John sat bound to a cold chair in a white room. Buzzing fluorescents cast their haze off a table set before him and put a blur in his eyes. The events of the morning were just as hazy. Confusion and darkness smeared the hours together, and pulling out the pieces did nothing to keep his stomach from clenching. What have I done? What am I becoming? 

        Drops of sweat slid out to be caught in the cradling curls of dark hair stuck to his forehead. Every drop carried a muddle of racing thoughts spinning out of his head. He was trembling.

        It was getting easier to slip into the anger. The obsessive hate. Its lasting urge groped its way someplace safe inside him, nesting where it could unravel without effort and call him to madness. He needed someone to cut him open so he could sift through the muck and pull out the rot. 

        As he was led into the Javelin holding facility, John hadn’t been able to recognize himself in the reflection of the passing windows. He saw only terrified faces of the dead–his dead. Each one he’d claimed brought out a strange, satisfied smile beneath his skin that pulled him closer to the Phantom. Parts of John were being cut away by the murders, spreading black, inhuman ink through his veins. The Phantom’s call surged through him louder than ever.

        But I wanted this, didn’t I? It’s what I prayed for. John had pleaded for revenge the night his father died. An insatiable craving for hatred had filled his bones and soul. And for that, something answered, and he was cursed.

        “Be warm. A culling is not shameful,” Nuria whispered on the edge of his ear. Her lip dragged down and along his jaw. Sharpened nails at the ends of her frail fingers drummed over the table, though no one seemed to notice. “Bad men can’t stand between us. Us.”

        Us. Pitchless letters dug in through the roof of his mouth and behind his eyes so he could not ignore them. The Phantom found it simpler to communicate now.

        Its shadow loomed at his back. He knew German stood guard behind him, but some greater, seeping thing pressed itself into the corners of his foresight. It thrummed with the energy of Nuria’s words.

        “Men will fall for you to stand,” she muttered more closely.

        “I didn’t want him to die,” John thought of Shahzar. The nomad had been a spectre of kindness, a proof of magic, and a promise that somewhere was a place for John to be safe and protected from himself. A tremor gripped the muscles behind his eyes, and he lowered his head to the table. Silently, he shuddered. 

        “Hush,” Nuria draped a touchless arm over him. “It was given willingly.”

        German twisted his shoulders, ripping John out of thought and returning him to the room of glaring concrete. He winced. It was the same room from the start, with the same men pointing and shouting. This time, however, the Captain stood between him and his accusers.

        “Is this necessary?” George gestured to John. “John isn’t the enemy; no need to treat him like one.”

        “The way things have been going, he should never have left confinement. He’s dangerous,” Nolan said, pacing. “You’ll abide by my precautions.”

         “John wasn’t the danger. By the time we landed, it was over,” George folded his arms in a wide, hard-nosed stance. “The nomads gave no room for a decisive approach. He bought us what time we had to ensure the package was secured as it was.”

        John’s face bent in disbelief. A faint hope rose in his gut, bewildering as it was that the Captain was standing on his side.

        Nolan stepped against George’s position. “Securing the package was an eventuality. Getting everyone killed shouldn’t have been. You sent an animal to do your job–for what? To save some rebels?” Nolan threw a hand up with a bleak guffaw. “You let Shahzar dictate the engagement, Davy. This should have been clean–if you’d pushed for it.”

        John’s spine bristled with a spiteful chill. How could Nolan understand? He wasn’t there! A twinge pinched the muscles in John’s face, and an overwhelming sense of agreement warmed his chest. The thrumming crooned quietly behind him.  

        “What would you have had me do? Abandon my team? Take a horse and charge headfirst into the slaughter? Maybe I should have shot Shahzar in the back–remove the distraction. They were fighting for their lives, Nolan,” George leaned closer to the liaison, miming his gesture with a fling of his hand.

        “They were dead anyway. Said it yourself, the enemy combatants were specialists–had the rebels broken before you were even deployed. A well-placed shot would have scattered them,” Nolan took a step closer, unbuttoning his black suit jacket. “But both sides are dead, casualties on our side too–a man in critical condition, and nothing to go on but your hearsay!” Nolan stuck a damning finger out at the Captain.

        “And that’s no good?” George met his approach, letting Nolan’s finger bend against his chest.

