Chapter Six Blue
Chapter Six
Blue
The safe house sits like a tumor in the Oregon wilderness with rotting wood and broken windows. It’s tucked deep in Crowshaven’s
backcountry, miles from the main highway where tourists stop for coffee, clam chowder, and saltwater taffy. Most people never
see this part—the logging roads that wind through dense forest, the compounds, and the numerous safe houses hidden behind
walls of Douglas fir where the Crow run their operation.
It’s easy to get lost in the maze of the Witchwood forest that separates Crowshaven from Grimlock. Crowshaven’s a shithole.
Grimlock’s something else entirely. My town has character—old Victorian houses, narrow cobblestone streets, iron gates that
look like they’ve been there forever. Even our graveyard has more class than most places.
Crowshaven just sprawls without giving a damn. But lucky for Grimlock, the forest gives a separation stronger than any stone
wall or barbed wire fence could. The trees grow so thick they block out most of the daylight, turning everything underneath
into permanent twilight. Deer paths branch off in every direction, some leading to abandoned camps, others just petering out
into nothing. More than one hiker has gone in and never come back out.
But not me. I know every inch of Crowshaven and how it tries to utilize the mass of the Witchwood for its benefit. Five and
a half hours. It took exactly as long as the flight from New York to Oregon on my jet to track down where the Crow dragged
Sara after grabbing her from her apartment last night.
“Four heat signatures,” Hans murmurs beside me, lowering his thermal scope. “Main room. They’re not even trying to be smart
about this.”
Smart isn’t in their vocabulary. Brutus took his A-team to handle some cartel business in the Caymans, leaving these bottom-feeders
to play babysitter. Their mistake. My opportunity.
The intel came from Hans’s network—someone spotted the black sedan heading into the mountains. Not exactly a sophisticated operation—more like amateur hour with delusions of competence.
“Remember,” I tell Hans as we approach the building’s rear entrance, “I don’t kill tonight. You handle the wet work.”
Hans raises an eyebrow. “Boss, are you sure? You seem very . . . tense.”
Tense doesn’t begin to cover it. My hands shake with the need to paint these walls with Crow blood, to make them suffer for
every hour they’ve kept her captive. Three years of therapy, three years of Jay’s breathing exercises and redirected aggression,
and it could all disappear in the next ten minutes.
“I’m on the wagon,” I repeat, as much to convince myself as Hans. “Can’t risk falling off. Not now.”
The back door hangs askew, held by one stubborn hinge that squeaks like a dying mouse. Hans oils it with spit and patience
while I control my breathing the way Jay taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Meditation that keeps reformed
killers from relapsing.
The air inside hits like a slap—thick with smoke and the sour tang of men who’ve given up on hygiene. These idiots couldn’t
maintain a decent hideout if their lives depended on it.
Voices drift from the main room, unguarded. They’re not expecting company.
“—should’ve heard him scream when Brutus started with the pliers. Sounded like a fucking opera singer hitting the high notes.”
Laughter follows, blood-curdling and genuine.
“Wait here,” Hans whispers, already moving toward the sound. “I make this quick.”
Through the doorway, I watch Hans work. Three men clustered around a card table, playing poker with cigarettes as chips because
they’re too broke for actual money. And there, on a decrepit couch against the far wall, is Sara. Eyes closed, breathing steady,
but I can tell she’s awake. Smart girl—playing possum while gathering intelligence.
The first one dies mid-laugh, Hans’s blade sliding across his throat like he’s opening mail. The second one starts to stand, confusion replacing amusement on his face, but Hans is already there. The knife finds the sweet spot between ribs, puncturing the lung and heart in one efficient thrust.
The third man—younger than the others, with nervous eyes and shaking hands—actually manages to draw his gun. Almost manages
to aim it before Hans’s blade opens his carotid artery.
But Hans doesn’t stop there. He drives the tip of his knife into the man’s left eye socket with a wet pop, then twists the
blade with deliberate slowness, stirring the contents like he’s mixing cake batter. The eyeball bursts with a sound like stepping
on a grape, and Hans actually hums a little tune while he works. The man’s remaining eye stares up at nothing, blood and vitreous
fluid running down his cheek in pink rivulets.
Even I have to look away, and I’ve seen some shit. There’s excessive, and then there’s whatever the hell Hans just did to
that poor bastard’s brain.
“You’re just showing off,” I tell him as he wipes the blade clean.
Hans grins, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “Boss, for years it’s always been you leading the charge with that axe
of yours. Now it’s my turn to have some fun.” He gestures at the bodies with mock pride. “Besides, when do I ever get to be
creative? Usually I just follow your lead and clean up the mess. Where’s the flair in that?” He toes one of the dead bodies
on the ground. “They deserve it. Actually . . . they deserve worse.”
