Chapter 20
chapter twenty
Trenton
The barn door swings shut behind Morgan and Trixie, plunging us into near darkness. Only the beam from my flashlight cuts through the gloom, illuminating Harris's terrified face as he thrashes beneath Carter.
"Hold him still," I command, my voice cold as the winter night.
Carter shifts his weight, pinning Harris's shoulders to the dirt floor. Matthew appears at my side, his face a mask of controlled fury. He kneels beside Harris, studying him with the detached interest of a surgeon about to operate.
"You took her," Matthew says softly. "You put your hands on her."
Harris spits at him, the saliva landing on Matthew's cheek. "You think you scare me? I've killed women stronger than your girlfriend."
I watch Matthew wipe his face slowly, methodically. The quiet before the storm.
"Get the table ready," I tell Jackson, who moves to the folding table Harris had set up. The knives gleam in the flashlight beam, arranged in order of size.
Greyson steps forward, his massive frame blocking what little moonlight filters through the barn's rotting walls. "I've got the restraints."
Harris's eyes widen as he realizes what's happening. "You can't do this. The police—"
"The police think you escaped with two other inmates," Isaac says, moving to stand beside me. Morgan's father, my father-in-law in every way that matters. "They're searching the highways. They won't find you here. They won't find you, period."
Torch and Slaughter move to secure Harris's limbs while Caiden sets up a small generator and a single floodlight. The barn fills with the low hum of the generator, casting harsh shadows across our faces.
"Please," Harris whimpers as Torch binds his ankles to the metal rings embedded in the floor. "I have information. I can help you find the others."
"Others?" Matthew's voice is deadly calm as he selects a knife from the table. "You think we care about anyone else right now?"
Harris struggles against his restraints as Isaac leans down, his face inches from Harris's.
"You hurt my daughter," Isaac says, each word measured and precise. "You threatened my granddaughter. You think death is the worst thing we can do to you?"
I take the knife from Matthew's hand, testing the edge with my thumb. "Pain is just the beginning."
Jackson moves to Harris's head, gripping his jaw and forcing his mouth open. "He needs to stay quiet. Don't want to scare the women outside."
The sounds that follow are not loud. We're professionals, so we know how to inflict maximum pain with minimal noise. Harris learns this quickly as Matthew begins with precise cuts to nerve clusters, places that won't kill but will make every breath agony.
"Remember Sarah?" I ask as I work, my voice conversational. "Remember how she screamed when you hurt her?"
Harris's eyes bulge, tears streaming down his face as he tries to twist away.
"Hold him still," Carter growls, his massive hands keeping Harris immobile.
Greyson moves to the other side, his expression impassive as he takes his turn. "You thought you were making them pure? Let's see how pure you feel now."
I take my turn with the knife, watching as blood wells up along Harris's chest. His skin parts beneath the blade, revealing pink tissue underneath. I've seen men die in worse ways, but rarely have I felt such cold satisfaction.
"You thought you could take her from me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "You thought you could take my family."
Matthew moves to the opposite side of Harris's prone body. "Let's see what he looks like without his skin."
Harris's eyes widen with terror as he understands our intentions. His screams are muffled by the rag Jackson has stuffed in his mouth, but his entire body convulses against the restraints.
Greyson hands me a larger blade, one with a hooked tip designed for precisely this purpose. I begin at his collarbone, making an incision that extends down to his sternum. The skin peels back like parchment, revealing the glistening tissue beneath.
"Hold him still," I command as Harris thrashes.
Carter and Torch increase their pressure on his limbs, their faces impassive despite the gruesome work. I've seen these men take apart enemies before, but never with such methodical precision.
Matthew works from the other side, his movements mirroring mine. We've done this before, in another life, for other reasons. Never like this, though. Never for this.
"Remember the women?" Matthew asks Harris, his voice deceptively gentle. "Remember how they begged you?"
Harris's eyes roll back in his head, but Jackson slaps him hard, forcing consciousness back upon him.
"Stay with us," Jackson growls. "This is just the beginning."
I work the blade beneath the skin of Harris's chest, separating it from the muscle beneath. The sound is wet, organic, it's the sound of a man being unmade. Blood pools around him, soaking into the dirt floor of the barn.
"Get the salt," Isaac instructs. His voice is steady, clinical. The voice of a man who has seen atrocities before but never had the chance to administer justice himself.
Caiden hands him a bag of rock salt. Isaac pours it directly onto the exposed tissue of Harris's chest. The effect is immediate. Harris arches against his restraints, his muffled screams rising in pitch.
