“Do you have a flashlight?” Alexandra asked, holding out her hand to Gálvez without turning her eyes from the prisoner. Her voice was soft, almost casual, the tone of someone asking for a spare cigarette at a party. Gálvez scowled, but produced a battered LED Maglite from his jacket. She took it and felt the weight in her palm, rolling it gently over her fingers. It was heavy, solid enough to crack a skull, a detail she let the prisoner notice as she raised an eyebrow and flicked the end cap experimentally.

The man on the seat watched her warily, his knuckles white around the edge of the bench where his cuffed hands were anchored. He was lean and battered, with a soldier’s haircut and the haunted face common to all conscripts of violence. Alexandra clicked the flashlight on and swept its beam slowly over his face, then circled it through the dim interior, painting sun-bright arcs across the metal and plastic of the police van. She let the light pass over his eyes, quick enough not to blind, slow enough to draw an instinctive flinch.

“This won’t take long,” she said, as much to Gálvez as to the prisoner. She positioned herself in such a way that it shrank their world to a triangle: her, the captive, and the glimmering spot of light.

The prisoner’s Spanish was rapid but slurred with pain. “You have no right—” he began, but Alexandra only smiled and pressed the button again. The beam strobed once, then again. She played with the rhythm: two slow pulses, a pause, then a brighter, longer burst that reflected off the man’s cheekbones and powder-burned eyelids.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” she asked. “Hint: I’m not going to hurt you… unless you want me to.”

The man said nothing.

She flicked the light off and let the darkness close in. For several breaths, the only sound was the wet wheeze of the man’s lungs and the faint static of distant police radios. Then she switched the light on again, but this time angled it so the edge of the beam cut across the prisoner’s left eye. He blinked and tried to look away, but Alexandra gently caught his chin with her free hand, guiding him back.

“You ever heard of a Ganzfeld experiment?” she said. “No? It’s a favorite of the intelligence services, mine included. Sensory deprivation and overload, mixed just so. The brain gets confused, and sometimes it starts letting out little secrets. Think of it as a shortcut to the subconscious.”

The prisoner’s lips twitched. Alexandra saw the tiny beads of sweat forming at his hairline, the flutter in his pulse at the side of his neck. He was terrified, but also curious. That was good.

“Let’s get this show started,” she murmured.

She began by moving the flashlight in smooth, clockwork arcs, each orbit traced with the precision of a metronome. The beam swept through the man’s field of vision, sometimes blinding for a fraction of a second, then fading to a soft, peripheral glow. There was never a static instant; always the membrane of light, like a whisper across his retinas, always a new angle, always returning. 

In the back of his mind, where all the protocols and training modules were supposed to provide fortification, Alexandra’s voice insinuated itself in a gentle monotone, never loud, never urgent, but persistent. She let her words ride on the intervals of darkness and light, sometimes a question, sometimes a command, sometimes a non sequitur delivered with the casual authority of a mother putting a child to bed: name, rank, where is Torres going, where will he be, who is waiting for him, and what is waiting in the city beyond.

At first, the man resisted. His efforts were textbook: jaw set, lips compressed to a pale line, gaze averted. But the rhythm was patient, and so was Alexandra. She used the pause between sweeps to reinforce her grip, with just enough pressure under his jaw to remind him of the balance of power.

“Good,” she would say, “keep your eyes open for just a heartbeat more. You’re helping yourself.” Or: “That’s it. You’re doing this for yourself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Over and over, she made each sentence sound like the obvious answer to an unspoken question.

The man’s body responded with familiar patterns of stress: shallow breaths, a twitch in his left eyelid, a trembling in his wrists that traveled up his forearms, making the handcuffs clink with a faint, metallic sympathy. 

Alexandra adjusted each time he flinched, angling the beam so that it grazed the topography of his face rather than attacking him head-on. She modulated her questions to the tempo of his breathing, counterpointing his instinct to resist with a subtle invitation to relax. In the close, dark space of the vehicle, the effect was almost musical.

Gálvez, who at first had watched with arms crossed and an expression of withering skepticism, began to uncoil. He leaned in, his weight shifting from foot to foot, as if trying to absorb the logic of what Alexandra was doing. The change in him was nearly as striking as the change in the prisoner: the gradual transition from suspicion to a sort of perplexed fascination. 