        “Mr. Horne, let’s keep this discussion civilized–Captain Davy is not the linchpin you’re looking for,” Harper said flatly. The Commander and Lochte stood opposite each other on either side of the room. Their faces were sober, darkening with each provocation Nolan and George made between them. 

        Watching the liaison test the Captain’s poise put a sweet taste on John’s tongue. Take one more step. See what happens. John knew the Captain’s anger. He deserved to unleash it on someone deserving. 

        John wasn’t alone in that sentiment. An agreeable buzz hummed down his back like the pleasure of a lover’s fingers. John shook out the feeling like a chill. 

        “He knows something. Someone does,” Nolan retucked his shirt and looked about the room. He was close to raving. “I’ve been running on nothing but assurances that these attacks have been nothing but the works of deranged, rebel infighting. Ambush after ambush. Static–nothing! Did everyone forget I took a bullet? Did we learn anything about that? Or am I to understand we’re just coasting along until each one of us gets shot?”

        “It’s Yeger,” George blew air up through his mustache. The muscles in his jaw worked back the words he didn’t say.

        “And who the hell is that?” 

        Harper sighed. “Perhaps if you took my recommendation to coordinate with the Soviets, we could discover who’s behind this quicker. Create a joint effort. Dead civilians don't look good for them either.”

        “Out of the question,” Nolan cut the air. “This is contained. Any interaction with the Russians now would be a detriment to our work and risk national embarrassment. I’m not owning that!”

        “I have to agree with Mr. Horne,” said Lochte, fiddling with the cufflink on his sleeve. “Intelligence continues to suggest the Soviets remain unaware of this rogue organization. Exposing them now ties American expats to illegal trafficking of radioactive material, something we are not prepared to explain. I advise discretion.” 

        “Discretion. The kind that kills every man we get our hands on?” Nolan removed his jacket and tossed it near the wall beside a stack of empty coffee mugs. Sweat dampened his underarms. “I have to go from here to a call with Langley and explain why a group of dead expats were smuggling radioactive slag, why a two-time defector scientist is overseeing its processing, and why the captain of my task force has become a liability to everything we’re doing here!” Nolan’s face turned red, his voice shrill. “Give me some fucking answers!”

        “The Captain acted according to preapproved directive–” Harper’s words were cut off by George’s sudden movement. Lochte’s eyes flashed. John’s lungs lifted.

        George took Nolan by the collar. “If you’d let me do my goddamn job, I’d have those answers. Instead, you had us sitting in your little meeting watching you jerk off under the table. Liability. We’re behind because of you!”

        “Your dog needs to be put down, Pascal,” Nolan looked up at George, relishing the outburst. “Where’s the soldier I was promised, huh? All I see is a nepotistic, Army runaway with blind ambition.” Nolan spun in George’s hand to face Lochte. “He another investment? Think Astra Braga’s gonna cut you a development deal when his daddy finds out his long lost son’s out here playing cowboy?”

        George wrenched the man near off his feet, glowering into the nook of his nose.

        “Think I don’t know what you are?” Nolan bared his teeth. “That’s one bloodstained paper trail you’ve got. Shame you lost your edge for wetwork. Troy might still be sitting pretty with the rest of you instead of rotting on a gurney.”

        “George,” Lochte hissed. The Captain’s head clicked to the side, then he unplucked his fingers from the liaison’s shirt. George did not move away, though. Nolan glared up at him, pulling out the wrinkles from his collar as Lochte edged towards them with a hand extended. “The expats could have been spared, yes, but as the Captain so plainly noted, it was not chance that delivered this outcome.”

        “No, not chance. Just bad investments,” Nolan paced a semicircle around the Captain, their eyes locked. “The problem is staring you all in the face,” he shot a finger towards John. “Hasn’t this experiment gone on long enough? How many deaths do you need to understand you’ve been coddling a psychopath? He shouldn’t even be here!”

        “Horne. Davy. Enough!” Harper parted them from one another. He paused to tug his green dress jacket back in place. “Have some decorum. I want something clean to hand over to Central Intelligence.” George stood back, returning to his high-chinned stance. Nolan ran a hand through his hair, a daggered look in his eye. Harper sighed. “Horne is right, Pascal. I don’t think this is working. Is it really worth it to drag him around like this?”

