casting deep shadows on the man holding the weapon. A rugged man in his mid-thirties, scruffy beard, and a scar running across his cheek glared at him.
"Who the hell are you?" the man barked.
Dean kept his expression neutral, his hands slightly raised in mock surrender. The tension in the room was suffocating. He could feel Marcus and Robert tense behind him. The man's fingers hovered over the trigger, his stance firm.
Marcus cleared his throat. "We're here to help. We spoke over the radio."
The man narrowed his eyes but slowly lowered his gun. "Name's Randall. I run security here."
Dean smirked. "Security? Seems like you're doing a bang-up job."
Randall ignored the jab and gestured for them to follow. "Come on. The senator will want to speak to you." And asked who is the leader Dean then points out to Marcus.
As they moved deeper into the building, Dean and Marcus exchanged a glance. They were having an entire conversation without speaking:
Dean: "You got this."
Marcus: "Why the hell am I the leader?"
Dean: "Because I said so."
Marcus: "Fine, but you owe me."
Marcus cleared his throat. "Yes, I am the leader, Marcus," he said, forcing confidence into his voice. "Let's talk."
Randall barely acknowledged the introduction as he led them further inside. As they passed through the hallway, Dean's eyes darted around, taking in details: six guards stationed at key points, all armed with semi-automatics. Their expressions were sharp, hardened men who had seen violence. Their fingers hovered near their triggers.
Dean subtly leaned toward Robert. "I'm gonna take a look around," he whispered.
Robert tensed slightly but nodded. "Got it."
Dean put on an exaggerated grimace. "Uh… I need to hit the bathroom. Where is it?"
Randall scoffed, clearly annoyed. "Down the hall, last door on the left."
Robert played along. "Man, it's been hours since we left. Let the guy take a dump in peace."
Randall rolled his eyes but didn't protest. Dean nodded and walked off, making sure his steps were casual, unhurried. Once he was out of sight, he made a sharp turn down a stairwell leading to the lower levels.
As soon as he reached the basement, the smell hit him. A mix of sweat, filth, and something worse—despair. The dim, flickering lights illuminated rows of cages. Inside, people huddled together, their eyes wide and hollow. Some were too weak to move. Others had fresh bruises and cuts. Dean clenched his fists.
On the far side, several women were tied in ropes, stripped down to barely anything. Some were crying, others silent—defeated. Dean felt something burn deep inside him. The old memories came rushing back. The screams, the pleading voices, the way Thomas and his men laughed as they toyed with people like they were nothing more than entertainment.
He exhaled through his nose. So even this early, Thomas is starting his sick games.
Dean looked at the horror before him, his fingers twitching near the machete on his belt.
Not today. Not anymore.
Straightening up, Dean turned and made his way back up the stairs. He had seen enough.
It was time to end Thomas for good.