Touchdown For The Devil
The facility was not what he had expected.
For two agonizing years of dead ends and quiet searches, Dante had built a specific version of this place inside his mind. He had envisioned something clinical, cold, and deliberately anonymous—the kind of high-walled institution explicitly designed to keep someone unfindable. Instead, at the end of a long, forty-minute drive through a winter countryside that had turned entirely flat, bare, and grey, the GPS directed him to a narrow country road. Behind a low, weathered stone wall sat a large, converted house. Wrought iron gates stood open, offering a clear view of a dormant winter garden, and beside the intercom hung a small brass nameplate. The le
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