"Now he knows what it feels like," Isaac says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Now he understands pain."
Matthew and I continue our work, methodically separating skin from muscle. Harris's body has stopped struggling, but his eyes remain open, fixed on the rafters above. He's still alive. He's still conscious. He's experiencing every moment of this.
"Turn him," Greyson commands.
We flip Harris onto his stomach. I begin at the base of his neck, working the blade beneath the skin of his back. The flesh peels away in sheets, revealing the intricate network of muscle and tissue beneath.
"Morgan asked that he not see the light of day again," Matthew reminds us. "She didn't specify how."
I nod, continuing my work. Harris will die from this, the blood loss alone would eventually kill him, but we're taking our time. Ensuring he feels every cut, every separation, and every moment of agony.
His breathing grows shallow as we finish removing the skin from his torso. We've left his face intact as there's a certain poetic justice in letting him see what we're doing, in forcing him to witness his own unmasking.
"Water," I say, and Slaughter brings a bucket. We pour it over Harris's exposed flesh. His body jerks involuntarily at the contact, a fresh wave of pain washing over him.
"Check his pulse," I instruct Jackson, who presses two fingers to Harris's neck.
"Still strong," Jackson reports. "He's tougher than he looks."
Matthew stands back, surveying our handiwork. The man before us is barely recognizable as human, he's a raw, red mass of exposed tissue where skin once was. Yet he lives. He breathes. And he suffers.
"This is for Sarah," I tell him, making a precise cut along his arm. "This is for all the women you took."
Harris makes a sound that is not a scream, not anymore, but something between a whimper and a gurgle. His eyes find mine, and in them I see something I never expected to see from this monster: recognition. Understanding. The knowledge that he is experiencing exactly what he inflicted on others.
"Finish him?" Carter asks, his hand gripping a particularly large knife.
I shake my head. "Not yet. There's more to do."
We work in silence then, the only sounds Harris's labored breathing and the occasional wet sound of flesh being separated. We are artists, and this is our canvas. Each cut deliberate. Each movement precise.
When we're finished, Harris lies on the barn floor, his body a map of pain. He still breathes. His heart still beats. But he is no longer the man who took Morgan. He is barely a man at all.
Matthew kneels beside him. "Look at me."
Harris's eyes, the only part of him still fully intact, struggle to focus.
"You took what is mine," Matthew says quietly. "Now I've taken everything from you."
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small vial. "Morphine," he explains to the rest of us. "Enough to kill an elephant."
He injects it directly into Harris's heart. The effect is immediate. Harris's body relaxes, his breathing slows. For a moment, there's almost peace on his ravaged face.
Then nothing.
We stand in the dim light of the barn, surrounded by the evidence of our work. I feel no guilt. No remorse. Only the cold satisfaction of justice served.
"Clean it up," I tell the others. "Burn everything."
They nod and begin their work. Meanwhile, I step outside into the night, where Morgan waits with Trixie. The cold air hits my face, a welcome relief after the heat and blood of the barn.
Morgan looks up at me, her face illuminated by the moonlight. She knows what we've done. She knows, and she doesn't flinch.
"Is it finished?" she asks.
I nod. "He won't hurt anyone again."
She stands and walks to me, placing her hand on my chest. "Thank you."
I pull her close, burying my face in her hair. The weight of Harris is gone from our lives.
Behind us, the barn door opens. Matthew emerges, his face composed and his hands clean. He joins us without a word, his arm wrapping around Morgan's waist.
"We should go," he says. "The others are handling the cleanup."
I nod, leading Morgan toward the vehicles. Charlie is waiting at home with Morgan's mom.
Harris is gone. His shadow no longer hangs over our family. What we did tonight was monstrous, but necessary. Some men cannot be allowed to continue living in this world.
As we drive away from the barn, the first flames appear in the rearview mirror. The fire will consume everything: the evidence, the body, the memory of what happened here tonight.
Morgan's hand finds mine in the darkness. "Is Charlie okay?"
"She's fine," I assure her. "Your mom texted. She's been asleep for hours."
Morgan nods, her head leaning against my shoulder. "Good."
We drive in silence, the three of us together, our family whole again. The road stretches before us, leading home. Leading to Charlie and the life we've fought so hard to protect.
Some might call us monsters for what we did tonight. But the world is full of monsters, and sometimes the only way to stop one is to become something worse.
I look at Morgan, at Matthew, at the road ahead. We did what needed to be done. We protected what's ours.
And we would do it again.