The basement smelled like every other basement he had ever been in... like old concrete and rust that was really the smell of long dried blood.
It was the kind of smell that settled into your lungs and stayed there, metallic and damp, mixing with the faint copper tang of fresh blood that hadn't quite dried yet.
Dante stood in the center of the room, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands already stained red.
The guard in front of him was tied to a chair bolted to the floor.
His name was Eric, twenty-eight years old and had been on his payroll for four years. He had been a good solider all that time. His record was clean without a single blemish up until three days ago when he'd been on rotation during the window Mila was taken.
Marco had pulled him from the holding room upstairs and dragged him down here an hour ago.
He hadn't said a word yet.