Alexandra caught the CNI agent’s eye once, saw the glimmer of uncertainty there, and gave him a brief nod, as if to say, Just wait.

All at once, the prisoner’s defenses changed. It was as if a switch had flipped somewhere in his nervous system: his breathing deepened, and the set of his jaw relaxed just enough to create a hairline fracture in his composure. The sweat at his temple glistened in the harsh light, and his pupils—so eager moments before to shrink and sequester everything they could—now widened in resignation. 

Alexandra could feel the air shift. The man’s rage and pride had yielded to something more vulnerable, more pliable. 

She slowed the flashlight’s arc, then stopped it altogether, letting the beam rest in the hollow between his eyes. She kept her voice low, soothing, the words falling like pebbles into a glassy pond: 

“Now you’re going to tell us what you know.” She made it sound like a comfort, not a threat.

The prisoner’s lips parted. At first, what came out was a hiss—barely intelligible, just the raw friction of consonants—but Alexandra nodded encouragingly.

“Easy,” she said. “Take your time. You can breathe now. Just tell me: where is Torres headed next?”

Another pause, then a rattling exhale. 

“Parque de Atenas,” the man said, voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow. Noon.”

Gálvez’s pen was out in a flash, scribbling notes even as his eyes stayed glued to the scene. Alexandra kept the beam steady, never breaking eye contact.

“Why there?” she asked. “Is he meeting someone else?”

The prisoner winced, as if the question itself was a physical blow. 

“Yes. He said… he said there would be another. A woman. I don’t know who she is, but she’s bringing—” 

His voice caught, but Alexandra’s hand was already there, a stabilizing force on his shoulder.

“She’s bringing what?” Alexandra prompted.

He licked his lips, then shuddered. “Device. Small. She’s the only one who knows how to use it.” 

His eyes rolled upward, pupils lost in the blinding beam, but now there was no fight left in him. Just a hollow, exhausted clarity.

Alexandra turned off the flashlight and let the afterimage burn its way through the gloom. For a long moment, nobody moved.

Gálvez cleared his throat, trying to disguise the awe in his voice. “That’s… that was impressive. Can you get anything else?”

She shook her head, already knowing the edge of the trance was fragile and ready to break. 

“Maybe, but if I push, he’ll start reciting doctrine or shut down entirely. It’s best to let him rest now.” 

She stepped back, letting the medics in to tend to the man’s wounds. Gálvez followed her. 

The air outside was sharp with the scent of gasoline and cordite, and for a moment they both just stood there, neither eager to break the spell of what had just happened. Alexandra stretched her neck, feeling the aches and pains return with the rush of adrenaline’s retreat. The right side of her ribcage throbbed where the shrapnel had grazed her in the blast, but she ignored it. More pressing was the implication of what the prisoner had said: Torres had a rendezvous with a woman who was bringing a device, something only she could operate.

“You believe him?” Gálvez asked, voice low.

“I believe he believes it,” Alexandra replied. “That’s all that matters. Torres will be at Parque de Atenas at noon tomorrow. We need to get ahead of him.”

Gálvez nodded slowly, still processing. “You’re a dangerous woman, Ryder.”

She wanted to laugh, but instead she just held his gaze. “So’s the woman we’re looking for. I wonder who she is...”

They headed back toward the makeshift command center, shoes crunching over shattered glass and gravel. Alexandra hit the Comms once again to talk to Melvin, who was waiting with bated breath for another update.

She relayed every detail to him, including the mention of this mysterious woman. Melvin, for his part, listened in a silence punctuated only by the rasp of his inhalations until he asked,

“You wouldn’t happen to have an accurate physical description of this individual, do you?”

“Sorry, but no. Do we have any intel about other potential terrorists in the area?”

Melvin made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “Boy, don’t get me started! We’ve picked up chatter about a woman for months now. Still don’t have a name. Doesn’t belong to any official agency. Could be freelance, could be ex-military, could be a figment of some asset’s imagination. She’s shown up in the footnotes of a few SIGINT pulls, always adjacent to kinetic events in the Med. People are scared shitless of her, which means she’s either very good at her job, or there’s a myth in the making.”