        “More than ever,” Lochte said gravely. He lingered on John. “He knows the position he is in right now. One more chance for cooperation. Any information withheld  now would yield absolute consequences.” 

        John swallowed, searching his memory for the secrets he might hold. What else could he say that they didn’t already know? Lochte was always a step ahead. They all were. Only John seemed to remain in perpetual darkness. 

        George shifted on his feet, his hand clenching at his side. John watched him conceal it in the pocket of the Captain’s fresh trousers, the tendons flexing in his wrist. John froze, his tongue between his teeth. 

        The note. The Captain had left it out of his recount of the mission. John initially thought that meant the paper was meaningless, just some parchment he felt called to pull from the carrier. But now–John’s fingers anxiously tapped the frame of his chair. Why didn’t the Captain mention the note?

        “Back on track then,” Harper said. He held his hands behind his back, appearing taller than he was in his age. “This rogue group, what do we know?” 

        A halo of fluorescent light set on Lochte’s bowed head as he began. “Yeger, or ‘Huntsman’ when translated, emerged in the 1960s–ex-Spetsnaz roots. The American expats we’ve encountered appear to be second-generation. New recruits. The group specializes in asset acquisition. As we suspected, these services are rendered strictly on a private basis. Black market ghosts, no association with formal governments.” Lochte pushed back the tail of his jacket to slide his hands into his pockets. Something about the way Lochte meandered on his concrete stage, pulling the attention away from John, irritated him. The more they drifted from him, the more his skin prickled.

        “So some oligarch’s targeting us for the hell of it,” Harper scoffed. “Who’s paying ‘em?”

        “Unconfirmed. However, their targeting of Javelin operations is in retaliation,” said Lochte. He bent his chin in acknowledgement of the question on everyone’s lips. “The reason eluded us for some time. Analysis of prior operations revealed nothing. Before recent coordination with Ahmed Shahzar, Javelin missions consisted of standard patrols and resupply efforts for the Mujahideen. That is, if we do not include the night of Dr. Nikolaev’s death.”

        “John,” George said. John’s chest tightened. The name felt so distant. “The retaliation? Saether?”

        “That fucker,” Nolan rubbed his arm. “So he’s in with them?”

        Lochte nodded. “Likely. As you are aware, we were only able to locate Dr. Nikolaev and recover the boy by intercepting Soviet radio chatter.”

        The boy? The words set John’s molars to grinding. That’s how they saw him, a lost boy in their custody. It needed to stop. 

        Nuria brushed beside him, kneeling to rest her head on his stiffened shoulder. You are a boy to them, a child they’d like to abandon. Kill, run–act before you’re discarded. John shivered, unable to tell if those words had been his own thoughts or a hallucination. It unnerved him how difficult it was to know for certain. 

        But Nuria hummed and soothed him, letting him forget the worry as she held the end of his ear with a thumb and forefinger, softly massaging the flesh. Distracted with comfort, he turned away from thoughts of voices to the agitation growing between his ribs. They don’t care about me, John reminded himself. It’s plain on their faces. Shadows at his back thrummed with agreement, emboldening his resentment.

        John lifted his gaze back to the room and found it stretching away. It became a long, curving hall bending down into the dark. Lochte led the others to turn their backs and dip deeper beyond the horizon, his tawny loafers clacking throughout the chamber as their figures warped beneath the light. John’s stomach swirled with the sharpening light, and a humming in his head grew without pause.

        He saw George, and through the vertigo seemed to catch him glancing back at him. There was a twinge in his eye that John couldn’t place. But he, too, turned away. They were leaving John to the curling heat of his stomach and a swelling tongue in his mouth.

        You feel what they feel for you. John squeezed his eyes, his head spinning. Sickness, frustration, they want to be rid of you like an illness.

        Lochte continued to speak, but his voice bounced as if from a tunnel, thumping in all directions. “We transcribed Russian communications from that night. Nothing irregular. However, a few non-military broadcasts were recorded as well, one of which occurred shortly before the raid. It seemed irrelevant at the time.”

        John fell forward against the digging of German’s fingertips. His twisting stomach made him salivate, and his skin itched beneath his clothes. The more they talked about the night of his father’s death, the more he needed to break free and run. The warmth seeping under his skin urged him to speak, to cry out against his imprisonment. Several times, he came close to bursting, the shadows shivering with excitement to compel him on. But he couldn’t find his voice. His tongue stuck to the back of his throat. Only sweat escaped the layers of his insufferably warm flesh. 

