Jack opened his eyes slowly. Cold metal on his back sent shivers through him instantly. A bright white light beamed directly into his face, blinding him, making it even harder to open his eyes.
The back of his head throbbed like hell, but it didn't feel lethal — he was still alive.
After a few moments, his vision adapted to the light. He raised his head, looked around — and noticed a couple things immediately.
First — he was naked.
Second — he was tied to a metal table — the kind they use for surgeries — but way too small for a human. His legs stuck off the end awkwardly — like it was meant for dogs, or cats, not people.
Surgical tools gleamed on a smaller tray next to him. Sterile surgical aprons hung on the walls.
Jack put his head down slowly.
It was enough. He didn't need to be a genius to understand what was happening — or what was about to happen.
He thought, coldly: Is there a way out? Forget everything else. Don't waste time on details. Focus, Jack. Fast.
Three straps held him down — one across his chest, one across his stomach, and another across his legs.
He checked himself: Any other injuries? Am I missing something? Arms, legs...?
No. He could still feel everything.
They haven't cut anything off yet.
Jack flexed his hands experimentally.
Tight. Too tight. No gap at all.
Panic scratched at the back of his skull. But he crushed it down.
Okay. No easy way out. Now what? Prepare to die? Or think harder?
If he wasted his time trying imaginary escapes, he'd die crying in shock — and what would that matter after he was dead?
The straps weren't budging. The metal table was bolted to the ground — no way to rock it or tip it. The surgical tools were inches away — but might as well have been miles.
No one's coming to save you, Jack. You're deep in nowhere. Only you.
Jack thought, sharp and desperate:
Is there anything I can sacrifice? A hand? A shoulder?
Then it came to him — a stupid idea. But better to die trying.
He moved his right hand first, twisting against the strap. He gritted his teeth, shoving it inch by painful inch across his stomach.
It got tighter — crushed his ribs painfully — but gave him a few centimeters of play.
He did the same with his left hand — forcing it around, pushing, struggling. He hoped the movement had loosened the straps enough — but no gap.
Still too tight.
Back to the stupid plan.
Jack focused on his left wrist. Pressed it down. Pushed harder. Forced it against the edge of the strap.
The pressure bit into his skin, slicing a thin line of blood. He ignored it.
Halfway there — but even with that, he still couldn't reach the strap buckle.
Push harder. Risk it.
He jammed his right hand under his left wrist — pushing, straining, until he felt the sickening pop.
His shoulder dislocated.
Pain exploded down his side — hot and electric — but it bought him just enough slack.
Jack twisted to his side, gasping.
The dislocated shoulder burned like fire, but he forced his right hand up — and snapped open the strap buckle.
One strap free.
Then another.
Then another.
In agony, bleeding and barely able to move one arm —
Jack was free.
Stood up, shoulder still burning like hell, the pain shooting into his brain with every second, getting even worse.
Jack swallowed it down. He had popped his shoulder out to escape — but he wasn't some trained assassin who could just pop it back either. It would hurt like hell to try — maybe tear something even worse — so he let the left arm dangle uselessly at his side.
He glanced at the tray:
Scalpel. Small bone saw. Leather straps. A rag. Surgical scissors. A small drill.
Visions flooded his brain — terrible images of what would've happened if he'd stayed tied to that table.
"Luke." The name struck like lightning. "Please God, no... not here."
He grabbed the scalpel in his good hand and staggered toward the door.
As he moved — the door swung open.
Two men stepped in, mid-conversation, cracking jokes.
All three froze.
Instinct took over.
Jack bolted at them — left arm swinging uselessly, right hand gripping the scalpel, completely naked.
The man in front — masked, fat, slow — tried to slam the door shut.
Too late.
Jack rammed his leg into the gap. Pain exploded in his shin as the heavy door crushed it — but he barely felt it. He had already sacrificed a shoulder — what was a leg compared to survival?
He focused.
The world turned blue.
