Chapter Twenty Five, Safehouse Of Horror
The SUV rolled to a stop after hours of driving next to a comatose—and then very angry—Atlas.
Gravel crunched under the tires, and I peered through the window.
The house ahead was maddeningly ordinary—a neat suburban home painted a muted yellow with white shutters.
The front yard was meticulously trimmed, a flower bed full of pink and white blooms framing the walkway.
A wooden trellis up the side, coated in ivy.
It looked like the kind of place you’d find a PTA meeting inside, not a safehouse.
If this was Danika’s idea of a hideout, I couldn’t wait to see her idea of a vacation home. It was probably a volcano with a wine bar.
She climbed out first, barking a quick command to her men, who filed out of the other cars quickly. As she stepped away, Atlas muttered something under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face. When he sat up, he wobbled slightly, like his limbs hadn’t quite caught up to his brain yet.
I frowned, concern curling in my chest. Danika said it was just a sedative she jabbed him with—but I didn’t trust a damn word that came out of her mouth.
Not when it came to Atlas. I needed him clear headed.
He was better at fixing things than I was, and if he couldn’t think straight, we were screwed.
“You okay?” I muttered.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve had worse.”
Then, after a beat, he leaned a little closer. “Do whatever she tells you to do. It’s easier that way. I’ll work out a way to get us out, and you can just be the pretty obedient face that keeps her distracted.”
I nodded, throwing on a cocky grin to hide my trepidation. “You know I’m obedient, fantasma. You tell me to jump, and I’ll ask how high.”
The door opened before he could do more than roll his eyes at me.
“Out,” one soldier said, grabbing my arm and yanking me outside.
I winced at the sudden tug, my muscles stiff from being in the cramped back seat for so long. “You know,” I said dryly, “you could just ask. Maybe smile and say please. It would get you a lot further.”
The mercenary didn’t reply, shoving me forward with a gruff grunt. My sneakers crunched against the gravel, and a crisp breeze stung my face. The sudden brightness of the summer afternoon made my eyes water. After hours in a blacked-out SUV, it felt like being slapped.
By the time my eyes stopped stinging, Atlas was out of the car, standing beside me with that unreadable calm of his. Only I knew him well enough to catch the slight clench of his jaw, the subtle way his inked hands flexed at his sides.
He was plotting murderous things. Beautifully murderous things.
“Inside,” Danika said, gesturing toward the house with a jerk of her head.
She strode ahead without waiting for a response, her boots clicking against the concrete, then the porch. The mercenary behind me gave another shove, and I stumbled slightly, catching myself with a glare.
“Push me again, bastardo,” I hissed, “and see what happens.”
The guy snorted, then leaned close enough for me to smell the cheap tobacco on his breath. “Keep mouthing off. Maybe I’ll knock that smirk off your face.”
Charming.
Unfortunately for him, he didn’t get the chance.
Before I could even process the threat—or take a single step—there was a sharp crack from behind him.
His neck twisted violently, unnaturally, and he dropped like a marionette with cut strings.
Eyes wide. Mouth still half-curled into a sneer.
Dead before his body hit the gravel and the pale pair of hands that had grabbed him moved away.
It was clean. Fast. Horrifyingly casual. Executed with the kind of precision that only came from years of practice—or a total lack of empathy.
Danika turned back to us, head cocked. Eyes on the spot behind me, lips pulling into a vicious smirk as I gaped at the ground. Heart racing, for more reasons than one.
“Teach your toys to play nicely or I’ll break them.” Atlas’ voice was icy cold as he stepped over the body he’d created. “We might be playing your games, but Gio is mine.” He practically growled the last word as I tried not to blush. “Do not push me, Dani.”
I wasn’t fazed by murder, even if I didn’t enjoy doing it myself. But seeing Atlas commit it so easy for me? Over something as simple as a shove?
I was practically gushing. It felt far more romantic than flowers and a home-cooked meal. It was like a declaration of the best kind of things, enough to make me blush.
Danika looked down at the dead man sprawled at Atlas’s feet, then up at Atlas himself, eyes lingering for a beat too long before she gave a slow, approving nod—like she’d bet on him winning and wasn’t the least bit surprised.
