CHAPTER 30 DARK DELIBERATIONS
Blood seeped into the inner fabric of his jacket, leaving a sticky trail that matted his arm hair to his skin.
He holstered his weapon, the metal still hot against his hip.
From beyond the rusted door came the hollow echo of desperate footfalls, followed by the frantic rattle of the industrial handle—metal scraping against metal like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Byrne's lips curled into a half-smile as a string of muffled profanities erupted from inside, each word punctuated by another violent jerk of the handle.
Then came a different sound: the staticky crackle of a radio transmission, followed by a low, urgent voice.
Byrne's smile vanished; he hadn’t come here alone. Fuck.
Byrne climbed the rusted metal stairs two at a time, each footfall echoing through the stairwell like a hammer strike.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip despite the bone-deep chill of the abandoned factory.
His ears strained for any sound beyond his own ragged breathing—a footstep, a radio crackle, anything to betray the other man's position.
The Glock felt slick in his palm, still warm from the shot that should have painted the concrete with the fed's brains.
If the bastard hadn't bent down at that precise moment, reaching for that pipe.
.. Byrne's jaw clenched until his molars ached.
He knew who these men were and should have anticipated the pair.
His finger twitched against the trigger guard, waiting.
The fantasy of having them strapped to his table, their skin peeling back under his favorite filleting knife, made his mouth water, but Byrne knew better.
There was no time for the knife work he preferred, for watching the light fade from their eyes inch by agonizing inch.
These weren't street punks to be savored. These were predators, like him.
Daniel froze in the doorway, staring at the empty space where his captives should have been.
The door hung open, its heavy latch dangling uselessly.
He dragged his palm across his stubbled jaw, his mind racing.
The boy couldn't have done this—could he?
But if not the boy—then who? The factory housed only the boy, the girl in the reinforced cage, and now these intruders who couldn't possibly have slipped past him and Byrne to orchestrate this escape.
Daniel's gut clenched like a fist, acid rising in his throat. He backed out, boots crunching on broken glass, and navigated the labyrinthine corridors—past water-stained walls and exposed pipes dripping condensation—toward the girl’s holding cell.
The sight of the second unlatched door sent ice through his veins, but it was the empty cage beyond that ignited something primal within him.
His blood surged hot as magma, pounding in his temples until his vision blurred crimson at the edges.
Leaving the room, Daniel drew his weapon, the cold steel of the grip slick against his clammy palm.
He moved with a slight hitch in his step, each footfall sending lightning bolts of agony from the knife wound in his side, the once-white bandage now wholly saturated with crimson that spread across his shirt like an oil spill.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the factory's bone-chilling cold.
“Fuck,” he muttered through gritted teeth and limped back to his makeshift office.
Stripping off his shirt with trembling fingers, he peeled away the soiled bandage, wincing as it tore at the ragged edges of the wound.
The jagged six-inch gash gaped like a hungry mouth, still seeping dark arterial blood that trickled down his ribs in thin rivulets. Shit .
Daniel replaced the bandage, packing the wound tighter with gauze that immediately bloomed red. Without a clean shirt on hand, he pulled the blood-soaked fabric back over his torso, the damp cotton clinging to his skin like a second layer of filth, and tucked it in with a hiss of pain.
Daniel left the office, each step a fresh torment, and started hunting for Henry, weapon in hand, his finger close to the trigger.
Shots rang out—a distant, slightly muffled echo deep in the belly of the factory—one, two, three.
The kids instinctively flinched and ducked, holding onto each other.
Cole and Gabe flinched, too. “What was that?” Gabe asked.
The shots weren’t close—who was shooting at whom?
The gangsters? They'd been following Gabe when Byrne took him to the factory.
The giant and his creepy little companion?
“Do you think it’s Clint and Cochise?” Gabe asked low. “They were tracking the deputy’s car.”
“Could be,” Cole whispered. "Or... the others.” He stayed alert despite the shots coming from a distant part of the factory. “If it’s Clint and Cochise, they can handle themselves. We need to focus on getting the kids out of here.”
“Any idea where the exit is?”
“Not a fucking clue,” Cole admitted. They had left behind the windowed corridors.
Now they crept through absolute darkness again, fingers trailing along mildew-slick concrete walls, each breath amplified in the suffocating silence, each footfall a gamble against unseen debris that might betray their position with a telltale crunch.
“We just have to hope luck is on our side.”
“It has been so far,” Savannah whispered with a tremor.
Cole glanced at her, surprised by her statement after everything she’d gone through.
“We’re all still alive,” she said thickly.
“Before you came…” Tears caused her words to tremble.
“I thought… I thought Abel and… and Maddy were…” She pressed closer to Maddy.
“I-I thought I saw that man kill Maddy.” A sob caught in her throat.
“I thought I was alone and that… that I was going to be raped and killed.” She sniffed.
“But then Jitterbug came, and he brought Maddy to me, then you guys.”
The girl made sense. Cole hugged her. “You’ve got a point, darling. I guess we have been pretty lucky so far.”
“I don’t think it’s luck,” Gabe murmured. “I think something more powerful than luck has a hand in this.”
Cole admired his husband’s enduring faith even in the midst of hell. “Well, let’s hope it knows the way out of here.”
