Chapter 25 #2
Muscle parts in stringy strands. Tendons stretch stubborn and white before snapping one by one under the grind of metal. The sound is wet and fibrous, like tearing soaked rope.
He is shrieking now, voice shredding itself raw.
When the blade hits bone, the vibration changes. A hard, jarring resistance.
I press harder.
The saw skips once, screeching against the bone before finding purchase. Then I drive it back and forth with steady force. Bone dust mixes with blood, turning into a pale, gritty paste that splatters across my forearms.
It takes longer than it should.
The crack comes halfway through. A sharp, violent snap that echoes in the room as the bone splits unevenly. The lower half sags, held only by shredded tissue.
I keep sawing.
Beau stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching without comment.
Luke leans against the far wall in my head, smiling like this is a homecoming.
The final strip of tendon stretches thin, trembling under tension, then tears with a wet rip.
The foot tears free in my hands.
I place it in Dante’s lap, setting it down slowly so he can see exactly what it is.
For a moment he just stares at it.
Then the scream comes.
Blood surges from the mangled stump where his leg ends, pumping out in violent bursts that splash across the concrete floor.
The torn flesh hangs in ragged strands around the exposed bone, slick and glistening under the warehouse lights.
Muscle spasms uncontrollably as his body tries to process what just happened.
Dante’s screams collapse into broken, choking sobs as he stares down at his own severed foot resting in his lap.
I grab the salt container and tear it open with my teeth.
I pack it into the wound with both hands.
Not a sprinkle. Fistfuls.
I grind it into the exposed muscle, into the open marrow, forcing it into every torn space.
The sound that rips out of him doesn't sound human. His back arches so hard the chair lifts off the ground for a second. Veins bulge along his neck. Spit and blood spray from his mouth as he convulses.
“Now,” I say, my hands still slick with him, “we can talk.”
I wrap the stump tight with gauze, pulling hard, cinching it down until the bleeding slows to a sluggish seep.
He seizes again under the pressure.
I lean in close enough that he can feel my breath over his face.
“No more pretending, you’ve been to the manor. You know where she is.”
“I will tell you. I swear—I will talk—Just please.”
I burn the cigarette into the side of his face. “Now!”
“North of Eugene,” he gasps. “Off the 58. Gravel path. Front entrance.”
I turn to Beau. “You think he’s lying?”
Beau shakes his head once. “He’s leaking from every hole. He’s not lying.”
I press the knife gently under Dante’s jaw.
“Anyone else at the manor?”
“No. Just guards. Elliot is there. That’s it. I swear.”
I hold the blade there for another beat, then lower it.
“Pack him up.”
We keep Dante alive, but barely.
His wrists are cuffed behind his back, metal biting into torn skin already swollen and raw.
Zip ties cut deep into his ankles, one of them wrapped just above what used to be his foot.
The bloody gauze around the stump has gone stiff and black, soaked through hours ago.
The jagged end of his shin presses forward at an unnatural angle, wrapped tight but still leaking.
A strip of duct tape covers his mouth, sealed into sweat and blood. He makes guttural, wet sounds in the back seat. His whole body twitches with every bump in the road.
Travis drives. His hands lock on the wheel. His jaw stays tight. He doesn't look in the mirror.
I turn in my seat. “Directions.”
Dante nods frantically, muffled pleas leaking behind the tape. I grab his jaw and rip it off.
He gasps for air like a drowning man. “Take the next right,” he stammers. “Then the service road. No headlights once we’re off the main road. They’ll see you.”
We follow the directions.
The pavement disappears beneath us, replaced by dirt and gravel. Pine trees press in from both sides, branches clawing at the vehicle. The tires crack over loose rock like bones snapping underfoot.
“Keep going,” Dante says, his voice climbing. “There’s a lodge at the end. Looks abandoned. It’s not. Cameras. Motion sensors. Heat tracking in the trees. If you stop too early, it will trigger the perimeter.”
“Where’s the cutoff?” I ask.
“Past the fence line. There’s a boulder with a red ‘X’ carved into it. Ten yards past that is the safe zone. That’s where you park.”
He looks around the car, panic shaking his voice. “I got you here. Okay? I did what you wanted.”
Luke’s voice slides into my head like static.
“He still thinks there’s a deal coming. Show him what you really are.”
The trees thin, and the manor comes into view. The exact one from the footage.
It sits there like it has been waiting for us.
Details Travis pulled on Dante flood my mind. Black Ridge Club. Payments routed through shell accounts. Girls moved in and out for years. Shipped, traded, disposed of. Dante’s fingerprints on all of it.
He is not just a coward with a gun to his head.
He is a pipeline.
“This is it,” Dante says too fast. “This is the place. I swear.”
I open the door and step out. Cold air hits my lungs hard enough to sting.
Dante twists in the back seat, panic flooding his face. “Okay, asshole. You said if I helped—”
I yank the door open and grab him by the front of his jacket.
“Out.”
He tries to brace himself against the seat. It doesn't help. I drag him out of the car and slam him onto the gravel beside the road. He hits the ground hard, breath leaving him in a broken grunt.
Dante scrambles halfway upright, blood still drying across his face. “Wait. Wait. I told you where it is.”
I look down at him and think about the footage Travis pulled. I think about the girls who never walked back out of the places Dante delivered them to. The ones he dropped off like shipments.
“I don’t have time to let you die slow. So this is going to be quick.”
He tries to speak again. “Wait, no, just le—”
I raise the gun and fire.
The bullet tears through his skull. His head snaps backward as blood and bone burst out behind him and spray across the gravel and the side of the car. His body collapses immediately, lifeless before it even finishes hitting the ground.
Smoke drifts faintly from the barrel in the cold air.
“Jesus Christ,” Travis mutters from the car. “Fuck, Seth. Is anyone’s skull safe from a bullet around you?”
I don't answer.
I walk back to the door and shut it.
Because no, it is not. Not if they had a hand in what happened to her. Not if they fed her into this place.
Beau steps out from the other side, gun in hand. His eyes stay on the manor.
So do mine.
I rack a fresh round into the chamber.
“Let’s go get my girl.”