Frozen terror in the fat man's eyes. Shock on the face of the taller one behind him — long arms, longer reach.
Jack made peace in a single thought:
"Me or them. Their lives mean nothing next to mine. If they cut people for money — for pleasure — it doesn't matter. They're still monsters. And if Luke is here somewhere... They. Must. Die."
The blue faded to red.
One clean thrust — straight into the fat man's throat.
Nothing at first. No blood. Then — a slow bloom.
"There you are, Red."
Jack shoved the door wider, kicked the fat man in the gut with his left leg — pain slicing through him — but he stayed standing.
The fat man collapsed onto the taller one.
Jack lunged.
The taller man raised a hand in defense — Too slow.
One slash — four fingers severed at the knuckles.
Still no blood. Jack smirked grimly.
"Red takes a second to arrive... or maybe I'm just too fast."
The fat man grabbed Jack's leg, trying to drag him down. Jack stabbed him in the eye — fast, savage. Then slashed clean across his throat — aorta hit.
Blood sprayed like a fountain against the filthy green and white walls.
The fat man's eyes rolled back, his limbs twitching.
The tall man, half-blinded with pain, screamed:
"Motherfucker! AHHH! You're fucking dead! I'll fuck your moth—"
He never finished.
Jack drove the scalpel up through the roof of his mouth — felt the soft tissue give — then twisted — slashing forward until the blade snapped against his front teeth.
Broken steel in Jack's hand.
The man gurgled, frozen by the sudden agony.
Jack didn't hesitate.
With the broken half of the scalpel, he stabbed again — the man's throat, chest, stomach — over and over.
Jack watched his eyes — waited for the light to die.
When it finally did, he let go.
Jack stood, panting. Blood dripping from his hand. He dropped the broken scalpel onto the floor with a hollow clang.
"No time to cry about it. I can be traumatized later. Keep it together now. Don't think about it."
Jack walked down the hallway, moving stiffly, shoulder still burning like hell. Every second it got worse.
He came to a split:
Right — the back exit and a heavy metal door (storage room? freezer?).
Left — two kennel rooms, an admin office, and far down, the front entrance.
Jack limped right, breathing heavy, mind racing.
Yeah. Abandoned veterinary clinic. Perfect hellhole.
Earlier, he had stripped the pants off the dead tall man — slipped them on, bloody but better than nothing. He also tore the man's shirt into strips, tying them tight around his dislocated shoulder — a makeshift sling. Not perfect. Hurt like hell. But it kept his left arm immobile, gave him one working hand.
(No idea how he even stayed standing.)
His eyes scanned for weapons — none. Only the bloody scalpel. Not enough.
He stumbled back to the surgery room. Snatched up the scissors — sharp, brutal, simple. The drill was tempting, but loud. Too risky.
Jack pressed forward, reaching the metal door.
Opened it — freezing cold air blasted him in the face.
Inside — a horror museum.
Bodies dangling from rusty meat hooks overhead. Women. Men. Kids.
All swinging gently like slaughtered pigs.
Jack gasped — clamped his hand over his mouth. Almost vomited right there.
Deep breath. Swallow. Deep breath. Swallow.
"What is this feeling...? Not fear. Not anger."
He straightened his spine, blinking through the tears burning his eyes.
"Disgust."
Disgust at being the same species as the monsters who had done this. Disgust at the mockery of humanity this place represented.
He thought of his mother — the way she smiled at church, eyes closed, hands folded. Jack never believed much. But standing here, he felt the absence of God clearer than ever.
He backed out of the freezer — shut the door behind him.
Focused.
Next target: the admin office.
He crept up to the blurry window. Saw a slouched silhouette inside.
"Fuck it."
Jack pushed the door open slow.
Inside — a man with a black beanie, nasty beard, arms crossed, asleep.
"Disgust."
A pistol sat on the desk, just out of reach.
A battered couch on the opposite side — maybe someone else lying there. Risky.
