Chapter 40
The Hunter
B lood soaks through my shirt, thick and congealing like syrup. None of it is mine. The tang of iron fills my nostrils, mingling with the stench of fear that lingers in the dank alleyway.
A crimson river runs from the shattered face of the thug at my feet, his nose a flattened wreck of cartilage and bone. He gurgles something incoherent, perhaps a plea for mercy. I deliver a final, bone-crunching kick to his jaw. Silence.
The answer to the question I’ve repeated for the last two days has been reduced to two names; one, or maybe both, of the petty gangs knows where Ruby is.
After leaving Ruby’s house, I returned to my loft long enough to learn that the CCTV cameras didn’t pick up anything around her house. Hell, the entire street. There can be many reasons for this, not that any of them matters. With no time to troubleshoot or hunt down surveillance that might not even exist, I took to the streets.
I’ve asked every person I’ve come across the same thing, and those are the names they’ve kept giving me in their last moments. The names echo in my skull, a ceaseless drumbeat: Scrappers. Steel Crew. Scrappers. Steel Crew.
I w ipe my hands on the ruined fabric of his jacket, the gesture almost casual. My fingers are raw, my knuckles split and bleeding from the repeated impact of flesh and bone. I feel none of the pain, only a numb, buzzing anger that drowns out everything else. It’s the kind of anger that sharpens you, that hones you into something deadly and pure.
Ruby.
Her name is a scream in my mind, a wail of anguish that threatens to tear me in two. Where is she? Every second of not knowing is a hot brand against my skin, her absence a wound that bleeds and festers.
I’m running out of time. The Scrappers and the Steel Crew are my last leads. One of them took her, or knows who did. That much is clear. Less clear is how long she can hold out. Ruby is strong, but she’s no fighter. She’s all heart and passion, the kind of person who throws herself into the deep end without a life vest for those she loves.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing, too; risking everything for the woman I love. Yes, love. There’s no doubt that what I feel for her is a twisted version of that feeling. I hate it took losing her to realize that, but here we are, and there’s no time to dwell on regrets.
I stalk out of the alley, the cold air biting against my sweat-soaked skin. But I barely notice as I get into my car.
One more stop. If I don’t get what I need there, I’ll have to call Nicklas so we can divide and conquer. That’s a complication I don’t want, but I’ll do whatever it takes.
As I reach my destination, I drive all the way onto the curb, almost running over a couple walking. But they scurry out of my way while the woman screams insults at me over her shoulder. If only she knew how little I care.
My balaclava is still in place, covering my face completely, so I don’t hesitate to walk inside the dive bar. It’s the kind of place where even the cockroaches carry switchblades. I push through the door, and a wall of stale beer and sweat hits me. The jukebox in the corner is playing something scratchy and old, drowned out by the din of shouted conversations.
I scan the room, eyes settling on a familiar face. Tony ‘Two-Bit’. A small-time hustler with big-time aspirations, and a mouth that runs faster than h is legs. He’s perched on a barstool, nursing what looks like a cocktail with a tiny umbrella. I make my way over, weaving through the crowd with predatory grace.
“Ah shit, it’s you. Is it February already?” he asks, attempting to sound calm as I loom over him. His eyes widen, taking in my blood-soaked appearance. He looks like he wants to bolt, but knows better. “Christ, man. You been swimming in a slaughterhouse?”
“Something like that.” I take the stool next to him, leaning in close. He flinches. “I need information.”
He swallows hard, glancing around the room. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”
I grab his drink and crush it in my hand. Glass shards bite into my palm, and the fruity concoction sprays across the bar. “You’re in the middle of whatever the fuck I tell you.”
Two-Bit is smart enough to know when he’s fucked. He sinks back into his stool, defeated. “What do you need?”
“Scrappers and Steel Crew. Who’s running things these days?”
He hesitates, and I see the wheels turning in his head. Calculating the risk of telling me versus the risk of holding out. “Scrappers are still Joey B’s crew. Steel Crew just got taken over by some new guy.”
“Which of them is moving girls?”
Two-Bit shrugs, but it’s an exaggerated, nervous gesture. “Could be either. Could be neither. That shit’s hot these days. No one wants the heat.”
I’m out of patience. I grab him by the collar, pull him close enough that he can smell the blood on me. “Who?”
Fear flashes in his eyes. “Man… I’ve only heard rumors. Something about a flesh auction happening at midnight, but that’s all I know. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you want straight facts.”
I let him go, and he slumps forward, adjusting his collar with trembling hands. An auction. It makes a sick kind of sense.
The Hatts shut theirs down years ago; well, all except one. It sounds like the black market is still thriving. Buying and selling people like cattle. It’s quicker than I thought, but not hopeless. If she’s on the block, I still have a chance to get her back.
