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With his last shred of consciousness, Callan prayed she was safe. That she would somehow know how he had longed to see her once more. How she had changed him, saved him even, in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. Her name echoed through him as oblivion swallowed him whole.
Roseline, Roseline, Roseline…
“Oh, good! You’re alive!”Antonio’s irritated voice cut through the ringing in Callan’s ears. With great effort, he slit his eyes open again, just enough to take in faded floral wallpaper and thrift store furnishings. The safe house living room, he realized.
Antonio knelt over him, face annoyed beneath his prominent brow. “I thought those masked demons had killed you for sure,” he growled.
“Are you…” Callan’s voice came out a rough rasp. He paused to wet his parched lips. “Are you okay, Antonio?”
The mobster let out a hysterical bark of laughter. “Am I okay? You’re the one who got knocked out defending me, you idiot!” Antonio’s Italian accent thickened in anger.
Callan started to push himself upright, determined to assess the situation, but the room swayed dangerously.
Antonio eased him back down. “Easy there, cop. You’ve been out cold for a while now. Those cowardly bastards worked you over good.”
Each small movement ignited fresh spikes of pain in his skull. But he had survived the attack, thank God. That was all that mattered for now.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them,” Callan said, despising the note of defeat in his voice. “I tried, but they came so fast…”
“Shut up,” Antonio said as he slapped Callan’s shoulder. “You saved my life today. Let’s call it quits.”
Callan nodded gingerly, each movement igniting fresh spikes of pain.
As his head cleared, questions began to nag at Callan. Why hadn’t the assailants finished him off when they had the chance? He’d been the target, not Antonio. A warning, then? Some sick game of the Game Master’s devising?
A chilling thought struck him—what if Roseline had been the real target all along? What if, even now, she was in danger while he lay here uselessly concussed?
Ignoring Antonio’s protests, Callan dragged himself upright, fumbling for his phone. But it was gone, likely taken by the attackers. As the room came into focus, details began to jump out at him—the peeling floral wallpaper, the dingy shag carpet, the mismatched thrift store furnishings.
A cold sense of familiarity crept over Callan as he took in his surroundings. This lived-in squalor, the peeling wallpaper, the dingy furniture—it reminded him too much of the previous scenes where the Game Master had tortured his poor victims. He could almost smell the fear-laced sweat still embedded in the dusty carpet and furnishings.
Callan’s cop instincts blared that something was very wrong here. The Game Master had led them right into his lair like mice to the slaughter.
Antonio seemed to realize it, too. “My God,” he whispered, face draining of color. “We walked right into his trap, didn’t we?”
Before Callan could respond, the front door slammed open so hard the walls shook. Antonio yelped as the two hulking masked assailants strode in. Their body language screamed predators who had cornered their prey at last.
With brutal efficiency, Callan and Antonio were seized and forced into rickety chairs. Coarse rope bit into Callan’s wrists as he was bound. Nearby, Antonio thrashed against his own bonds, cursing colorfully in Italian.
One assailant leaned in close, his breath hot and moist against Callan’s face. “Relax, cop. The Game Master will be here soon. We’ll go to a more suited spot, you’ll love it, and then the real fun begins.” He let out a mechanical, distorted laugh that chilled Callan to his very soul.
Ice flooded Callan’s veins. They had walked straight into the lion’s den, and now there would be no escape. He strained against the ropes, mind racing through futile options. All he could do was pray help arrived before this monster could inflict his twisted games upon them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Roseline’s fingers danced across the keyboard, unleashing code after malicious code against the Game Master’s encrypted servers.
With each keystroke, she felt a flood of exhilaration as his networks buckled under her relentless barrage. This was progress—real action beyond just analyzing data. She was crippling his deadly operations, if only temporarily. Her programs burrowed relentlessly, overflowing buffers, corrupting files, anything to bring those sinister sites down.
As the error messages and denied requests piled up on her screen, Roseline allowed herself a flicker of savage satisfaction at the damage she was inflicting. This monster deserved to have his platforms ripped away after the horrific murders he had orchestrated. Let him get a taste of helplessness and loss of control, she thought bitterly.
Still, an anxious knot twisted in her gut. However many moral lines she crossed, Roseline knew this digital sabotage was the only way to save lives by cutting off the Game Master’s access to funds, his followers, and victims. The ends had to justify the means this time, no matter how much her hands shook.
A barrage of alerts flashed red across her monitors.
Roseline had succeeded in crashing the encrypted servers entirely, shutting down the sites. As the screens went dark, silence fell over her small office. Roseline slumped back, rubbing her tired eyes, allowing herself a quiet moment of relief. But she knew the reprieve was fleeting.
This was only a temporary setback for the Game Master. With his advanced technical skills, he could recover everything in a matter of days or less. She needed a more permanent solution, an endgame strategy with real teeth that could be implemented on an ongoing basis. As much as it pained her, Roseline knew she couldn’t keep this fight in the shadows anymore. To take this villain down for good, she needed backup, she needed reinforcements… she needed it to become official. The realization made her pulse quicken anxiously. How far was she willing to go?
