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 waitingfor 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.
Chapter Six
Blue
The safe house sits like a tumor in the Oregon wilderness with rotting wood and broken windows. It’s tucked deep in Crowshaven’s backcountry, miles from the main highway where tourists stop for coffee, clam chowder, and saltwater taffy. Most people never see this part—the logging roads that wind through dense forest, the compounds, and the numerous safe houses hidden behind walls of Douglas fir where the Crow run their operation.
It’s easy to get lost in the maze of the Witchwood forest that separates Crowshaven from Grimlock. Crowshaven’s a shithole. Grimlock’s something else entirely. My town has character—old Victorian houses, narrow cobblestone streets, iron gates that look like they’ve been there forever. Even our graveyard has more class than most places.
Crowshaven just sprawls without giving a damn. But lucky for Grimlock, the forest gives a separation stronger than any stone wall or barbed wire fence could. The trees grow so thick they block out most of the daylight, turning everything underneath into permanent twilight. Deer paths branch off in every direction, some leading to abandoned camps, others just petering out into nothing. More than one hiker has gone in and never come back out.
