THE HOSTAGE'S DILEMMA
A low murmur of voices fills the air, punctuated by the click of keys and the occasional burst of laughter.
I make my way through the line of workstations, my eyes scanning the familiar faces. My face is impassive, but inside, a storm rages. I need information, and now.
"Hey, Jax," I say, leaning against a workbench where a stocky, tattooed man is meticulously cleaning a dismantled hard drive. "You heard anything about… old names resurfacing? Specifically, anyone connected to the Ash mafia back in the days when they were bloody?"
Jax grunts, not looking up. "Ash is always resurfacing, Nat. Like a bad rash. What's the specific itch?"
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