The smoke bomb thrown by the journalist detonated, sending up a thick, gray cloud that felt like our very souls escaping. In that moment, through the stifling coughs and the frantic cries of the guards firing blindly into the mist, my memory pulled me back to that dark night... the night we laid the plan over a decaying wooden table smelling of tobacco and despair.
The journalist had pinned the mine's map with a knife driven into the table's heart, whispering like a snake:
— "If we enter that den, we may not all come out. If they surround us, only one must escape. One to carry the truth, to carry our vengeance, and to free the girls. There is no room for collective heroism here—only for strategic survival."
The choice fell on Edward. One of the fathers, wiping his tears, asked: "Why Edward? My daughter needs me."
Edward placed a steady hand on the man's shoulder; his grip was firm despite the horror of the situation.
— "Friends," he said, "back in high school, no one could catch me on the track. I won the gold medal three years in a row. Though time has left its mark on my face, my legs still carry the speed of the wind. I swear before God, if I escape, I will be the father to all your daughters. I will care for your families as if they were my own."
At that second, the fathers' looks shifted from fear to surrender. They smiled faint, ghostly smiles—the signing of their own death warrants so that Edward might live to finish the journey.
Back to the hellish reality...
The battle was suicidal in every sense of the word. I saw the fathers throw their bodies over the muzzles of rifles to keep the guards from aiming at us. James was striking out like a madman, his hands and head swinging wildly as bullets tore through the gray mist. The guards dragged Julian—who was foaming with the rage of a wounded beast—toward his wooden manor.
When the smoke cleared slightly, the bodies began to appear like mounds of human flesh. The captain of the guard stood trembling as he counted the dead, then whispered in terror:
— "Sir... three of them have vanished. Edward, James, and the journalist!"
Julian turned, and with a lightning-fast motion, his palm struck the captain's face with a slap that nearly unhinged him.
— "You castrated scum! How did three rats escape through the hands of an army?"
Julian stormed toward the cellar of the house, where the stench of death and rot hung heavy. There, in a dark corner, sat a man who did not resemble a human. Hulking, cold-featured, he wore a strange tattoo of the "John Dread Organization." He was toyed with a small girl who trembled like a bird drenched in rain.
The man didn't look at Julian; he said in a voice as raspy as thorns:
— "I heard a noise outside... you've spoiled my fun."
Julian screamed: "They escaped! I want their heads now!"
The man paused, then looked at Julian with dead eyes:
— "I'll bring you their heads. But this girl no longer excites me. I want a new one... a virgin, untouched by fear."
Julian nodded frantically: "Whatever you want. Just kill them!"
Outside the mine, the rocky ground bit into our feet as we sprinted through the dead of night. The journalist gasped painfully:
— "The truck... behind that ridge... hurry!"
But suddenly, the blood froze in our veins. Emerging from behind a giant boulder was that dark figure, the beast from John Dread. He stood with terrifying stillness, wiping a long blade with a piece of cloth.
He said coldly:
— "Don't exhaust yourselves running. The distance between us is but the length of a blade. I have a new girl waiting for me, and I don't like to be late."
James ignited with fury. He remembered his daughter, Alexia, and Mortimer's filthy face. He screamed at us, taking a fighting stance:
— "Edward! Journalist! Get to the truck! I'll buy you the time you need... GO!"
We hesitated for a heartbeat, but James pushed us with a roar:
— "RUN!"
The journalist said bitterly: "Your sacrifice won't be in vain, I promise!"
As we ran, I glanced back one last time, and the sight was a nightmare. The beast moved with impossible speed; he seemed to fly over the rocks. In less than a second, he was behind James. The blade flashed in the dim light, and with a precise, mechanical motion, he slit James's throat from ear to ear. James didn't scream; he fell like an ancient oak tree, his wide eyes watching our departure... watching his last hope.
The journalist threw his last smoke bomb at our feet so we could vanish from the sight of that human predator. We reached the truck; I threw myself behind the wheel and ignited the engine madly. As I sped away, I saw in the side mirror the assassin sprinting behind us, his speed rivaling the engine. He was closing in with terrifying slowness.
Then, the journalist turned to me, his face as pale as ash. He pressed a rusted metal key into my hand and squeezed hard:
— "Edward, listen to me... if he catches us, we both die. Go to my house on the edge of town. You'll find a hidden room behind the bookshelf. There lies all my research, every photo and document that incriminates John Dread and Mortimer. It is the only bullet left in our gun."
Before I could grasp his meaning, he kicked open the door of the speeding truck and leapt!
I saw him hit the ground and then lunge with all his weight at the assassin, who was about to jump into the back of the vehicle. They locked in a death struggle on the dirt as I mustered every ounce of courage and slammed the gas pedal, tears burning my eyes. I left my dearest comrade behind in the gut of the darkness, heading toward the "locked room"... toward the truth that must be published in blood.