Vladimir Pov

The interrogation chamber was a sterile, steel-clad box tucked deep inside the temporary base near Kavala. The air was thick with the faint metallic scent of old blood and the acrid sting of ozone from the nearby surveillance equipment. Marco, the Sicilian lieutenant, was secured, but I was not interested in his pathetic life anymore. He had given up the bunker location; his utility had expired.

I was focused on the newer acquisition: a low-ranking Spanish capo named Rafael, ...