The guard at the corner remained paused, head cocked, listening to the sounds from upstairs. The flickering beam from his flashlight danced impatiently on the damp walls. Quinn stayed frozen in the shadows, pistol steady, barely breathing. Every second felt stretched thin as wire. If the guard turned the corner, he'd see Quinn instantly.
Then, Richter's voice echoed again from above, louder this time, barking an order. The guard straightened up, seemed to make a decision. He grunted, turned, and headed back the way he came, his heavy footsteps receding down the basement corridor, the bobbing flashlight beam disappearing around the far corner. He hadn't checked the prisoners. Something else had demanded his attention.
Quinn let out a slow, silent breath, relief washing over him, cold and sharp. Close. Too close.
He turned his attention back to the locked door. The prisoners were just beyond the heavy wood and metal. He could hear their hushed, fearful whispers again. He needed to get them out, find Martha, find Richter. But the padlock was thick, heavy-duty. Shooting it off was too loud, would bring the whole compound down on him. Prying it would take too long and make too much noise.
He needed another way. He scanned the basement corridor again with his own flashlight beam kept low. Pipes, conduits, peeling paint. Nothing helpful. He crept back towards the corner the guard had just retreated from, peering cautiously around it.
The corridor stretched maybe fifty feet before ending at a narrow flight of concrete stairs leading up. The guard was gone. At the top of the stairs was another heavy door, presumably leading to the ground floor of the main building. That seemed the only way forward.
He moved quickly, silently, down the corridor and up the stairs. He paused at the top, listening intently at the door. Muffled voices, clanging metal, the background hum of machinery. It sounded like a work area, maybe a kitchen or maintenance room. He tried the handle. Locked. Standard knob lock, not heavy-duty like the padlock downstairs.
He pulled his K-Bar. This was riskier than picking a simple lock, but faster. He examined the frame, found the slight gap between the door and the jamb near the latch bolt. He slid the thin, strong tip of his knife into the gap, feeling for the angled edge of the bolt. He worked the knife carefully, pushing, jimmying, trying to force the bolt back into the door. Metal scraped faintly. He applied steady pressure.
With a soft click, the bolt slid back. The door was unlocked.
He took a breath, holstered the knife, gripped his pistol firmly, and slowly pushed the door open a crack, peering through.
He was looking into a large, industrial-style kitchen. Stainless steel counters, huge stoves and ovens (dark and unused), walk-in freezers with heavy latched doors. Two men sat at a greasy steel table in the center of the room, playing cards under the harsh glare of a single bare bulb hanging overhead. They looked bored, rifles leaning against the wall nearby. Beyond them, another door stood slightly ajar, faint light and louder voices spilling from it – Richter's voice prominent among them. That must be the office or command center George had mentioned.
Quinn assessed the situation. Two guards here, Richter and possibly others in the next room. He couldn't take these two silently without alerting whoever was with Richter. But maybe he didn't need to.
He needed information. He needed leverage. He needed Martha.
A plan began to form, desperate and incredibly dangerous. He took another steadying breath, pushed the door open fully, and stepped into the kitchen, pistol held ready but not obviously aimed.
The two guards looked up, surprise flashing across their faces, hands instinctively moving towards their rifles.
"Easy now," Quinn said, his voice calm, level, projecting confidence he didn't entirely feel. "Nobody needs to get hurt. I just need to talk to the boss."
The guards hesitated, confused by his calm demeanor, by the fact he wasn't immediately shooting. One, a burly man with a thick beard, narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you? How'd you get in here?"
"Doesn't matter," Quinn said smoothly. "Just tell Richter someone's here to make a deal."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Before they could react further, the door to the inner office swung open wider, and Richter himself filled the doorway.
He looked exactly as Quinn had imagined, only more menacing in person. Tall, lean, wearing dusty jeans, scuffed cowboy boots with tarnished spurs that didn't jingle, and a stained leather vest over a faded shirt. A worn cowboy hat sat low on his brow, shadowing eyes that were cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth. He held a half-empty glass of whiskey in one hand. He didn't look surprised, just mildly irritated.
"What's all the commotion?" Richter drawled, his eyes flicking over Quinn, taking in the pistol, the bearing, the lack of fear. "Got a stray?"
"Says he wants to make a deal, boss," the bearded guard grunted, still tense.
Richter's eyes lingered on Quinn for a moment longer, assessing. A flicker of something – curiosity? amusement? – crossed his face. "A deal?" He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Well now. Ain't that interesting. Step inside, stray. Let's hear what kinda deal you got in mind." He gestured with his glass towards the office behind him.
Quinn hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Walking into the lion's den. But it was his best chance. He gave a curt nod.
"After you," Quinn said.
Richter smirked, turned, and walked back into the office. Quinn followed, acutely aware of the two guards in the kitchen watching his back, probably with rifles now aimed.
The office was small, cluttered. A scarred metal desk dominated the space, covered in maps, radios, empty bottles, and weapon parts. Two other men were in the room – rough-looking types lounging against the wall, pistols tucked into their belts. And sitting rigidly in a hard wooden chair against the far wall, looking pale and terrified but unharmed, was Martha.
Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief when she saw Quinn walk in. A small gasp escaped her lips. Richter, who had moved behind the desk, caught her reaction.
