Chapter 38: Silence

Rocco approached Fixer, trying to keep his voice casual. "Hey, any chance we could stretch our legs outside and get some fresh air? This place is too enclosed and we are afraid that the quality of air isn't that good."

Fixer's face remained impassive. "No can do. We're deep in the woods, and we can't risk any of you getting hurt before the job's done. Plus, you are complaining about the quality of air when you come from Third Street?"

Bishop chimed in, frustration evident in his voice. "So what? We're just supposed to sit around twiddling our thumbs? It's been a whole day already."

"There's plenty to keep you occupied," Fixer replied, gesturing vaguely at the room. "If you need something specific, the boys can pick it up for you." He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, "Won't be long before the client shows up anyway."

The way Fixer said it, so matter-of-fact, sent a chill down Rocco's spine. It was like they were talking about the weather, not a mysterious "client" who apparently held their fates in their hands.

Rocco and Bishop backed away from Fixer, realizing they'd hit a brick wall. The burly man resumed his tasks, seemingly forgetting their existence in an instant.

They wandered back to the common area. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. In his head, the plan had been simple: sneak in, gather intel, and make a swift exit. A piece of cake.

But reality had other ideas. The infiltration part had been almost too easy – they'd practically been invited in. It was everything after that which was proving to be a nightmare.

Every conversation, every attempt at gathering information, led to the same frustrating dead end. The other "recruits" were just as clueless as they were, stumbling around in the dark, grasping at straws.

Rocco slumped onto a worn couch, Bishop settling in beside him. "This is hopeless," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "We're no closer to figuring out what's going on than when we arrived."

…

The day they'd all been waiting for arrived with the subtlety of a thunderclap. As the scorching afternoon sun beat down, a sleek black car glided to a stop in front of the clubhouse. Out stepped Red, looking like he'd stepped straight out of a fashion magazine frozen in time - same slicked-back hair, same impeccable suit.

Rocco couldn't help but wonder if Red owned multiple identical outfits or if he just never changed.

The recruits were herded out of the clubhouse like cattle to auction, lined up with the veteran recruits at the front. Tension filled the air as Red addressed the group, most are eager to be chosen this time.

"Today's the day, folks. I know all of you have been patiently waiting these past few days," he announced, his voice carrying a hint of excitement that made Rocco's skin crawl. "We're shipping out the new batch. We'll start with our seasoned recruits, but if we need more, we'll dip into the fresh meat."

Fixer, looming beside Red like a mountain of muscle, barked out, "When I call your name, step forward. No questions, no hesitation."

The roll call began, each name echoing in the tense silence.

"Sarah Miller," Fixer's voice boomed.

The woman Rocco had chatted with earlier stepped forward, her face lit up with unmistakable joy. Finally, her turn had come.

"Robert Wilson," came the next name.

A man in his sixties moved to the front. Despite his age, he carried himself with a certain vigor, though the lines on his face told of years gone by.

"John Anderson," Fixer called out.

Bishop nudged Rocco, whispering, "That's the guy with the sick daughter, remember?"

As they watched the scene unfold, Rocco's mind wandered to the conversations they'd had over the past few days. Each person here had a story, a reason for being in this bizarre situation. Sarah's dreams of a better life, Robert's struggle against time, John's desperate fight for his child's health - all of them had been driven here by circumstances beyond their control.

The weight of these realizations settled on Rocco's shoulders. This wasn't just some faceless group of recruits. These were real people, with real lives and real struggles.

"Elysia Rivers," Fixer called out.

A young woman, barely out of her teens, stepped forward. Bishop remembered her story - a father who'd vanished, leaving her drowning in debt to loan sharks. Her shoulders were tense, but her eyes held a glimmer of desperate hope.

"Michael Carter," came the next name.

Rocco's gaze locked onto the man who shuffled forward. Over the past few days, Michael had been a bundle of nerves, jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Rocco had tried to get him to open up, but the guy had clammed up tighter than a bank vault. Pushing further would've only drawn unwanted attention, so Rocco had backed off, not wanting to risk their cover.

"NO!" Michael Carter's shout shattered the tense silence.

Red's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise etched on his usually impassive face. When they'd picked up Michael, he'd been practically bouncing with excitement, eyes gleaming at the sight of that fat wad of cash.

Fixer's patience, never in great supply, evaporated instantly. He'd seen this song and dance before, knew exactly how to handle cold feet. "What do you mean, 'no'?" he growled. "You took the money, didn't you? There's more coming when the job's done. So what's the problem?"

Michael's face had gone pale, his earlier bravado crumbling like a sandcastle in the tide. "B-boss," he stammered, "I'll give it back. All of it. Just... just let me go."

Everyone held their breath, waiting to see how Red and Fixer would react to this unexpected wrinkle in their plans.

Rocco and Bishop exchanged worried glances. What had spooked Michael so badly? And more importantly, how would the bosses handle this rebellion?

Fixer's voice cut through the air like a knife. "You signed the contract, remember? It's all there in black and white. Bail now, and you owe us ten times what we gave you. Got that kind of cash lying around? No? Then get in the van and do your job."

Michael's face crumpled, his earlier defiance replaced by raw desperation. "Please, boss. I'm begging you. Let me go. I swear I won't breathe a word about any of this."

To the others watching, Michael looked like a man pleading for his very life. The sight made Rocco's stomach churn with a mixture of pity and frustration. If only he'd pushed harder, gotten Michael to spill what he knew. Now, it might be too late.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see how this standoff would end. Would Fixer and Red make an example of Michael? 

Red and Fixer exchanged a loaded glance. Michael clearly knew something - something that could unravel their carefully laid plans if the other recruits caught wind of it. They couldn't risk that.

In a flurry of motion almost too quick to follow, Red's driver produced an attaché case as if by magic. Red's hands moved with practiced efficiency, prepping a syringe with a speed that spoke of far too much experience.

Before anyone could react, Red lunged forward, the needle finding its mark in Michael's neck. It was a risky move - the neck wasn't exactly the safest injection site - but Red clearly valued speed over caution.

As Michael's eyes rolled back and his body went limp, Red turned to address the shocked onlookers, his voice smooth as silk. "My apologies for the disturbance, everyone. Poor Michael here has been battling addiction. These panic attacks are an unfortunate side effect. Once the medication takes hold, he'll be right as rain."

He then barked an order to the clubhouse staff. "Get him loaded up. We're on a schedule."

As Michael was carted away like a sack of potatoes, a chill ran down Rocco's spine. The casual brutality of it all, the ease with which Red had spun his lie - it painted a chilling picture of what they were truly dealing with.

"Last, Rocco Dante," Fixer's voice boomed across the yard.

For a moment, Rocco's world seemed to tilt on its axis. His name echoed in his ears, drowning out everything else. This couldn't be happening. Not now, not on this day when he lacks the information.

His feet felt like lead as he stepped forward, every instinct screaming at him to run. But where could he go? The incident with Michael had made one thing crystal clear - there was no easy way out of this mess.

Whatever this job was, it was bad news.