Chapter 17
Seth
Connor’s Silicon Valley apartment looks exactly like the kind of place a smug, overpaid tech-bro would live in. An architectural flex with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer no privacy but scream wealth.
The front door is framed by a top-tier security system, motion sensors, camera feeds, keyless entry. It probably costs more than the SUV we stole.
Beau doesn’t even glance at the keypad.
He steps forward, raises his suppressed pistol, and fires two clean shots straight through the wood. The soft thump of the silencer barely masks the heavier sound of bodies hitting the floor on the other side.
Travis nearly faints. “Beau! What the fuck? How did you even know—”
Beau opens the door. “I didn’t know. I assumed.”
Beau steps over the bodies like they are nothing more than clutter on the floor. Travis freezes behind him, staring down at the blood pooling beneath the guards like he’s stumbled into a murder scene he isn’t ready for. Beau doesn’t even blink.
I shove past both of them.
Connor is on his feet, already moving toward a drawer in the sleek kitchen, probably where he keeps whatever designer weapon makes him feel powerful in his gated, oversecured world. His three glowing monitors light him in cold light as he reaches, frantic.
He doesn’t make it.
Travis crosses the room with a burst of momentum none of us expect and cracks his fist across Connor’s jaw hard enough to send a shockwave through the glass-topped table. The sound echoes through the marble and steel interior like a gunshot.
Connor collapses to the floor, blood pouring from his split lip, one hand fumbling at his side like he still believes he has a shot at control.
He doesn’t.
“You piece of shit,” Travis growls, storming toward him. “You killed all those innocent people in that hotel. You almost killed me.”
Connor sits up slowly, blood streaking down his chin, and lets out a hoarse, smug laugh.
“Well, you were collateral Travis.”
Travis staggers back half a step, like the air has been knocked out of him. His jaw clenches. His expression twists. Anger, disbelief, betrayal all crashing together.
“You’re a fucking coward,” he snaps. “You stood next to me every day and pretended to be my friend.”
“It’s called strategy Travis,” Connor says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “I didn’t need to pretend. You were easy to fool. That’s why they put me there. And I understand how to stay useful.”
His eyes flick between us, smug despite the blood leaking down his chin.
“And it looks like you cheated death. Again.”
He reaches toward the table and grabs a remote. One click, and the flat screen on the wall blinks to life.
News footage. An old mugshot of me fills the screen. Then aerial shots of the Everspring Hotel. First responders dragging out bodies. Police lines. The aftermath.
The headline burns across the bottom in bold red: NATIONWIDE MANHUNT – SUSPECTED MASS KILLER ESCAPES CUSTODY
Connor leans back, smiling through the blood. “You’re public enemy number one, Seth,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I step closer, my boots crunching softly on the pristine floor. The muzzle of my gun finds Connor’s forehead.
“Where is Elliot’s manor?”
His smile returns, smug, bloodied, mocking. “You really think you’re getting Brooke back after the manor? You’ll be lucky if you find her in one piece.”
I tighten my grip on the gun without hesitation and push it harder against his skull. “Where the fuck is it?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. Some of the bravado bleeds out of his eyes.
“No one knows. It’s off-grid. No satellites. No maps. No digital footprint. Only rumor is… it’s somewhere in Oregon. That’s all I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m running out of the little patience I have left,” I snap. “If you don’t get on that fucking computer and find something useful, Victor Voss is going to need a sponge to clean what’s left of your face off these monitors.”
Connor looks up at me. And at that moment, he knows I’m not bluffing. He climbs into the chair without another word.
Travis shoves a chair next to him and leans in. “Open every encrypted directory. Now.”
Connor mutters something under his breath, fingers flying across the keyboard. The monitors light up with code and file structures, hidden servers, dark web comms, payment channels buried behind proxy networks.
Travis jams a USB into the nearest port. “Copy everything.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know what half of this shit is.”
“Keep talking,” Travis snaps, “and I’ll make sure your jaw’s wired shut.”
Connor clicks faster, still trying to posture, but his hands tremble slightly.
Then Travis freezes. Eyes lock on a folder as it opens.
“Stop.”
Travis points at a photo on the screen, his finger trembling slightly.
“That’s Grant.”
The image is grainy but clear enough. Grant, standing beside two uniformed officers outside a precinct in Colorado. Same cold smirk. Same dar eyes. The badge on his chest looks official, but it’s all theater.
“He wasn’t the police,” I say quietly. “He bought the police. That’s the cop who tried to shoot me in the hallway. Brooke killed him. He wasn’t following orders, he was the order.”
Next to Grant stands another man. Taller, younger, but unmistakably connected. Same sharp cheekbones, same dead stare, same snake-coiled stillness.
Connor smirks through bloodied teeth. “And that… is Elliot. Grant’s brother. He runs the manor.”
Travis clicks again.
The screen lights up with another file, this time, interior surveillance footage.
A concrete basement, chains dangling from steel beams, stained floors.
One frame shows a woman hanging upside down by her ankles, her skin mottled and bruised.
Another shows a man split open from groin to chest, ribcage cracked wide.
In the corner, someone kneels with their teeth removed, hands bolted to the floor by nails driven through their wrists.
I look away. Not because I can’t stomach gore. I’ve seen worse. I’ve done worse. But because I can’t bear the thought that Brooke might be in a place like that. Right now. Alone.
Travis keeps scrolling. His face drains of color, the light from the monitors painting him a sickly gray. “These are victim logs. There’s a schedule: rotations, feeding times, torture intervals. Jesus Christ, Seth…”
My grip tightens.
Another click. A video opens without warning. It's Elliot again, grinning like a game show host, holding a blood-slicked blade over a woman’s face while she screams. The camera shakes as someone laughs behind it.