As if taunted by fate, a gunshot rang out when they came around the bend in the corridor—close enough that Cole felt the concussive thud in his chest—and a bullet zipped past overhead with a sound like angry hornets, striking concrete with a shower of limestone dust that rained down on their shoulders.
“Fuck!” Cole and Gabe grabbed the kids and dropped to the floor, the cold concrete scraping Cole's palms raw.
Cole shoved them all behind him, feeling Gabe's ragged breathing against his neck, and held his weapon ready, the metal slick with sweat as he squinted into the impenetrable darkness ahead. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out even the ragged breathing of the others huddled behind him. Fuck —he couldn’t see a goddamn thing!
“We can shoot this out, son,” the Mangler’s voice drifted eerily out of the darkness. “Risk your husband’s life—he’s already wounded—and the kids’ lives. Or…” A heavy silence settled over the corridor. “… we can talk this out, father to son. Which is it going to be, Henry?”
Cole turned and whispered to Gabe, “Get the kids back around the corner, out of the line of fire.”
“What’re you going to do?” Gabe asked tensely.
Cole exhaled slowly. “Kill the motherfucker.”
“You can’t have a shootout in the fucking dark,” Gabe hissed. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s it going to be, son?” the Mangler called out.
Cole waved Gabe and the kids back. “What’s there to talk about?” Cole hollered back. “I tried to kill you. Why would I trust you not to shoot me?”
A low, eerie chuckle reverberated down the corridor. “You think I’m angry about that? That was you proving you’re my son. You drew blood without being forced. That’s your true nature coming through. I’m proud of you, Henry.”
“My hand was forced,” Cole said. “I did it to protect my husband.”
“I understand why you believe that, but you made the choice. That was the first step. Each cut after this will become easier, and the thrill will grow.”
“I’m not going to kill for you.”
“Of course, not,” the Mangler drawled. “You will kill for you.”
Cole's stomach turned at the man's unwavering conviction. The thought of that contaminated blood coursing through his body made his skin crawl, as if his veins had become highways for something vile that needed to be drained away, no matter the cost.
“You would do better than your brother. He was messy and lacked self-control from the very start. If you hadn’t fought me as a young boy, you would be a master at your craft now. You possess so much potential, Henry. I can’t give up on you. You are my perfect prodigy.”
Cole rose slowly from his crouched position. The gun hung heavy at his side, barrel pointed downward, his trigger finger straightening against the guard. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades despite the frigid air.
“Cole...” Gabe whispered tightly from the shadows, his voice barely audible, yet sharp with warning. “Don't...”
“Find the exit,” Cole whispered back. “Get the kids out of here. He isn’t going to harm me.”
“Cole, I…”
“Just do it,” Cole insisted. “They can’t be here in case something goes wrong.”
“I can’t just leave you.”
“You have to.” Cole turned and squatted before Gabe. He touched his face and kissed him. “I will never be free of this monster until I confront it. Even if we escaped, but he still lived… it wouldn’t be over. I have to end it—now. Or he will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
Gabe gripped his husband’s head. “It isn’t just him. The deputy is here somewhere, too. You can’t fight them both, not alone.”
“I don’t think I’m alone,” Cole whispered. “Those weren’t target practice shots we heard before. Someone else is here—either Clint and Cochise, or the giant. But I’m not alone.”
Gabe pressed his head to Cole’s. “I don’t like this,” he said thickly. “We’re supposed to be a team. What happened to, no more solo shit?”
“This isn’t the same,” Cole murmured. “We’re not doing dangerous stuff behind each other’s backs. And we are a team. Your role is to get the kids to safety. Mine… is to confront the monster.”
“Seems like you got the shitty end of that stick,” Gabe mumbled.
“I can handle it,” Cole assured, his voice steadier than his pulse.
“I know I was losing it before, but he was in my head then, making me think he held all the cards.
He doesn't.” He leaned forward and kissed Gabe, their foreheads pressing together, sharing breath in the dank chill of the corridor.
“We're all going to make it out of here, baby.
We're all going home.” He brushed his thumb across Gabe's stubbled jawline, kissed him once more—quick, desperate—then pulled away. “Now go.”
Cole turned around and rose to his feet, the weight of the gun pulling at his arm.
“Be careful,” Gabe whispered tightly, fingers lingering on Cole's sleeve before falling away.
“I will.” Cole moved forward cautiously along the dark corridor, each footstep muffled against concrete filmed with decades of grime.
“I'm here,” he called out to the Mangler, his voice echoing dully off the mildewed concrete walls.
“I'll talk.” He squinted through the shadows, where darkness pooled like oil. “Where are you?”
A cigarette lighter suddenly sparked to life with a metallic scrape, the small flame dancing and guttering in a draft, casting a sulfurous glow that carved deep hollows beneath the killer's cheekbones and glinted wetly in his unblinking eyes. “Here, son.”
Cole's grip on the gun tightened until his knuckles ached, the weapon's grip biting into his sweaty palm as he held it low against his denim-clad thigh. His heart thumped against his ribs, each pulse sending a tremor through his fingers as he fought to control his shallow, rapid breathing. Despite his father’s beliefs, killing would never come easy to him—even killing a monster.