Page 48

Raymond hits the pavement hard. He opens his mouth, sucking in air to scream.

Logan drops a black canvas hood over Raymond’s head, blinding him, cutting the scream off in a muffled, panicked yelp.

I drop my knee right into the center of his spine, pinning him flat against the asphalt. Then I drive the needle straight through the fabric of his suit pants, burying the steel deep into his thigh muscle, and compress the plunger.

Raymond thrashes. He kicks his legs, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched whine. The struggle lasts a few seconds before the chemical takes hold, turning his limbs to dead weight. His head lolls against the asphalt.

Jonah scoops the unconscious man off the ground like a sack of damp flour. He hauls him over to Rowe and Teddy’s van, throwing the body roughly into the back cargo area.

I climb back into our rig, pulling the sliding door shut with a slam. Silas hits the gas, and we vanish into the dark.

The drive back to the carnival lot feels like an eternity.

The adrenaline comedown stretches the minutes into hours. I strip my mask off, dragging a hand through my sweat-damp hair. I glance to my right.

Sloane sits rigid on the bench. She’s practically vibrating. Her fists clench and unclench in her lap, her knuckles turning bone-white. She stares straight ahead, completely consumed by the impending butchery.

I slide closer and reach out, wrapping my large hand around the back of her neck. My thumb finds the tense, knotted muscle at the base of her skull, applying a firm, heavy pressure. I rub the tension, offering a silent, grounding anchor in the dark.

Sloane exhales a ragged breath. She leans her weight slightly against my palm, accepting the touch.

We roll into the carnival grounds an hour later. The lot is deserted, the main rigs still packed and prepped to move on tomorrow, the staff sleeping in their trailers. We’re not staying here. One trailer stands out among the rest, positioned right by the tree line. The torture trailer.

Jonah drags Raymond inside.

The interior offers absolutely no comfort. The walls consist of bare, corrugated steel, washed down with bleach and smelling of industrial cleaner. An iron drain sits directly in the center of the slanted metal floor. A single, violently bright halogen bulb swings from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the room.

Jonah drops Raymond into the wooden chair bolted over the drain. Logan moves in with a handful of thick, industrial zip ties, securing the man’s wrists to the armrests and his ankles to the chair legs.

I cross the room, moving straight to the metal folding table I set up hours ago.

I unfurl a thick leather roll, laying out a collection of skinning blades, curved gut hooks, and a set of serrated pliers. The tools of my trade.

Sloane steps up beside the table. She stares at the unconscious man slumped in the chair. The black hood still covers his head.

“We interrogate him first,” Sloane suggests. Her voice sounds utterly detached, stripped of any human warmth. “I want the answers Elias asked for. Because once I start…” She drags her icy blue gaze away from Raymond, looking at the sharpest blade on the table. “I might get carried away. He might not be in any condition to speak clearly.”

From the corner of the room, Logan moans. He tilts his head back against the steel wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Bloodthirsty,” the fire eater whispers in pure, unadulterated awe.

Before I can throw something else at him, a low groan comes from the center of the trailer.

Raymond rolls his head against his chest. The sedative is wearing off. His fingers twitch against the zip ties, the plastic biting into his wrists as he struggles to comprehend his restraints.

Sloane turns away from the table. She walks to the center of the room, positioning herself directly in front of the chair. She plants her combat boots shoulder-width apart, crossing her arms over her chest, assuming a stance of absolute, dominating authority.

“Where am I?” Raymond mumbles. His voice comes out thick and slurred. He jerks his arms, the chair rattling against the metal. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Sloane doesn’t answer. She lifts her chin, nodding once at Marek, who grips the top of the black canvas hood and rips it off Raymond’s head.

The sudden blast of the halogen bulb blinds him. Raymond blinks furiously, squinting against the harsh light. His gray-streaked hair sticks up in wild, sweaty clumps. He looks pathetic. Stripped of his polished veneer, he just looks like a cornered rat.

His vision clears, and his dead, gray eyes adjust to the room. They land on the woman standing two feet in front of him.

It takes Raymond a few seconds to recognize her. The teenage girl he broke down. The victim who was supposed to vanish and die in a ditch.

Raymond’s face drains of all color, turning an ashen, sickly white.

His eyes dart frantically around the room, registering the nightmare he just woke up inside. He sees Logan spinning a silver lighter. He sees Jonah’s impossible size. He sees Silas standing near the back wall, holding an open notebook. He sees me, leaning against a table covered in pristine, lethal steel.