Jack knew he had to be quiet.
No hesitation.
He crept up. One clean stab to the side of the man's neck — severing the artery. The man woke gasping, but Jack clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling it.
The man bled out fast. Dropped like a puppet cut from its strings.
Jack stabbed the scissors deep into the shoulder to anchor him — snatched the pistol.
Quickly checked the magazine — full.
Gun ready.
He turned toward the couch — Another man. Wide awake. Scrolling on his phone. Oblivious.
Bang. One bullet through the skull.
Jack exhaled — heart slamming.
No turning back.
He heard a commotion at the front.
A man barged in through the front door — eyes wide, pulling something from under his jacket —
Bang.
Jack shot first — but it wasn't perfect.
The bullet slammed into the man's arm, sending him screaming and stumbling back outside.
Jack took a step to follow — ready to finish the job —
but then —
"Jack?"
A small voice, trembling, behind him.
He froze.
Turned.
It was Luke.
Wide-eyed. Tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Luke! Are you okay? Hurt bad?"
Luke sobbed.
"My leg hurts. I fell down... runnin'..."
Jack glanced at the front door — could still run after the shooter — but family first.
Always.
He bolted back to the kennel.
The door was locked — Jack sprinted to the dead guy's desk, found the keys, fumbled them into the lock.
The door clicked open.
He scooped Luke into a hug, squeezing him tightly.
Luke whimpered against his chest.
Jack knelt down, forehead against Luke's.
"We're going home, buddy. Okay? But you gotta promise — close your eyes. I'm gonna fly us home, but if you peek... we'll fall from the sky."
Luke sniffled and nodded, closing his eyes.
But then —
Luke pointed inside the kennel.
"Jack... their brothers gonna fly home too?"
Two more kids.
Girls.
Maybe eight or nine.
Both crying silently — one with a black eye, the other covered in cuts.
Jack felt rage coil through his gut.
He opened his arms.
"You wanna fly home too?"
The girls nodded in terror and hope.
Jack slung Luke onto his back, held a girl with each arm — one bruised, one bleeding — one clutched against his busted shoulder, one against the good side.
Gun tucked into the back waistband of the bloody stolen pants.
Deep breath.
Run.
He lunged for the back exit — shoved through the door — and disappeared into the dark Texas night.
Jack's footsteps hammered through the dark forest. Only a weak strip of moonlight slipped between the trees, barely enough to see.
He was running at full speed, weaving through the chaos like he was sprinting in broad daylight. Flashlights bobbed somewhere near him. More footsteps. They were chasing.
The kids clung tighter around his neck and shoulders — silent, terrified. "A little more. Just a little more." If he could reach the house, he could hide them, grab Dad's rifle, set up cover, catch these bastards off guard.
Problem was — Jack had no idea where he was anymore. He was only praying that running straight would eventually lead him home.
The footsteps behind him pounded louder. His right leg screamed in agony — barely holding together. His left shoulder burned like hellfire.
Pain he couldn't measure anymore. Just another thing to ignore.
Bang! A bullet cracked through a tree next to him, bark exploding into his hair.
More shots. More misses.
"Faster. Go faster."
But this was it. His absolute limit. Three kids clinging to him, battered body breaking apart — this was all he had.
"I need an edge. I need a path they can't follow."
His eyes caught the edge of a cliff — a small drop-off swallowed in shadow.
He focused, teeth grinding.
"How deep? Can I break the fall without killing the kids?"
As he calculated, flashlights flickered ahead of him. A crowd of silhouettes stood still in the distance — a search party? Had it already been three hours?
Jack's heart leapt. He screamed:
"Help! It's Jack!"
No answer. The figures didn't move. They just stood there.
Jack felt the hairs on his neck rise.
No choice. No time. He kept running toward them.
Crack!
The air whistled past his cheek, parting in a sharp breeze — then the delayed thunder of a rifle shot.
The bullet grazed his left cheek, slicing it open.
