Chapter Twenty
Payton stumbles behind me, her breath ragged, steps crowding mine.
I spin, knife out. “Back. Up.”
She glares. “Or what? You’ll stab me?”
“Tempting.”
“Jerk.” She swipes blood from her cheek—my blood, from when I carved myself up to get my head straight. “What’s the plan? Run in there and hope Derek trips on his own dick?”
“Plan’s simple.” I adjust my mask. “Kill him before he kills us.”
“Wow. Revolutionary.” She fake-gasps. “How’d you come up with that?”
“Years of practice.”
“At killing people or stalking women?”
I snort. “Both.”
‘Baby, you ain’t saving nobody. You’re just delivering her gift-wrapped.’
Vanessa again. Fucking. Hell.
I jam my thumb into the stab wound. Blood runs fresh down my arm.
“Are you nuts?” Payton snaps.
She shrugs off her hoodie. One smooth pull and her tank top’s gone too. Those tits. They look fucking obscene in that sports bra.
“Eyes up here, psycho.” She slips the hoodie back on. Uses the tank as bandage. “We’ve got work to do.”
“We could do other work.” My voice’s rougher than the bark behind me.
She cinches it until I hiss. “Down, boy. Save it for after we survive the night.”
The promise in those words—after—hits harder than any drug.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, little fox.” Her palm to my chest. “Feel that? Only you get it racing like this.”
Her eyes flash with something. Then she pulls her hand back like she’s been caught stealing.
“Good. Stay focused on that instead of actually dying.” She tightens the knot.
My shoulder screams, pain shredding the last of the drug haze. No more dead bitch yakking in my ear. Just the knife in my grip and the girl I’d follow to hell to drag her back.
For all we know, the bastard already has Kristy strung up like a fucking pinata, using her screams as bait.
Smart play? Circle back. Find weapons. Come back armed with something other than my $29.99 Halloween Special.
But I gave up ‘smart’ the moment I let Payton Reed under my skin.
“Kade …”
I follow her gaze. There—bolted to a pine trunk, fifteen feet up. A red recording light blinks down at us.
I give it the bird.
Another camera swivels left, then right. But there—behind the maintenance shed, a dead zone where the coverage overlaps but doesn’t quite meet. I pull Payton into the blind spot.
The security building squats in the clearing, windows dark. I scan the exterior. No movement. Too quiet.
“He wants us to rush in,” I mutter. Like every dumbass who follows a scream straight into the meat grinder.
Payton crouches beside me, her knee brushing mine. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt up my thigh. She checks her watch. “Twelve minutes left. So what do we do?”
“We outthink him.”
Her laugh is all frayed nerves. “You? Thinking?”
I knock my boot against hers.
Three exits. Front and back plus roof access. All three probably rigged. Derek’s got every advantage—cameras, high ground, home turf.
But arrogant pricks always make mistakes.
I point to the roof. “You climb. Draw his eyes. I go low.”
“Are you kidding?” She thrusts her elbow at me. “See this? That fence chewed me up earlier. Pretty sure I left a layer of skin back there.”
I catch her arm. Kiss the scrape—light, quick, too gentle. “There. Magic fix. Happy now, princess?”
She goes still. Stares at the spot where my mask touched.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t be sweet to me right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might believe you.”
My chest tightens. I trace her pulse with my thumb. “Then stay alive long enough for me to prove it.”
Her watch beeps. 2:31 am.
“New plan,” I growl. “We give him what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“You. Screaming.”
She stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“He wants a show. Run in crying about how I ‘hurt’ you. He’ll be too busy gloating to see me come through the back.”
The wind shifts. My muscles lock. I’m back in the goddamn trailer. Black velvet walls pressing in.
I blink. No more bergamot. Air’s clean.
Payton doesn’t notice—she’s too busy glaring at me. “You want me to be bait?”
“I want you alive. Give me ten seconds to flank him.”
Her throat works. “Then what?”
I tilt my head. “Then I show him who’s better at playing Ghostface.”
Her teeth catch her bottom lip.
“You keep staring like that, we’re gonna give the motherfucker one hell of a show.”
She rolls her eyes. Drops her gaze. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If you do get him … make it hurt.”
Justice or revenge? Either way, her words go straight to my cock. I knew she had teeth.
“Count on it.” I catch her chin. “If this goes sideways, you run. Hide.”
“I’m not leaving Kristy. Or you.” She shrugs her hoodie off one shoulder. Rakes her hair into an even bigger mess. Her hand darts to my wound, fingers sinking in.
I hiss.
She swipes the blood across her cheekbone. Two stripes. “Traumatized enough?”
Disheveled and fake-broken. Eyes still blazing.
I yank the mask up over my mouth. Lick her fingers clean. “Now he’s really fucked.”
A flush rises up her throat.
“Well, well,” someone drawls. “Look what the devil dragged in.”
I’m already moving—blade out, body shielding hers.
The Reaper steps into view, scythe gleaming.
