Chapter Five Saylor
Chapter Five
Saylor
The first thing I notice is the sound of rain.
Heavy, persistent drumming against glass somewhere above me. Like the sky decided to empty itself all at once and won’t stop
until there’s nothing left.
The second thing I notice is that I’m not tied up.
I keep my eyes closed while I take inventory. Wrists free. Ankles free. No gag in my mouth. Either these assholes are incredibly
stupid, or they think I’m so harmless that restraints would be overkill. Both possibilities piss me off.
I’m lying on something that might generously be called a couch, though it feels more like a collection of springs wrapped
in fabric that gave up hope sometime in the nineties. The smell hits me next—stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and unwashed
bodies.
My father’s compass rests heavy against my throat, and I focus on its weight to keep from hyperventilating. Peter Mitchell
raised a survivor, not a victim. I will not give these fuckers the satisfaction of seeing Sara Mitchell cower. That scared
little girl died the night they killed my father. They just don’t know it yet.
I crack my eyes open just enough to see through my lashes, keeping my breathing steady and even.
“—should’ve been back by now.” The voice comes from somewhere to my left, rough with impatience. “Caymans job was supposed
to be simple. In and out.”
“Brutus doesn’t do simple.” This voice is younger, casual in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Remember the senator’s wife?
He was supposed to make it look like an accident. Instead, we had to clean up body parts from three different counties.” A
laugh follows, like he’s recounting a funny story from college. “Took us all weekend to find her head. Found it in a fucking
tree, if you can believe that.”
“At least he got creative with it,” the rough voice says with what sounds like genuine appreciation. “Better than that boring shit we did in Phoenix. Three bullets, dump the body, collect the check. Where’s the artistry in that?”
My blood turns to ice water. Fuck them. Fuck them for discussing murder like it’s a weekend hobby.
“That was different. Personal.” A third voice, older, with the weight of authority. “This one’s business. Container manifest
says the target was skimming from the cartel. Bad for business, bad for everyone involved.”
“Still think he’s having too much fun down there. Sun, sand, those little drinks with the umbrellas. Why the hell do we have
to run operations out of this shithole when we could be somewhere warm,” says the first voice I heard.
Through my barely open lashes, I catalog the room. Low ceiling, water stains spreading across yellowed plaster like abstract
art painted in neglect. Heavy wooden beams that look original to whatever decade this place was built. The windows are small
and set high, streaked with grime and years of neglect—that’s where the relentless drumming is coming from. The glass is so
dirty I can barely make out the gray sky beyond.
Three men visible from my position. The youngest one is tall and wiry, constantly moving. Tattoos crawl up his neck like black
ivy. His hands never stop moving—fingers drumming against his thigh, foot tapping a rhythm only he can hear.
The second one is built like a linebacker. Massive shoulders, huge hands, and scars crisscrossing his knuckles. He’s cleaning
his fingernails with a knife, the blade nicked and worn.
The third one sits behind a table scattered with papers and photos. Salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch, tailored suit.
He carries himself like he’s in charge.
“Crowshaven’s perfect for our purposes,” the man in the suit says, not looking up from his paperwork. “Close enough to Seattle
for contracts, far enough out that nobody asks questions. Coast access for disposal. And the weather keeps the tourists away.”
“Still hate the fucking rain,” Twitchy mutters, lighting another cigarette despite the haze that already hangs in the air.
“Makes my joints ache.”
“Your joints ache because you’re getting old,” Granite Hands rumbles without looking up from his knife. “Rain just gives you something to blame it on.”
The casual way they discuss their work makes my skin crawl. These aren’t desperate men driven to violence by circumstance.
These are professionals who’ve made murder their business.
The man in the suit shuffles through his papers, pulling out what looks like a photo. “Speaking of business, we’ve got another
contract coming in. Witness protection dropout in Portland. Husband finally tracked her down.”
“What’s the timeline?” Granite Hands asks.