"Well, well," Richter drawled, leaning back in his chair, swirling his whiskey. "Looks like you two know each other. Small world." He looked back at Quinn. "So. The deal?"
Quinn kept his pistol held loosely at his side, projecting calm. "Simple," he said. "You let the woman go. You let all the prisoners downstairs go."
Richter actually chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "That's not a deal, friend. That's a demand. And you ain't exactly in a position to be makin' demands." He gestured around the room with his glass. "Me, my top boys, two more goons in the kitchen, guards on the roof, guards outside. You? You're one man. How'd you even get in here, anyway?"
"Doesn't matter how I got in," Quinn said, his voice hardening slightly. "What matters is how this ends. Let them go, Richter."
"And what do I get out of this supposed deal?" Richter asked, leaning forward slightly, genuine curiosity in his cold eyes now. "Why should I let my insurance policy," he nodded towards Martha, "and my future labor force," he gestured vaguely towards the floor, indicating the prisoners below, "just walk away?"
This was the gamble. Quinn met Richter's gaze squarely. "Because if you don't," he said, his voice dropping low, intense, "the seven men you left back at the farmhouse? They're already dead."
The air in the small office instantly became thick with tension. Richter stopped swirling his whiskey. His eyes narrowed, searching Quinn's face for any sign of bluffing. The two men lounging against the wall straightened up slowly, hands drifting towards their weapons. Martha gasped again, staring at Quinn in stunned realization.
"You're lyin'," one of Richter's men growled from the wall.
"Am I?" Quinn kept his gaze locked on Richter. "Seven men. Cozy little setup in the kitchen, drinking the old man's liquor. All gone. Didn't even see it coming."
Richter stared at Quinn, the silence stretching. Quinn could see the calculations happening behind those cold eyes. He knew his men. Knew their carelessness. Knew this stranger standing before him radiated a quiet lethality that wasn't faked. He slowly set his whiskey glass down on the desk.
"Son of a bitch," Richter breathed softly, a grudging respect flickering in his eyes, quickly replaced by renewed menace. "So you took out my cleanup crew. Impressive. But that just makes me want to keep the old woman more. Makes me want to peel your skin off nice and slow for the trouble you caused."
"Think about it, Richter," Quinn pressed, keeping his voice steady. "I got in here. Past your fence, past your patrols, past your guards downstairs. I took out seven of your men back there without raising an alarm. What makes you think I can't take out the rest of you right here?" He let the implication hang. "Or maybe I just start shooting now, take you with me. What's Martha worth then?"
Richter chewed on his lower lip, glancing at Martha, then back at Quinn. He was caught. Quinn was bluffing about taking them all out easily, but the threat of mutually assured destruction in this small office was real. And Quinn had already proven he was capable and ruthless.
"Alright," Richter said finally, leaning back again, trying to regain control. "Alright, hotshot. You made your point." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Let's talk turkey. You want the prisoners?" He nodded towards Martha. "You want her? Fine."
He leaned forward again, his eyes glittering with cunning. "But it ain't gonna be free. You work for me. A man with your… talents… could be real useful. Replace the idiots you just disposed of."
Quinn stared at him, processing the offer. Work for this tyrant? Enforce his reign of terror? Never. But he needed Martha out. He needed the prisoners free.
"What kind of work?" Quinn asked, playing along, buying time, assessing his options.
"Security," Richter said with a wave of his hand. "Enforcement. Supply runs. Whatever I need. Keep folks in line. Protect the compound. You seem good at that." He smirked. "Better than my last crew, anyway."
Quinn thought fast. If he agreed, could he free Martha and the others, then turn the tables? Could he find an opportunity to eliminate Richter and his remaining men from the inside? It was incredibly risky. But a direct firefight now, with Martha in the room, was almost certain suicide.
"And the prisoners?" Quinn pushed. "They go free? All of them?"
Richter hesitated, swirling the dregs in his whiskey glass. "Martha goes with you now. As a show of good faith." His eyes narrowed. "The others… they stay. For now. Gotta earn their keep. And yours." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you stick with me, play ball… maybe we can arrange somethin' down the line. For the useful ones."
It was a trap. A lie. Quinn knew it. Richter would never let valuable labor walk away. He'd keep them as leverage, dispose of them when they were no longer useful. And he'd likely dispose of Quinn the moment he let his guard down.
But Martha. She could walk out now. He had to get her out.
"Okay, Richter," Quinn said slowly, forcing the words out. "You got a deal. Martha walks out with me now. I come back. We talk details."
Richter grinned, a cold, predatory expression. "Smart choice." He nodded to the men by the wall. "Escort our guest and the old woman out. See 'em clear of the main gate." He looked back at Quinn. "Don't take too long deciding to come back, friend. I ain't a patient man."
One of Richter's men moved towards Martha, pulling her roughly to her feet. The other kept his pistol trained on Quinn.
Quinn backed slowly towards the office door, keeping his eyes on Richter, his pistol still ready but not overtly threatening. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. He had Martha out, but he was walking into a deeper trap, leaving the other prisoners behind.
He had bought time. But he wasn't sure if he'd just made a deal with the devil, or signed his own death warrant.