Travis gags. “Fuck. Fuck, I can’t…”
I say nothing. My shoulder throbs, pulse hammering through every stitch. But all I can see is Brooke. Somewhere in the dark, near that hell.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the last unfamiliar face in the surveillance footage.
Dark hair, gold chain, lazy grin. He looks like a man who doesn’t get his hands dirty unless it amuses him.
Connor snorts through blood. “Dante Valero. He’s their supplier. Cocaine, Fentanyl, girls, weapons. Whatever they want, he brings it. He’s the only outsider Elliot allows inside the manor.”
Travis is already typing, keys clicking fast. “Got something. He’s based in Oregon.”
He zooms in on a shipping manifest and an encrypted delivery log. “City called Blackridge. Real rural. Looks like he’s got a property on the outskirts.”
Colorado.
Fresno.
Silicon Valley.
Now Oregon.
We are chasing ghosts across three states while Brooke is locked in a torture palace with monsters who see her as entertainment.
I take a step closer to Connor, my voice low. “Anything else you need to tell us? Anything useful I can actually fucking use?”
Connor leans back in the chair, bleeding, lips curling into that smug, tech-prick smirk he wears like armor.
“How about you go fu—”
I shoot him before he finishes.
The silenced round blows through his temple. His body snaps sideways, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. Blood sprays across the monitor in an arc. The chair rolls back into the glass dining table with a soft bump.
Travis recoils so hard he nearly falls over. “Seth! Jesus fuck!”
“He had nothing else useful to say,” I say coldly.
Beau crouches beside the body, nudging Connor’s shoulder. “Welp. He’s very fucking dead.”
“Good,” I mutter, wiping the blood off the gun’s grip. “Dante is next.”
Beau stands and holsters his weapon. “Blackridge is backwoods. I’ve got a safe house nearby. Another just across the border in Washington if shit gets loud.”
Travis exhales shakily, face pale. “We’re really going to Oregon.”
Connor’s blood is still leaking across the floor, soaking into the grout of his designer tile. We walk out of the condo and onto the driveway.
“We need to ditch the SUV,” Travis says. “It’s already flagged, probably by half the state.”
“It is absolutely flagged,” Beau replies, unbothered. “We should abandon it somewhere quiet.”
We cut through two blocks of overpriced Silicon Valley condos, each more sterile than the last, until we find a side street with no traffic, no porch lights, and no cameras we can see.
The SUV’s headlights sweep across manicured lawns, mailboxes with corporate logos, and sleeping houses that all look exactly the same.
Travis pulls to the curb and slams it into park. “Okay. We ditch it here and pray nobody checks the Ring cams.”
I throw open the back door. Krueger leaps out immediately, landing with force, muscles bristling, head up and ears forward. He scans the dark like he is ready to rip apart anything that moves. Luna stays curled in the carrier beside him, wide-eyed and vibrating with fury.
“Easy,” I mutter, reaching out. “We’re just switching cars.”
Krueger nudges my side with his snout.
Beau moves efficiently, popping the glove box, wiping the steering wheel, pulling out anything with prints or identifiers. He tosses burner wrappers, pockets the USB, and slides the last gun magazine into his coat.
“Hurry,” he says calmly. “We shouldn’t linger in a stolen, blood-soaked vehicle in a neighborhood where everyone owns a drone and a doorbell camera.”
Travis groans and climbs out. “This is so fucking illegal.”
Beau shuts the door behind him. “You’re deep in the illegal part, my friend. We passed misdemeanor six corpses ago.”
We cut through a line of hedges leading to the underground parking garage beneath Connor’s building. Concrete columns, dim overhead lighting, the distant buzz of a faulty fluorescent.
Connor, being a tech-bro narcissist with more cash than sense, owns three vehicles. Each one flashier than the last.
A matte black Audi with custom rims.
A silver Tesla that practically screams I overpay for convenience.
And a cherry red BMW convertible that deserves to be pushed off a cliff.
“We’re not taking the BMW,” Travis says immediately.
“No shit,” Beau adds. “Only assholes drive red cars in a manhunt.”
We choose the Audi. Sleek, quiet, spacious enough for three fugitives and two animals once the back seats are folded down. Beau pops the trunk while I open the rear door and drop the seats.
“Load them up.”
Krueger leaps in without hesitation, turning once before lying down. I slide Luna’s carrier in beside him. She hisses low under her breath, glaring at Krueger.
“They fit,” Travis mutters. “Barely.”
“They’ll manage,” Beau says, climbing into the passenger seat.
Travis slides behind the wheel and starts the engine. “I still can’t believe we’re stealing a dead guy’s car.”
Beau buckles his seatbelt without looking at him. “He won’t be filing a report.”
I ease into the backseat beside the animals. Krueger shifts and presses his massive head against my thigh like he can sense the storm building under my skin. I rest a hand on his fur, grounding myself.
Travis backs the Audi out of the garage, mouth tight, knuckles pale against the wheel.
He exhales sharply. “We’ve gone from Colorado… to Fresno… to Silicon Valley… and now Oregon. What’s next, Alaska?”
“Just drive, Travis.”
Beau looks back at me. “Hang in there, Seth. We’ll get to her.”
Every highway we cross, every state line, every hour without her feels like it is pulling me apart thread by thread. There's a limit to how much distance I can take before something inside me snaps.
I keep one hand on Krueger’s head, the other on Luna’s carrier. Their warmth keeps me tethered. Keeps the worst thoughts from eating me alive.
I’ve seen enough of Elliot’s manor to know what it's built for. What kind of men walks its halls.
And I know this, every second I’m not there is a second he could be destroying her. Hurting her. Breaking her down piece by piece.
And I’m running out of time.