“ Where?” I ask, though I already know the answer. There’s only one place in the city bold enough to host something like this.
He rubs his neck, avoiding my gaze. “Come on, you know I can’t—”
“Two-Bit,” I growl menacingly.
He sighs, defeated. “Look, if it is happening… if it is more than rumors, it’ll be at the ol’ meatpacking district.”
Nodding, I say, “Any of them giving you any trouble?”
“You mean…?”
“I do. Give me two names and addresses. Consider it my way of thanking you for the info.”
After he gives me what I need, though not without letting me know he isn’t too happy about it, I stand, and he flinches again, expecting a parting blow.
“Thanks, Tony. Enjoy your drink.” I leave right away, not giving him time to respond.
An auction. It’s almost a relief to have something concrete, a goal I can work toward. But first, I need to be sure. I need to hear it from someone with more skin in the game. And now, I know exactly where to find what I need.
The leather seats of my car are sticky with blood as I slide back in, turning the key. The engine roars to life, and I peel back onto the street, tires screaming against the asphalt.
As the city blurs by me, I contemplate calling Nicklas to let him know what I’ve found. He’ll want to know, and the Knights have the resources to make this quick and clean. But I hesitate. This is personal. This is me and Ruby.
I abandon the thought as I kill the engine, parking a block away from my next target. It’s a rundown tenement, one of those places where dreams come to die, or they would if anyone ever dared to have one.
Popping the trunk, I take a quick inventory. Ropes, a selection of blades and other weapons, and, of course; my bow and arrows. I grab a blackjack baton, weighing the leather-wrapped weapon in my hand before heading into the building.
The lobby is deserted, a broken shell of once-grand architecture. Peeling wallpaper and cracked marble floors give it the air of a derelict mansio n. I take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with anticipation.
Room 3B. I knock, then step to the side. A peephole darkens, and I hear a chain rattle. The door cracks open, and a face pokes out. I’ve never seen him before, but apparently this guy is a thorn in Tony’s side.
“You,” he says, eyes widening with recognition and fear.
“Me.” I swing the blackjack, and it connects with his temple in a dull thud. He crumples wordlessly, and I slip inside.
The apartment is a squalid mess. Dirty clothes and takeout containers form a landscape of filth. I drag the unconscious thug to the center of the room, then check the kitchen. A second man sits at the table, snorting a line of something off a mirror. He looks up, confused, just in time to catch the blackjack with his forehead. He goes down in a heap, the mirror shattering and sending a glittering spray of powder across the linoleum.
I return to the first thug, and while I fish a syringe from my pocket, I locate his gang ink before emptying it into his neck. He’ll be out for a while. The second man gets the same treatment. Who knew people from different gangs party together? I sure as fuck didn’t, and it makes me wonder who else is working together behind the scenes.
Rushing back to my car, I open the trunk and retrieve two sets of chains. Then I return to the apartment, where I strip both men naked and bind their wrists and ankles. The chains clink with a satisfying weight as I padlock them in place. I make sure they’re secure, then haul each body to the door, one at a time.
The drive to the mountains is long and winding. Normally, I prefer it that way but right now the drive feels too long, and I almost give up halfway through. Wasting all this time on the road doesn’t sit right with me. Yet I know it’s how it needs to be. The city has too many eyes, too many curious onlookers. And for what I have in mind, I need the seclusion. Up here, it’s just me.
I think about Ruby again, about our time here. I wish we’d stayed longer because for a short while, everything was perfect. Grinding my teeth I remind myself why I’m here, and I tell myself that it will be that way again.
The cabin comes into view, a dark silhouette against the starry sky. I park a nd kill the lights, take a deep breath of the forest air. It’s cold enough to see my own exhale, a ghostly plume that dissipates into the night.
I unload the bodies, one at a time, dragging them like sacks of meat. The exertion sends waves of soreness through my muscles, but it’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts that all center around Ruby—around my pet.
Behind the cabin is a clearing, dotted with tree stumps and overgrown brush. I’ve used this area to practice my archery many times, and it’s perfect for what I have in mind.
I unchain the first man and lash him to a tree, his arms stretched above him like a sacrificial offering. The bark tears at his skin, leaving raw, red streaks. I move to the second man, give him the same treatment on a neighboring tree. Their bodies hang limp, swaying slightly in the cold breeze.
Smelling salts bring them around, their effects immediate and violent. The men jerk and convulse, then suck in deep, ragged breaths. They look at each other, then at me, and realization dawns in their eyes.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I say, my voice cutting through the night. “I’m going to practice my aim. The first one to tell me what I want to know gets to walk away. The other dies. Slowly.”