“What job?” Alexandra pressed.

“Whatever needs doing,” Melvin said grimly. “Some say she’s ex-GRU. Some say SDECE. I say she’s a ghost until we get eyes.”

Alexandra clicked her tongue and looked at Gálvez. “Apparently, she’s bringing something to Torres. Something she’s the only one trained to use.”

“Could be a cyber payload,” Melvin said. “Could be a new kind of detonator or a bioweapon. You have to be ready for anything.”

“Story of my life. Can you send me all the information you have about this so-called ghost?”

“I’m on it.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted, okay?”

“Always.”

Alexandra ended the call and addressed Gálvez again. He looked troubled, but energized. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think we need to come up with a plan,” he replied. “Assuming we have the correct intel, of course.”

“I thought about that too, but for now, this is the best lead we have.”

“Shall we then. If we’re going to have to work together, we'd better do it right.”

“Agreed.”

They went over the plan: at dawn, Gálvez would coordinate with the city police to set up surveillance at every entrance to Parque de Atenas. Alexandra would remain mobile, moving through the area on foot, using local crowds as cover. As for the woman, she’d have to trust her instincts if she caught even a flicker of the uncanny.

Logistics fell into place with grim efficiency. A couple of hours later, they had blueprints, shift rotations, and drone coverage laid out. It was a start, but not enough, considering who they were dealing with.

Melvin sent a dump of every file mentioning “La Espectra,” as he had chosen to call her. The facial composites were a joke, just blurred approximations of feminine features and black market haircuts. One file included a rumor she’d been killed in a drone strike outside Tripoli, another placed her at a boutique hotel in Vienna, another in Aleppo. Truth be told, none of it felt especially helpful, but Alexandra was already used to dealing with incomplete information.

After what seemed like an eternity, she let out a sigh of pain and frustration. Gálvez took the opportunity to say,

“You should get some rest, too. Do you have a place to stay in the city?”

“I just got here, so no. I’m sure I can find a cheap hotel nearby, though.”

“That won’t be necessary. I know just the place where you can recover without being disturbed.”

“The Spanish government is offering me a hotel stay? I’m touched!” she grinned.

Gálvez scoffed and told her about the place. It wasn't some stuffy government hotel, but a safe house he knew of, tucked away in the heart of the city. He assured her that it was secure and comfortable, and that he would have the place ready for her within the hour. Without waiting for an answer, he offered to drive her there personally.

Alexandra raised an eyebrow at him. “You don't say.” She had learned to be wary of such unsolicited favors, but there was something about Gálvez that put her at ease. Maybe it was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the easy way he moved, like a man who knew how to take care of himself. Whatever it was, she found herself nodding in agreement.

“Alright, I'll take you up on that offer,” she said. “But on one condition: I want to see the security measures for myself before I set foot in that safe house.”

Gálvez nodded, his expression serious. “Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way.”

True to his word, Gálvez had everything ready in an hour. He drove them through the winding streets of the city, pointing out landmarks and giving her a brief history lesson along the way. Alexandra listened with half an ear, her mind focused on the task ahead.

The safe house was located in a quiet neighborhood, surrounded by a high wall topped with razor wire. Gálvez parked the car in the garage and led her inside, his hand resting on the grip of his gun.

Alexandra took in the surroundings: the reinforced doors, the surveillance cameras, the guards disguised as her neighbors. It was a fortress, designed to keep its occupants safe from harm.

Satisfied with the security measures, Alexandra followed Gálvez up the stairs to her room. He showed her how to lock the door from the inside and handed her a key.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “There's food in the kitchen if you're hungry, and fresh linens on the bed. If you need anything, just let me know.”

Alexandra nodded, already feeling the exhaustion settle in her bones. She had been pushing herself too hard, and now her body was demanding rest.

“Thank you, Gálvez,” she said, meaning it. “I appreciate your help more than I can say.”

Gálvez nodded. “It's my job,” he said

As the door closed behind him, Alexandra let out a sigh of relief. She locked the door and double-checked the security measures, making sure everything was in order. Then she stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed, her mind still racing with thoughts of what was to come. The clock continued ticking, and the more time passed, the closer they were to doom.

((to be continued))