“Two weeks. Client wants it to look like a robbery gone wrong. Nothing complicated.” The man in the suit sets the photo aside
like he’s filing tax returns. “Standard domestic violence cleanup. Thousand down, four thousand on completion.”
My hands want to shake with rage, but I force them to stay still. They’re talking about killing a woman who escaped an abusive
marriage. Discussing her murder with the same tone they’d use to plan a grocery run. Some woman with a name, a life, a family
who loves her.
Someone’s daughter.
“What about this one?” Twitchy nods in my direction, and I squeeze my eyes tighter shut, fighting to keep my breathing even.
“Sara Mitchell. Pain in the ass to track down, but here she is. What’s the boss want us to do with her?”
“That depends on what mood Brutus is in when he gets back.” The man in the suit’s voice carries a note of anticipation that
makes my stomach turn. “He’s got particular feelings about the Mitchell family. Might want to take his time with this one.”
“Lucky girl,” Granite Hands says with a laugh that has no humor in it. “Brutus knows how to make things last.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Twitchy adds, and I feel his scrutiny on me even through my closed lids. “She’s too pretty to waste
with a quick bullet. Shame we can’t have a taste first.”
“Touch her and lose a hand,” the man in the suit warns without heat. “She’s spoken for until Brutus decides otherwise. You
know the rules.”
Spoken for. Like I’m a piece of property. Like I’m livestock waiting for slaughter. The rage builds in my chest, hot and bright, but I channel it into focus. Into planning.
I risk another glance through my lashes, scanning for escape routes and weapons.
I map the room in my mind, counting exit points and potential weapons. Two doors—one that probably leads outside based on
the draft I can feel, another that might connect to interior rooms. The windows are too high and too small to be useful escape
routes. But there are plenty of things that could be turned into weapons if I’m smart about it.
Twitchy’s knife is in a sheath on his belt, easily accessible if I can get close enough. Granite Hands keeps his cleaning
knife loose in his grip—overconfident, sloppy. The man in the suit has what looks like a gun in a shoulder holster under his
expensive jacket.
The key is making them continue to underestimate me. Let them think I’m still the scared little girl who hid while her father
died. Let them believe their own assumptions about frightened women and helpless victims.
They want Sara Mitchell? Fine. I’ll give them Sara Mitchell, right up until the moment I show them who Saylor Mitchell really
is.
“How much longer are we giving him?” Twitchy asks, stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of a chair that’s seen better decades.
“Tomorrow, maybe the day after. Depends on how creative he got with the cartel guy.” The man in the suit picks up another
photo. “Client specifically requested that this one suffer before he died. Something about betraying trust.”
“Brutus does love his work,” Granite Hands observes, testing the edge of his knife against his thumb. A thin line of blood
appears. “Maybe we should start charging extra for his enthusiasm.”
“Already do,” the man in the suit says with a laugh. “Premium service costs premium rates.”
They continue discussing torture and murder like a book club debating character development. Each casual word drives the truth
deeper: these men don’t just kill for money. They enjoy it. They savor it. They’ve turned human suffering into an art form.
And they think I’m going to be their next masterpiece.
The rain intensifies against the windows, and I let the sound wash over me while I finalize my mental map of the room. Three men, multiple weapons, limited escape routes. Bad odds, but not impossible. I’ve survived worse.
I survived watching my father die. I survived five years of running and hiding and building a new life from nothing. I survived
becoming someone stronger than the girl who used to cry herself to sleep every night.
My father’s compass pulses against my throat with each heartbeat, steady and sure. North. Always north. Always toward whatever
comes next, toward survival, toward becoming who I need to be.
But first, I’m going to show the Crow exactly what happens when you underestimate a Mitchell.
They want to wait for Brutus? Perfect. That gives me time to plan, time to learn their routines, time to figure out how to
turn their own cruelty against them.
Let them think I’m still unconscious. Let them keep talking about their business, their murders, their sick fucking plans.
Every word they say is another reason to make sure none of them live to see sunrise.