I wrench open the car door with a jolt. My heart races as I grip onto my bow. The smooth curves of the wood feel almost alive beneath my fingertips. With a fierce determination, I snatch up the quiver filled with sharpened arrows.
As I approach the men, their struggles against their bonds only intensify. They cry out for help, their voices echoing in the desolate environment. But instead of revealing myself, I reach for an arrow and aim it at the closest target.
My first shot is calculated and precise, sinking deep into the foot of the Steel Crew member. His groans are muffled as he twists in agony, his body contorting in a futile attempt to escape my wrath. With a steady hand and determined focus, I notch another arrow and pull back on the bowstring, feeling its familiar tension coursing through my veins as I aim it toward the Scrapper.
“ Practice shots,” I announce, and release. The arrow pierces the shoulder of the Scrapper. Blood seeps from the wound, and he starts to sob.
I take a step closer, moving slowly and deliberately, savoring the fear that radiates from their bodies. “Who’s in charge of the auction?” I ask.
“Fuck you,” says the Scrapper, though his voice is more whimper than defiant.
The Steel Crew man is silent, his eyes glassy with shock. I had expected him to break first. Maybe he’s in too much pain to realize the opportunity.
“Remember,” I say, lifting the bow and drawing another arrow. “Only one of you has to die.”
I aim for the Scrapper’s chest, then shift my gaze to the Steel Crew man. He flinches, and I see his resolve start to crack. I loose the arrow, and it thuds into the Scrapper’s thigh, narrowly missing his femoral artery.
He howls, cursing me, cursing his rival, cursing the world.
“Okay, okay!” The Steel Crew man’s voice is frantic. “I’ll tell you!”
“Don’t believe him,” spits the Scrapper. “He’s just stalling.”
I raise a hand, silencing them both. “Go on,” I say to the Steel Crew man.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “All I know is that V is in charge of the auction. He handles all those things for the Scrappers. It’s all their business.” His words are a jumbled rush of words, but I’m confident I understand what he’s saying.
I look to the Scrapper. His face is a mask of pain and fury. “He’s lying,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his words.
“Maybe,” I say. “But he’s talking. That’s more than you’ve done.”
“Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you where it’s at. It’s in the meatpacking district. You won’t be able to miss it. Even though it starts at midnight, people might already be arriving,” he shouts.
Since I already knew that, I turn back to the Steel Crew man. “Who paid V?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Some rich fuck. We’re just the mu scle.”
The Scrapper starts to laugh, a manic, unhinged cackle. “You’re so fucked, dude. You think you can take on V? He’s the fucking devil.”
I walk to the Scrapper, pull the arrow from his thigh. He screams, then bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. “He might be the devil, but I’m the Hunter. And I live for the hunt.” I stab the arrow into his gut, just below the ribs. His eyes go wide, and he gasps like a fish pulled from water. I twist the shaft, feel the crunch of cartilage.
The Scrapper’s head lolls to one side, his body sagging against the tree.
Now that there’s only one left, I turn my attention on him. “Anything else you want to tell me?” I coldly ask while walking backward.
“No!” The Steel Crew man is in hysterics. “You killed him, so you have to let me go. You said… you promised…”
“I lied.” I notch another arrow and draw, aiming for his eye. It flies true, piercing with a wet pop. He dies immediately.
Normally, I’d take my time with the killing, but not now. In fact, I’m already wasting time admiring my handiwork. As soon as I realize that, I spin on my heel and rush back to the car with my bow and quiver in hand. I toss both to the backseat and start the car.
My hands are shaking, my mind a maelstrom of thoughts and plans. I have what I need now. The auction is real, and I know where it is.
“Ruby,” I whisper. “Just hold on a little longer. I will come for you. I will save you. No one will touch you again. No one but me.”
The road winds down the mountain, a serpent of asphalt cutting through the forest. I push the car hard, tires skidding on the occasional patch of ice. The adrenaline from the night’s work still clings to me, making me take reckless turns and run red lights.
It’s not until I near the city that I realize just how late it is. Even with driving as recklessly as I did, it’s taken me longer than I like to get back from my cabin. Damnit, the auction has probably already started.
Though I’m not happy about it, I shoot Nicklas a text.
Me: Found her. Auction at the meatpacking district, and it might already have started.
The phone buzzes a moment later.
Nicklas: I know. Meet us there as soon as you can.
Am I surprised to learn that Nicklas and Jack didn’t just sit back and wait? Not at all.
Nicklas: Don’t do anything stupid if you get there first. Wait for backup.
Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I have no intention of waiting for anyone.
This is me and Ruby. I will do whatever it takes. No one else can. No one else will.
