We open the cells. “Don’t make a sound. Walk slowly to the back door, straight ahead. Across the parking lot there’s an old bus with an older couple, they’ll take you to safety.” I hand the woman a gun.
She nods, whispers a thank you, eyes wet and I notice the bruises covering her skin, they all have them. Those fuckers will pay.
Colin and Mariah are in their sixties. We saved their daughter years ago; they’ve been helping with the… human side of our work ever since.
We move out the opposite side, but Caleb stays back to make sure they all get out safe, by the time we reach the back offices, only the fuckers we came for are left breathing.
The three heads of this operation are exactly where we expected, in the VIP office, sipping expensive whiskey while the victims rot in the cells.
They see us and freeze.
Beau closes the door behind us, and I take a slowstep forward, rifle resting against my chest, my balaclava hiding the fury I’m about to unleash.
Caleb drops the file we printed earlier onto the table. The Eidolon symbol stares up from the cover, and they know.
Normal civilians have never heard of us. There’s nothing online. No whispers. No trace. Our symbol’s never been seen, except by the victims who hire us or the monsters we kill.
In the underground? In the sick, twisted corners of the world where men like these find their clients? They know. They’ve heard of us, tried to bait us with fake victims, fake perpetrators, and elaborate traps.
That’s why Beau checks every contact, every submission on the dark site, he screens, scrubs, and verifies, so we don’t end up walking into a set up.
We don’t get caught.
We hunt.
I lean in, and their eyes go wide seeing the symbol on our vests. The youngest one, the blonde with the weak jaw, goes pale first, his hands tremble. He’s fighting the urge to piss himself. Another tries to stand but his legs give up.
I crack my neck and roll my shoulders; my muscles tighten beneath the black combat gear.
“You know who we are,” I murmur.
They say nothing.
“You know why we’re here.”
Still nothing. One of them makes a sound in his throat, something between a sob and a prayer. I let the rifle drop, letting it hang by the strap—this isn’t going to be a gun kill. I’ve got too much adrenaline in me, I need to break bones.
“You sold them,” I say, voice low, calm, stepping into their space. “You drugged them, chained them, made them fuck strangers for cash.”
“You don’t understand—” one starts.
I punch him in the stomach hard enough to fold him in half. He hits the floor gasping. I kneel beside him, fingers wrapping around his throat.
“Don’t even try.”
His face starts turning purple.
Beau yanks the other two to their knees and zip-ties their wrists. Caleb paces like he’s choosing who to burn first.
The one beneath me starts to beg, tears in his eyes, and suddenly the front of his pants goes dark.
I grin. “I love when they break.” It means they are feeling like their victims.
I pull out my blade. Curved, perfectly weighted. I press the edge to his cheek and drag it slow, just enough to draw blood.
The sound he makes is almost identical to Henry’s in that cabin, and that’s when I see her, Tamsin, leaning over her kill. Her eyes lit with unholy fire, her voice steady as she pushed the needle through flesh. I remember the twitch of Henry’s jaw, the way she didn’t flinch when blood spattered her face.
My cock twitches.