Thirty seconds. Three bodies. One unnecessary eye socket violation. Zero survivors.
Sara’s eyes are wide open, staring at the death scene. She sits up slowly, taking in the carnage, then her gaze finds mine
across the room. Her skin has gone ghost-pale, making the bruise on her upper arm look even darker—dark purple against pale
skin. The sight makes me want to resurrect these dead assholes just so I can kill them again.
Christ, she looks so young. So fragile sitting there surrounded by death and violence, trying to process what just happened.
She shouldn’t have to see this. Shouldn’t have to witness grown men reduced to meat and blood.
“Blue?” Her voice cracks slightly on my name, those expressive eyes moving between relief and suspicion. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you, Sara.” I step carefully around the bodies, hands visible, voice calm. The last thing she needs is another man
making her feel trapped. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“How do you know that name?” Her voice wavers, shock bleeding through the words. “Nobody calls me Sara. Nobody even knows—”
She stops, staring at me like I’m a ghost. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sara, listen. We need to get you—”
“Don’t call me Sara.” The demand comes out sharp, desperate. “My name is Saylor. And rescue?” Her gaze darts to the bodies
scattered around the room, to the blood pooling on the floor, to Hans wiping his knife clean. “This isn’t rescue, this is—oh
god, there’s so much blood. They’re all—are they all dead?”
Her breathing picks up, quick and shallow. She’s spiraling, processing too much at once.
“You actually—I wanted them dead but I never thought—” She pushes herself up from the couch, swaying slightly. I can see the
careful way she favors her left side. They roughed her up.
I move closer, needing to get between her and the carnage, to shield her from the worst of it. “Hey,” I say softly, catching
her attention. “Look at me, not them.”
But her focus keeps drifting back to the bodies, to the blood spreading across the floor.
“Saylor.” Her name puts her attention back on me. “These men were going to kill you. We stopped that from happening. But we
need to go. Now.”
She’s looking around the room now, really taking it in—the blood, the bodies, the overturned chairs. “Jesus . . . it’s like
a fucking slaughterhouse in here.”
She’s right—this is exactly what it is. Her hands are shaking now, and I want nothing more than to wrap her in my jacket and
carry her far away from this place, from this world, from everything that could hurt her.
“Why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“I was a friend of your father’s.” I keep my voice steady, calm. “I’ll explain everything once we get to Grimlock. My home. Where you’ll be safe.”
“Safe from what? And what the hell is Grimlock?”
“We need to leave.”
She processes this, stunning eyes studying my face like she’s trying to read my thoughts. Smart. Too smart for her own good.
But I can see the fight building in her posture, the stubborn tilt of her chin that reminds me so much of Peter it hurts.
“I know this is a lot,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“A lot?” Her voice rises. “A lot is finding out your coffee shop raised their prices. A lot is getting a parking ticket. This
is—this is fucking insane!”
She’s right, of course. Completely, absolutely right. But we don’t have time for a philosophical discussion about the nature
of reality and how quickly it can turn to shit.
“I’m not going anywhere with two fucking strangers.” Her voice rises, panic edging in. “I don’t care if you knew my father.
You just killed three people in front of me. You’re clearly as dangerous as they were.”
I take another step toward her, ignoring the way she flinches. “Saylor, listen to me—”
“No!” She backs away, her shoulder hitting the wall. “Stay away from me!”
The raw terror in her voice stops me cold. This isn’t just about the bodies or the blood—it’s about trust, about control,
about a twenty-three-year-old woman who’s been through hell and is now being asked to trust two more killers with her life.
I catch Hans’s eye and nod toward the chloroform in his jacket pocket. She’s going to fight this, and we don’t have time for
a lengthy negotiation. Every minute we waste here is another chance for more Crow to arrive.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, meaning it completely.
Hans moves behind her with surprising grace for such a large man. The chloroform-soaked rag appears in his hands like a magic
trick, covering her nose and mouth before she can scream or run or throw something at my head.
Her eyes lock on mine as the drug takes hold, wide with shock and betrayal. She trusted me long enough to let her guard down, and I just violated that trust completely.
But she’s alive. That’s what matters.
“The steamer trunk in the corner,” I tell Hans, pointing to the antique chest they probably used to transport her here.
Hans lifts her gently, placing her inside the trunk with more care than these assholes ever showed her. She looks impossibly
small curled up in there, like a sleeping child.
“This still feels wrong, Boss,” Hans mutters, securing the latches. “Like we are kidnapping her.”
“We are kidnapping her.” No point in pretending otherwise. “But we’re kidnapping her away from people who would torture and
kill her. Context matters.”
“Will she see it that way?”
Probably not. She’ll wake up angry, confused, and ready to murder me with whatever’s handy. But she’ll wake up alive, which
is more than she can say if we’d left her with the Crow.