“Run along, Grim,” I growl through the modulator. “We’re busy.”
He tilts his mask. “Miss me, Thirty-one?”
Payton stiffens. “Wesley?”
The fuck? They’ve met?
He twirls his scythe. “What are you doing with this mortal? Your screams were sweeter—”
My blade finds his throat. “Let’s see how you sound when you choke on your own blood.”
Payton grabs my wrist. “He was just playing his role.”
“Yeah? How’s this game then, Grim?” I press harder. A bead of blood wells on his neck. “Three seconds. Tell me why I shouldn’t drape your guts all over these trees.”
Wesley blinks, hands half-raised. “Whoa. Chill, Ghostface. It’s Halloween. We’re all just—”
I lean in. “She’s mine. Breathe near her again, I’ll skin you alive.”
Payton wedges herself between us—her back against my chest. “Listen, you clueless dick.” She jabs a finger at the control room. “The guy’s in there. He killed my friend, Lana. Jessica. Vanessa. Two fucking staff. And Kristy’s next if we don’t move.”
Laughter. He shakes his head. “Still with the killer story, huh? Gotta say, yours is the most original I’ve—”
I knee him in the groin.
He folds like bad origami.
“Kade.” Payton shoves me. “We need him.”
“We need competent help.” I watch the guy wheeze on the ground. “This clown can’t even die right.”
The Reaper—Wesley—lifts his mask completely. Some scarred pretty-boy with a face that makes my knuckles itch. “You’re serious?”
Payton’s watch beeps. She drops into a crouch beside him. “Do I look like I’m acting?”
He groans, eyes flicking between Payton and me. “Fuck. Okay … I’ve got buddies playing Leatherface and Jason. I’ll—”
“No.” I yank Payton to her feet.
He staggers up. “I can help—”
“Help by fucking off.” My knife doesn’t waver. “Round up every player and get them out.”
Wesley hesitates, gaze darting to Payton. “You sure you’re good with this guy?”
“She’s fantastic.” I drag Payton against me, smearing a bloody handprint across her hip. “Aren’t you, little fox?”
That eye roll again. “Wesley, go. Get security. Cops. Anyone who’ll believe this shit.”
The prick backs away slowly. “Yeah. Okay. But uh—” He nods at my mask. “Might wanna lose the serial killer cosplay before the badges show up.”
“Fuck. Off.”
He does.
Payton whirls on me the second he vanishes. “What’s with all that macho bullshit?”
“He’s dumb enough to get us both killed. Besides, how well do you know him? What if he’s got a knife behind his back and a smile that sells it?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Settles for a scowl.
Thought so. I drag her toward the security building. “Now scream like I hurt you.”
“Oh, I will,” she mutters. “Repeatedly. With a bat.”
One second she’s beside me, all grit and glare—the next, she’s gone, her cry shredding the night.
“Stop! Please, God …”
I freeze. I’m actually fucking frozen.
The girl who rolled her eyes at me, who just threatened me with a bat—she’s shrieking like something’s tearing her apart.
Move.
The cameras are still glowing. Generators humming somewhere, keeping the eyes alive. I roll past a stack of crates. Past a floodlight, motion-activated.
Twenty feet out.
Another camera at the roof’s edge. I wait—three breaths—until it pans left.
Back door’s too exposed.
Up it is.
The fire escape groans under my weight, rust flaking off. My shoulder pulses as I climb. One rung at a time—until my boots scrape gravel.
The roof hatch isn’t even locked. Idiots.
I wedge my fingers under the edge and pull. Metal screeches. Pain sparks down my arm—the stab wound still bitching.
Pitch black below. No ladder. Just a four-foot drop onto supply boxes.
Pain slams through my knees. One hand hits the wall, the other braced as boxes shift under me.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Silence.
This whole plan’s fucked six ways from Sunday.
Payton’s out there alone, playing bait. Should’ve dragged her behind me. Blade out, carving through anything in our way.
But no. Had to be tactical. Had to be ‘smart.’
The hallway ahead is camera-covered, feeds still rolling on backup power. Even with the generators humming, it’s too quiet—this place should be bustling with the usual night shift noise. Instead, it’s tomb-still. Which means Derek’s already been busy.
There—the conduit snaking along the ceiling. Individual feed running back to the hub. No time for subtlety.
I saw through the wire with my knife. The red LED dies mid-pan.
Thirty seconds before the bastard notices.
Break room’s to my left.
A microwave, door ajar. Overturned chair.
I step over a shattered phone and blood smear. Past the second body—some girl in a cropped CREW hoodie, her throat yawning wide.
Derek’s signature work.
Deeper in, the hallway branches. Right leads to storage—mop buckets overturned, bleach pooling around a single work boot. Left curves toward the control room.
“Kristy!”
Payton’s voice. Real terror, not the fake stuff we planned.
Fuck stealth. Fuck tactics.
I abandon all pretense and run. Agony lances through my shoulder, blood soaking the makeshift tourniquet.