The old meatpacking district has a ghostly quality at night. Abandoned warehouses loom like mausoleums, their broken windows staring vacantly into the streets below. I park a few blocks away and kill the engine, sitting in silence for a moment.
The city has a different character here, a gritty, unpolished core that reminds me of a rusted-out machine.
Reaching into the backseat, I grab the spare suit I threw in there. I don’t know why the hell I did it, maybe I already suspected the need for it. No matter the reason, I’m glad it’s there.
Opening the car door, I lean down enough to touch the snowmelt and slush on the ground, using it to clean my hands as much as possible. I even splatter some of my face, cleaning up the best I can. Then I change out of the ruined and blood-stained clothes I’m wearing and into the pristine suit.
I check my phone. No new messages. Nicklas will be pissed that I’m going in alone, but he’ll just have to get over it. This isn’t a Knight operation, and I don’t answer to him. Despite just thinking that, I still text him that I’m going in before throwing my phone onto the backseat.
Reaching for my bow and quiver, I get out of the car. After slinging both over my shoulder, I quietly make my way toward the building.
The auction is being held in a converted warehouse. Once, this area was th e heart of the city’s meat industry. Now it’s a mix of trendy lofts and derelict buildings, a neighborhood in the throes of an identity crisis. I walk with purpose, but not too quickly. Running draws attention, and I need to stay invisible.
A small crowd mills around the entrance, dressed in furs and leathers, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. They look like a parody of old-world aristocrats, the kind of people who think money can buy them class. I recognize a few faces—minor players in the city’s underworld, a corrupt union boss, even a local politician. All here to bid on human flesh.
I slip into an alley and find a service door. It’s locked, but a quick jab from my knife dislodges the rusted bolt. The door creaks open, and I slide inside, closing it softly behind me. The interior is dimly lit, a warren of makeshift corridors and storage rooms. I hear muffled voices, the clink of glasses, a low hum of anticipation.
My movements are slow and deliberate, each step calculated. I’m in the heart of the beast now, and one wrong move could get me torn apart. I think of Ruby, of her defiant smile, and push that thought down deep. Nothing will keep me from her.
I reach a set of stairs and descend, the concrete walls weeping with decades of accumulated grime. The temperature drops, and I can see my breath. At the bottom, a heavy door with a small, grated window. I peer through, and my stomach knots.
The auction hall is a cavernous space, once used for cold storage. Rows of wooden chairs fill the center of the room, and a makeshift stage has been erected at one end. A crowd of fifty or sixty people mingles in the aisles, sipping drinks and chatting with the casual air of attendees at an art show.
On the stage, a line of women stands in various states of undress, their hands bound in front of them. A single, glaring spotlight washes over them, casting long shadows that dance on the walls. An older woman with a clipboard walks down the line, inspecting the merchandise.
I scan the women, my eyes moving quickly from one face to the next. A surge of relief hits me when I see her. Ruby. She’s at the far end of the line, wearing nothing but a torn slip. Her hair is a tangle of black vines.
The relief only lasts until I notice the blood running down her body to pool on the floor. She’s fucking bleeding. Someone didn’t just touch her; they fucking hurt her. But that’s not what has fear clawing at my heart; it’s the look in her eyes. They’re open, but unseeing as she sways unsteadily. And in their depths is… nothing.
As I look at her, I, for the first time in my life, believe in the concept of having a soul. And the thing that’s convinced me is that Ruby’s is gone. The woman on the stage is a shell, a husk of her former self. Nothing more.
I make a quick inventory of my options. The bow is useless here; I’ll only get to use it once. The second the element of surprise is gone, I’ll get rushed which means close combat. All I have is the knife, a small, easily concealed blade meant for cutting rope or fabric. I pull it from my pocket and hold it in my palm, feeling the cold steel leech the warmth from my skin.
My thoughts turn dark, possessive. I imagine rushing the stage, slashing at the older woman, taking Ruby in my arms and cutting her bonds. I see us running through the corridors, out into the night, escaping in a hail of gunfire. It’s a suicide fantasy, but it’s better than the paralysis of indecision.
I crack the door again, just enough to see. A man takes the stage, dressed in a gaudy velvet suit. He taps a microphone, and the crowd starts to settle. My heart pounds in my ears, each beat a thunderous drumroll.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man says, his voice echoing off the walls. “Thank you for joining us this evening. We have a truly exquisite selection for you tonight.”
My grip tightens on the hilt of my knife, imagining the feel of flesh giving way to steel, the warm rush of blood. No one will touch her again. No one but me.
With those thoughts at the forefront of my mind, I tuck the knife into the waistband of my pants, and remove the bow from my back. I quickly line up three arrows, ready to shoot them off to the left where most are seated . Hopefully, the chaos will buy me a few precious seconds.
Then I burst through the door.