        “Tell them,” Nuria’s cold nose nudged his cheek. “They put you away so easily because you’re weak. You have to show them you’re not.”

        Break free.

        Nuria slipped to his other side. “When have you done anything for yourself? Because you wanted it?”

        Reach. Take hold. 

        Paper unfolded. Lochte held a report up in his hand and waved it about the room. “The message was frantic–a man pleading for salvation. He spoke of his betrayal of the good Dr. Nikolaev.” John felt the chill of Lochte’s eyes on him, piercing deep from the lengthening shadows. His skin prickled, the air stilling, and         John listened.

        Thrumming continued in John’s ears. Waiting. Curious.

        Lochte cleared his throat and enunciated as he read the report aloud. “Do you read me? Please, do you read–?–some Russian expletives–I know you’re listening. Yeger. My name is Moisey Moryakov. I have betrayed Viktor Nikolaev. The KGB is coming for him–and they have betrayed me. I am a defector and will receive only death as a reward. But he’s important to you, I know this. Listen. You helped him defect from the Soviet Union. I know because I discovered your agent and their secrets–who Viktor really is, and the boy. Help me and I will tell you where they are before they are killed.”

        John was yanked back against his seat, his mouth close to frothing. Moisey. That name was a seething poison in his ears. All along, that pig feigned care for them, for his father. I really thought he stood for something. 

        “A defector?” Harper said. “Explains the desperation. We’re dealing with the aftermath of his testimony, then. Any details beyond a name?”

        “No. The transmission was terminated shortly after,” Lochte raised the report once more. “His final words were–I know your name. I’m not afraid to say it–then the frequency was cut. As no similar broadcasts have been heard, it’s assumed someone got to him first.”

        “Maybe the agent he mentioned,” said Nolan. He set his hands on his hips and stared down at the reflection in his polished, black shoes. “Maybe that’s Ambrose Saether?”

        “Impossible to tell,” Lochte shook his head. “Any clues left in Andam-Sarbani have long been scrubbed. Nothing was mentioned of an agent in the documents we pulled from Nikolaev’s home. It’s possible he knew nothing of the agent’s existence.”

        “So, this defector was responsible for Dr. Nikolaev’s death,” George noted. He set a knuckle against the center of his mustached lip and frowned. “He referred to a boy. I think we know who he’s talking about.”

        They all turned to John. The room suddenly collapsed on him, squeezing in with a flash of their eyes and the screaming lights above. John coiled in his seat, startled by what they might think of him now.

        George was pensive. Harper and Lochte exchanged a look, but Nolan bore his disdain directly into John’s soul. The hair on his arms stood up, and the thrumming at his back clicked vocally like an open throat to mock him. John scowled.

        “There, there’s your agent,” Nolan stuck out a rigid finger from across the room.

        No. John’s mouth trembled. His lungs were crushed.

        “He’s been here the whole time!” Nolan’s voice rose, eager to spill his hate. “Coddled and defended from the beginning–he’s been the leak you’ve been looking for! Nikolaev’s death, Saether’s ambush–safehouse locations, all looted, our weapons used to kill civilians. Americans–dead on Russian turf! You let him sleep in our beds, but his bloody hand’s been there from the beginning!”

        “No!” John cried out. His flesh sweltered with fear and outrage, and his ears rushed with an ocean of pumping blood. It was only too much. A fire burst inside him, Nolan’s fatal damnation the strike needed to set John alight. “It’s not me!”

        John’s eyes were wild. Darkness bled its tendrils into the corners of his vision. And ahead, a shadow none could see spoke out from the closed door.

        Caged. Concluded. S-seek and reach.

        “I think we’re done here,” Harper jutted in front of Nolan. The liaison parted him easily with an open palm, his unblinking eyes locked on John.

        “Look!” Nolan snapped. “Completely unstable–an animal!”

        “You’re antagonizing him!” George lurched towards the liaison. He put a hand on the man’s arm.

        Nuria appeared at the end of the room. She stood delicately, ankles knocked together, her hand floating for the door. She smiled at John, causing his lungs to burn. No, no, no, John’s heart fluttered. Don’t let it in–I don’t want it!

