Chapter 14 Interrogation

"It was Reaper who saved me," Nox said, glancing at me.

I nodded, then looked around at the team. "Since everyone's here, I'll be direct: something's wrong with me. For the sake of the mission, I'm stepping down as Ghost Squad leader—Anchor, you're in charge now."

No one spoke. Nobody protested or agreed. Simple as that—everyone could see I was in no shape to lead.

Reaper sat nearby, trimming his nails with a knife. Under the grime, you could see blood and dirt under his nails. We all looked beat up, but Reaper always made an effort to stay sharp. There was something almost aristocratic about him—a different kind of discipline, a habit running in his blood.

The ones who attacked us were at least three: two snipers and, probably, the unconscious guy next to Nox.

Anchor asked, almost on autopilot, "Specter, what do we do next…?"

I glanced at him with my good eye, managed a small smile.

Buzz was chewing on a piece of dry grass, grinning from the ground. "New CO, you want my opinion?"

Bolt was still visibly shaken, moving slow, barely breathing. He looked at each of us in turn—cautious, jumpy, but in every op, he always volunteered to scout ahead and never hesitated. Some people just defy easy analysis.

Castor was lying with his legs draped over Nox, eyes closed, totally at ease.

Anchor ignored Buzz and went over to Reaper. "The guy you dragged back—he part of the group that hit us?"

Reaper nodded.

Honestly, I wanted to give orders—my mind was clear enough. We'd made contact with hostiles, and whether they were Extremis or not, we couldn't just sit here.

I thought about advising Anchor, but said nothing. If I was handing over command, I needed to trust him.

"Did any get away?" Anchor asked.

Reaper shook his head. "No."

Anchor nodded. "Alright, everyone report what you saw. Keep it short—ten seconds each."

Buzz shot up his hand, then shoved Castor's legs off. "Up, meeting time. No more naps."

Castor sat up and grinned. "CO, I'll go first."

"I called it," Buzz said.

"I took Nox and Bolt, went toward the gunfire—made it about two thousand yards, almost to the river, then a bullet—"

"Time's up. Next," Anchor cut him off.

Buzz pouted. "Let me finish—"

"By the time you're done, By the time you finish, the Army'll have gone home and written the history books. Move it along," Castor joked.

"Go ahead," Anchor said to Castor.

"We ran into a sniper. Pro—using a European bolt-action. He was across the river. Details unknown. That's it."

"We tangled with a pack of dogs. I tried to flank and take out the sniper, but got intercepted by this guy," Nox said, pointing at the unconscious man. "Sniper was onto me too, so I fired a distress signal. Reaper took out the sniper, I captured this one."

"I… I was covering the rear, but… didn't do much. I got spotted right away—two sniper nests, overlapping fields of fire. Couldn't get a clean shot," Bolt stammered.

Anchor looked to Reaper.

Reaper slid his knife back into his boot. "After getting down, I started scouting. Heard the dogs, found three men and the pack. Slipped into the water and waited for you."

Anchor turned, looked at me. I avoided his gaze, staring at the ground.

"Wake him up," Anchor ordered.

Reaper strode over, grabbed the unconscious man, hoisted him up and shook him hard, head down, arms swinging. A moment later, the man groaned awake.

Reaper pulled out his knife and rammed it into the guy's shoulder.

The man screamed.

The others gathered around. The Europeans came too, faces drawn—one of theirs was dead, and the pain showed.

"Who are you?" Reaper asked coldly, switching to local language.

The captive clutched his shoulder, looking around silently. His eyes said he understood perfectly.

Reaper tore open the guy's shirt, baring his belly and groin. "I don't have time to waste."

The prisoner tried to fight, but Buzz held his arms down, one hand choking the man.

Reaper drew another knife, pressing it toward the man's crotch. "Who are you?"

The man trembled but said nothing, eyes burning with hate.

Reaper plunged the blade through the man's genitals.

Blood spurted. The captive writhed, teeth grinding—he was holding in the screams by sheer force.

Then Reaper smiled, nodding to himself. "Okay."

He withdrew the blade, then cut horizontally across the abdomen—slowly, deliberately, three fingers wide.

"You'd better talk, or these next five minutes will be the worst of your life," Reaper said.

Blood bubbled from the man's lips; he must have bitten his tongue, maybe trying to end it quickly.

Side note—people in movies always talk about biting off their tongue to kill themselves. That's pure fiction. Even if you could bite it off, you wouldn't die. The body simply won't let you apply enough force to sever your own tongue. Try it—see for yourself. If suicide were that easy, we'd see it all the time.

The captive still didn't talk. He'd been trained—could handle pain, had iron discipline.

Suddenly, Reaper shoved his whole hand into the wound. The cut was only three fingers wide—he ripped muscle, fat, and skin open by brute force.

"AAAH!" The man finally broke, howling, screaming so hard his voice went raw, the pain tearing him apart.

He gasped, "Kill me—just kill me."

Reaper didn't blink. He pulled the man's intestines out, the stench flooding the air.

The man arched up, mouth open, silent now—just pain, no sound.

Reaper wrapped the guts around his hand, letting the man watch.

Buzz turned away, face pale. "You're sick, man."

Bolt and the others didn't look away, but they licked their lips, tense.

The man whispered, "When will the earth be healed? When will Joseph return?"

And then he was still.

"Is he dead?" Buzz asked, looking at Reaper.

Reaper tossed the entrails and his gloves aside, a flicker of disappointment in his cold eyes.

"That… that was too much. We got nothing," Buzz complained.

Anchor sighed. "Enough, time's short. Let's get to work."

Anchor eyed the two Europeans. "Looks like Extremis is somewhere along this underground river. One of you head topside to report; the other stays here."

The two exchanged glances—this was their job, but no one expected to really find Extremis. Now, even if we couldn't be sure, running into this level of opposition was proof enough.

The Europeans hugged us before leaving.

I spoke up, slow and deliberate. "Wait—one stays, one goes."

Anchor nodded, agreeing. "Right, one up, one here."

The two were reluctant, but there was no way we were letting them both leave. We all knew the way down; if they didn't have our full trust, the path out could become a trap. Plus, with one outside and one inside, there was more pressure to act for the team.

In the end, only one left.

Anchor's orders were clear: "Secure the pit. Dig in, prep firing positions, and set up a defense. Don't go hunting for Extremis—wait for backup."

A textbook decision. In the unknown, stability is safe.

But to me, it was the biggest mistake. Sitting tight let chaos multiply. If backup never came, or if Extremis found us, we'd be trapped, outnumbered, outgunned. What if they simply melted away? Our mission would fail and the enemy would vanish.

But we had no solid proof these were Extremis operatives. Who'd argue with caution in the report? Anchor's call was logical, standard, and prudent.

It just wasn't my style. Or Ghost Squad's.

What was I supposed to do—overrule him? Or just watch?