Chapter 33
Callum
The estate was too quiet for a man who trafficked in screams.
Mist threaded the trees as I moved up the gravel path, the weight of the night pressing in on every side. I wore black, every inch of me carved from shadow. The blade strapped to my thigh thrummed like a second heartbeat.
Rook thought he'd disappeared. Thought he could vanish behind paywalls and politics, new names and private security. But ghosts like him never really go away.
I slit the first guard's throat at the south fence. Quick. Clean. The second I dragged into the bushes, cracked his windpipe with a silent press of my forearm. I moved like a rumor. Quiet, steady, inevitable.
Inside the estate, opulence choked the air—marble floors, polished oak banisters, crystal chandeliers. But beneath the shine, I could smell it: rot. Old blood and bleach. Fear soaked into stone.
I took the west wing first. Office. Storage. Empty bedrooms. Then the east.
A hallway. Steel-reinforced. Card scanner beside a matte black door .
I pried the panel open, rewired the lock in under thirty seconds. My hands remembered the motions before my mind did. Ghost unit muscle memory. There and gone.
The door clicked.
Inside: cages.
Six of them. Stark, welded metal. Chains bolted to the floor. In the back corner, a mattress. Stained. The kind of stain you never fully wash out.
I stood there, teeth grinding, vision tunneling. I hadn't felt heat like this since Kandahar. Since the last time I dug a little girl out of a nightmare.
One of the cages had a pink ribbon tied around the bars.
That was it. That was the match to the gasoline.
I snapped the neck of the next guard without blinking.
When I found Rook, he was upstairs, sipping a whiskey like he didn't have hell crawling up his back. Room full of oil paintings and polished firearms. His eyes landed on me, recognition flickering.
"Callum Devlin," he drawled, setting the glass down with a clink. "Didn't think you'd crawl out of whatever hole they buried you in."
"You should've stayed buried yourself," I said.
He smiled. Faint. Smug. "This is a mistake."
I shot him in the knee .
He screamed. The sound echoed through the room like music. I stalked forward, slow and deliberate.
"You know what the mistake was? Thinking ghosts don't haunt back."
He scrambled, tried to crawl. I kicked him onto his back and knelt beside him.
"You like cages, Rook?"
"Please—"
I broke his jaw with one punch.
"You like hurting kids? Buying them? Breaking them?"
He whimpered. I dragged him by the collar to the wall, where a display case of knives gleamed under low light. I chose the smallest one. Surgical.
"I'm not here to kill you quick."
Blood pooled under him. His eyes were wide now, full of animal panic.
"This," I said, slicing into the side of his thigh, "is for every name we don't know."
Another cut. Deeper. He convulsed.
"This one's for the girl in the cage. With the ribbon."
Another. Slower.
I worked methodically. I made him feel it. Because pain was the only language men like him understood .
By the time he stopped screaming, I was soaked to the elbows.
I carved a single word into the wood-paneled wall behind his desk:
BLACKDAWN.
Let them know. Let them wonder .
The room reeks of fear and copper, the kind of stench that clings to your skin long after you’ve left the scene.
Rook's screams have gone quiet, choked out by his own blood, and now the only sound left is the soft, uneven breaths of the girl huddled behind the bolted door.
She's safe. Untouched. But shakin’ like a leaf caught in a storm.
I wipe the blade on Rook’s expensive curtains—might as well use his pristine, silk shite for somethin' useful—then step out of the room, closin' the door behind me. I plant myself in front of it, standin' guard. She won’t see what I’ve done. She’s seen enough monsters for one lifetime. She doesn’t need another.
My hands are slick with blood, the sleeves of my shirt soaked through. There's a hum under my skin, an aftershock of violence that hasn’t quite settled. I reach for my phone and hit Seraphina’s name.
She answers on the first ring. “Did you do it?”
“Aye,” I say, voice low. Gritty. “It’s done. Rook’s dead. And he knew it was me before the end.”
There’s a pause on her end. Then, “Good.”
“Found a girl,” I add. “Maybe ten. No older. Bastard had her locked in a panic room. Untouched, far as I can tell. Scared outta her feckin’ mind. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”
“I’ll send a contact. Someone we trust.”
“Already texted ya the location.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
“Aye.”
I hang up and immediately dial Mara.
She answers with a yawn. “Tell me you’re not callin’ me past midnight unless you’ve got somethin’ worth my time.”
“Oh, it’s worth it,” I murmur. “Big one. Messy one. Need you to bring the good kit.”
“How messy?”
“Painted the walls with the bastard. You’ll love it.”
There’s a pause, then a wicked chuckle. “On my way.”
I end the call and dial one last number. Reaper.
“Jesus Christ, mate, you still breathin’?”
“Aye, barely,” I mutter. “Sorry for not ringin’ sooner. Got a bit distracted playin’ butcher.”
“Where are you?”
“Rook’s estate. North end. Girl in a locked room, likely trafficked. He’s in pieces. Wanted you to know what to scrub.”
“I’ll handle it. Any witnesses?”
“Only ghosts.”
“Good.”
“Appreciate ya,” I say, then hang up.
The adrenaline is startin’ to fade, and now the pain is catchin’ up. I roll my shoulders, feel the sting in my ribs from where Rook landed a desperate blow. Didn’t break skin, but it’s bruisin’ deep. He fought like a man who knew he’d already lost.
I look down at my hands—cut, bloodied, the skin raw from how tightly I’d held the blade. I should feel somethin'. Guilt. Regret. Somethin’ human. But there’s nothin’. Just that cold, hollow sense of justice bein’ served.
This wasn’t murder. It was a message.
I check on the girl once more—she’s curled up in the far corner, still silent. Brave little thing. Deserves a life that ain’t built on the bones of bastards like Rook.
Sirens start in the distance—not cops, not yet. The contacts Seraphina sent, no doubt. We’ve got eyes in every shadow now. The cleanup’ll be quiet, professional. The girl’ll be safe.
I turn back toward the hallway, lean against the wall, and wait.
For Seraphina. For Mara. For the next name on the list.
Because this? This was only the beginning.