        “Don’t! Please–let me go! Let me–” John’s mouth was slapped shut by German’s giant palm, but he continued to thrash. For a moment, it seemed he might wriggle free, but he froze as the door opened. It swung silently to an endless cavern from which the inky figure came. 

        The Phantom stepped into the room, its ivory face tilting from the light. Fangs and rowed teeth parted between the twitching black sinew of its jaw. It paused just beyond the door, head turned, its clawed fingers stretching at the ends of dripping, black arms. It then looked at John. 

        Splitting pain shot through John’s head, sending tears streaming into his vision. Nuria stood beside the Phantom, taking its hand in hers. Both stared from across the room, grinning while John’s head threatened to explode.

        “John,” Nuria said simply. Her soft voice raged in his head, popping blood vessels behind his eyes. He tasted metal.

        Just break free. And come, take hold. They raised an open arm to him. Beckoning. It was kind.

        “The fuck is happening?” George exclaimed, rounding on John.

        “H-having, sort of seizure,” German’s voice boomed from somewhere as he wrestled with John’s shaking. “Captain–he’s out of the cuffs–his wrist is broken. Ankles–broken foot, I think–help me!”

        John was numb to his splitting bones. Shrieking, writhing agony coursed through his head, dulling all else. He threw himself against the restraints in a frenzy, anything to break free of the Phantom’s gaze. Every passing second, its presence drew closer, its unseen tendrils prodding John’s frail mind. He couldn’t let it touch him. He stomped his feet and wrung his torso until some part of him broke with a juicy crack.

        “Christ,” Harper’s voice recoiled from all around. His silhouette moved in a haze. “Get the hell out of here, Horne, we’re done!” The Commander’s green shape melded with Nolan’s dark to push him out of the room, all the while Nolan continued to shout with scorn. But the derisive words took no form in John’s ears.

        “Call Dr. Gambin–we’ll steady him,” the blurred image of George turned the corner of the table and took John by the arms. John felt himself tilt down to the floor, the weight of two men pressing him against the concrete.

        The Phantom’s beckoning repeated over and over. It was an endless groan scraping his skull from the inside out. John wrenched his jaw open to scream, but no sound came. Blood bubbled out as he breathed, sensing he had been biting into his own tongue. He felt none of it, only the ceaseless aching. 

        Hours of agony seemed to pass when a scuffling brushed over the rough floor. Bobbing heads moved over John’s darkening view. Muttered voices drummed in the distance. He felt a jab in his neck, and suddenly the connection with the Phantom was cut, and the words it spoke turned to mush. Moments later, his muscles too fell limp.

        “Let it pass,” Lochte’s echo called out. “All of you, go. Yes, I want a moment with him. Both of you, too–go.” 

        Shadows fluttered, and John felt the hands that dug in his flesh lift away. He remained on the floor, partly tied to the chair, overcome with calmness. Comfortable warmth. The remains of the aching receded into his core, alive but quieted. 

        Lochte’s wide shoulders bent over him, his blue eyes twinkling through John’s blurred vision. “The Commander was right. This isn’t working. You need time, John. To appease Horne, you’re to be grounded–restricted from field operations.” He paused to crouch, lowering himself nearer to John’s ear. “The Captain failed to mention your encounter within the carrier. Your exposure to the black glass inside? You were unaffected. Exciting, isn’t it? Oh, your squad saw the whole thing. They think you’re a monster. Today didn’t help.” Lochte turned towards the doorway as if someone might be listening. A soft ringing sang from somewhere deep inside John’s head. Lochte snapped back to John’s ear, his breath hot on his face. “Use this time to prove otherwise–feign the prisoner, avoid Horne, but gain my unit’s trust. There will be work for you.”

        Lochte stood, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief. He cocked his head at John. “I don’t think you’re a monster. A monster kills without reason. You’ve defended my men. The Captain evaded an early death because of you. Fascinating to see how it’s begun to affect him.” Lochte looked about the room, silent for a moment. “Remember our talk about trust. A door will open. Now, rest.”

        Lochte tipped out of John’s sight, his heels clicking over the floor. John let his eyes roll back. A fuzzy pull of sleep tugged him down into the back of his mind. Dull vibrations moved about him, and the grip of hands lifted him from the floor. He didn’t care where he’d be taken as he slipped unconscious.