Then she barked something in Russian over her shoulder, loud and sharp enough to make even the birds shut up.
One of her mercs jogged to the nearest SUV and pulled a backpack from the backseat. He brought it to her with quick, nervous steps.
She unzipped it and pulled out two thick metal collars. Around us, her men raised their weapons and aimed at our heads like we were about to start something.
She stopped in front of me first and offered the collar with a smirk. “Be a good boy, Reaper. Put it on.”
I took it, hesitating as my pulse thundered. But then Atlas looked at me and gave a short nod, sharp and sure enough for me to play obedient like he’d asked.
“What the fuck is this for?” He asked.
Danika’s smile widened. “We’re going to play a fun game. And I don’t feel like holding you at gunpoint all day.”
She handed him the other collar. “Don’t worry. The spike inside the band will kill you. But only if you piss me off.”
Atlas scowled but took it. He turned it over in his hands, then locked it around his neck. I followed his lead, clicking mine shut.
A moment passed, then all the guns lowered.
Danika crouched by the bag again and pulled out a small black device. “This is a dead man’s switch. It’s linked to me. Try to take those collars off, slide them over your head, cut them—boom. Spike to the throat. Straight through.”
She held up the remote and gave a cheerful shrug. “Only I can disengage them. So don’t fuck around. I have a lot to do today, and I’m in no mood for inconveniences.”
Atlas didn’t reply. Just clenched his jaw as she ordered us into the house.
He went inside first, cautious but not scared. His eyes darted around the space, presumably looking for exits, and anything we could use to help ourselves. I did the same, even if it wasn’t to the same effect.
The entryway opened into a wide living space—kitchen on the left, lounge on the right.
The fridge still had plastic wrap on the doors, a sign that this place was new or not used as a proper home.
My thoughts were backed up when I spotted the long oak table that dominated the center of the room, covered in blueprints, maps, and weapons: rifles, knives, grenades, even a rocket launcher leaning against the wall.
But perhaps the worst sign was layered on top of that setup.
A huge banner stretched across the far wall. The letters were smeared in dripping black paint:
WELCOME TO SLAUGHTERHOUSE.
Two podiums stood side by side—old barstools with cardboard boxes duct-taped to the tops. A party hat had been placed on each one. Atlas’s had a frowning face drawn in red marker. Mine had a crude, lopsided star.
Our names were scrawled on the front in thick black ink.
A whiteboard sat tilted on a cheap easel nearby, listing something that looked like rules and a scoring system. A digital kitchen timer was taped to the top. On the table behind the podiums sat three black-wrapped boxes labeled PRIZE.
I stared.
Atlas… laughed. I shot him a look.
He nodded toward the setup. “This is just so her. All of it. It fits so beautifully, and I just… I missed it.” He blinked away what was clearly a mental breakdown.
“She’s crazy, but this is a good sign. Dani doesn’t play games unless she’s got a reason and something to win.
She must want something to go through all this trouble.
And I don’t just mean the payday from murdering you. ”
Before I could ask what the chances of us winning and walking away actually was, the silence outside broke.
A burst of gunfire cracked through the air, close enough to make me flinch. Atlas turned immediately, stepping in front of me. I stayed behind him, eyes locked on the door, mind racing with a million different thoughts on who could be coming for us.
I presumed it was my father.
Or a bigger monster than the woman he’d paid to steal my soul.
The shots kept going—overlapping with shouts, masculine screams, and boots hitting the ground. It lasted maybe twenty seconds. Then silence.
The front door opened before I could swallow the lump in my throat.
Danika stepped inside, grinning ear to ear.
“Okay,” she hummed, “now we can get started for real.”
Blood was splattered across her face. A streak down one pale cheek, a few drops under one eye, more across her jaw. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled harder.
I looked past her, through the open door before she slammed it shut.
Every one of her men was on the ground. None of them were moving.
Blood covered the floor beneath them.
I could see holes in some of their heads.
Danika turned the lock as I did nothing but stare, thoroughly on edge.
“Alright, first things first.” She spun on her heel, deadman switch in her hand. “I suppose I should explain the rules of the game?” She motioned for us to walk to the podiums. “Take your places boys, the fun is about to begin.”