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We round the back corner of the church just as a muffled scream sounds, drawing our attention to the far end. Elia reaches under his suit jacket, producing his ever-present .22, and I slip one of mine out from my coat pocket, leaving the second pistol tucked into the waistband of my slacks.
A wide, thin metal door sits at the bottom of a concrete set of stairs, presumably the basement of St. Francis; we share a glance as we descend, and unease floods through me like a fucking avalanche, nearly stunting my progression.
I don’t get nervous, especially not during shit like this. Usually, I’m the most prepared man in the entire fucking room, but right now I haven’t a clue what we’re about to walk in on, and the fact that there’s so much at stake makes my chest tight with anxiety. Paranoia about what might go wrong.
What I stand to lose.
Rearing his calf back so it bends at the knee, Elia shoves his leg into the door on the inside of the lock, kicking so hard it nearly flies off its hinges. He steps inside quickly, gun in hand and held away from his body, turning in circles to assess the threat.
Moving in once he gives me the okay, I peer around the dark, damp cellar, using the sliver of light from the door to make things out. A makeshift table sits at one end in front of what look like old-timey jail cells, weapons are scattered all over the place, and there’s a wall filled from top to bottom with pictures ofeverything.
Every crime committed in the last century, every person tied to it.
The evidence on my flash drive.
My stomach heaves as I reach up and start tearing the photos down, anger swirling through me at having been duped.
Exposed.
“There’s no time,” Elia hisses, coming up behind me and bumping my shoulder with his. He nods toward a pool of thick, bright red blood—fresh, the metallic scent still pungent in the air. With the amount puddled on the floor, there’s no way the victim could have gotten very far, and the fact that I can’t immediately identify the owner makes my nerve-endings stretch and groan, terror taking root in my heart.
Making our way around the basement with cautious, calculated steps, we move in separate directions, him to the right and me to the left. Backs against the wall, just in case.
“Goddamnit,” he grits out, doubling back by the door and peering around the makeshift desk. “More blood.”
The blood coursing through my veins turns icy as I continue on, spotting a familiar pair of feet, attached to a pair of calves I know better than my own, calves I’ve had wrapped around my head and waist more times than I can count.
Only, now, they’re scuffed and muddied, ankles bound together and tucked into a corner of one of the cells. She’s gagged, thick fabric tied around her mouth, and her blonde hair is coated in sweat and blood. The little white dress she has on is stained beyond repair, and I can practically smell her fear.
Can feel it in every erratic beat of my heart as our eyes connect.
Hers widen, something caught between relief and horror pooling there, and the closer I get to the door barring her to me, the more I see. The reasoning behind why she’s so silent, why not even a whimper escapes her, holding the sharp edge of a hunting knife at the base of her throat.
“Father?” Elia’s voice echoes off the walls, drawing near.
The old man’s white hair sticks out at odd angles, a large purple bruise forming just above his left cheekbone. There’s a slight tremor in his grip that reminds me of my mother, causing a waver in my step.
He’s still dressed in his robes from the christening ceremony, a stark contrast to the scene around him.
Rage blinds me for a moment, splashing crimson against my vision as my entire body heats. I’m pulled by some invisible force against the metal bars, watching as the priest pushes the tip of his knife harder into her skin. A thick bead of blood leaks out, drips down the metal, just barely visible in the thin streams of light provided by the open doorway.
My free hand wraps around one metal bar, gripping so tight it starts to cramp. “Get the fuck off of her.”
“You’re hardly in a position to be making demands, dear.”
A female voice assaults my ears, loud in this dark chamber, the lack of light and furniture providing little to be soaked up by. Elia and I whirl on our heels, guns trained at the shadows, until Lynn steps forward, holding a scarf against the back of her head and a gun in the opposite hand.
Trained right at my chest.
It’s not the first time I’ve stared down a barrel, and while I doubt it’ll be my last, it’s the first time I’m concerned for anyone else’s safety in the mix. Normally, I’d charge her, take the bullet and let it cure the world of the monster and violence inside me.
Part of me still wants to, even knowing Juliet sits behind me, petrified and helpless. Elia could certainly save her, especially if her mother were no longer a problem.
But that doesn’t doherany good. Not really. Would just be another issue to work through, another light snuffed out in her life.
So I stay still, even as my legs itch to carry me to the middle-aged bitch. Even as my finger twitches against the trigger, the image of her blood spraying the walls and coating my shirt all I can see as she moves toward us, her steps unsteady.
“What the fuck is going on right now?” Elia barks, anxiety stretching his voice so it comes out thin and scratchy.