Instinct screamed.
Forward meant death. Backward meant death. Left was a death trap — crossfire.
Only one way.
Right.
Jack yanked hard to the right and shouted:
"Hang on tight, kids!"
He launched himself off the dark cliff.
No second thoughts.
Eyes scanned frantically for anything — a branch, a tree — anything to slow the fall. Nothing but blackness.
Then — rocks. Sharp, jagged rocks scraping his feet bloody as he slid.
The pressure in his legs was insane — bone-shaking, flesh-ripping agony.
But he clenched his jaw and pushed through it — forced himself through the dark ocean.
His left foot slammed into a solid, immovable stone.
His whole body flipped — spinning through the air.
"Brace, kids! Hold on to me!" Jack barked.
He crushed the girls tighter against his chest, squeezed Luke's arms against his jaw.
In that frozen second, upside down, Jack saw the moon perfectly clear above him.
Full moon. Beautiful. Better than dying strapped to a filthy green and white wall.
He saw where he was heading:
Not the ground.
A lake.
One chance. One desperate move.
His body was spiraling too far right — would hit the rocky shore instead of the water.
But there — a tall tree rushed past on his left.
Jack twisted. Forced his foot to kick off the trunk — even with everything screaming inside him.
One hard shove. Changed the spin just enough.
The trajectory bent left.
Last thing Jack saw — his reflection, broken and bloody, in the black surface of the lake below — before they hit.
His body felt like a ton as he went down. The water crushed him, pulling him under, dragging him toward death. So he fought.
Pain worse than anything yet. Broken bones. Nasty cuts. Every part of him screaming.
He was almost certain nothing on his body would ever work again if he made it out. But he did.
Jack clawed his way to the rocky shore, dragging himself onto solid ground, coughing up water. He crawled farther, trembling, blinking up at the kids — They were crying, terrified.
No surprise. Jack was about to cry too.
He rasped out:
"Luke? You okay, buddy?"
Luke coughed, choking up the water from his throat — then started bawling like the girls beside him.
Jack didn't push. No more questions. Not for a six-year-old who'd just survived organ traffickers, gunfire, and a death drop into a dark lake.
Jack took a deep breath. Planted his right foot forward. And somehow — stood.
Agony everywhere. But standing meant living.
He staggered forward — into the thicker parts of the forest.
Glanced back once — Up at the cliff they'd fallen from.
Flashlights flickered at the top. Dark silhouettes watching.
Jack thought grimly:
"I won this fight. For today, at least."
He turned and kept moving.
A few brutal minutes later — dragging himself through brambles and blackness — Jack stumbled out onto asphalt.
A narrow, cracked park road. Not a highway. But something.
Civilization.
His legs finally gave out.
He collapsed onto his knees, skin scraping open on the broken asphalt. But he didn't even feel it anymore. Pain was just... background noise now.
In the distance — he saw it.
City lights.
A blurry wall of golden glow beyond the trees.
Almost there.
A couple more miles. A couple more steps.
Adrenaline faded. Fatigue swallowed him whole. Pain sharpened... then dulled... then nothing. His body went completely numb.
Movement at the corner of his vision.
Red and blue lights.
A patrol car rolling closer.
Jack exhaled — relief hitting him like a final bullet.
Then darkness.
His body gave out. He pitched forward — forehead slamming against the asphalt with a dull crack.
The kids screamed — crying, pulling at his arms, his legs, trying to wake him up.
The police cruiser screeched to a halt. A door swung open. Boots crunched against the road.
The officer froze when he got closer.
In front of him: Three kids — six to eight years old — huddled in terror.
And another kid — older, but still a kid.
Bare-chested. Bruised all over. Blood running down his face, his arms, his shredded legs. A dirty rag tied around his shoulder like a half-dead tourniquet. Jeans ripped to hell.
The cop muttered under his breath:
"Jesus Christ..."
Is he even still alive?
End of Prologue: Part II