But not me. I know every inch of Crowshaven and how it tries to utilize the mass of the Witchwood for its benefit. Five and a half hours. It took exactly as long as the flight from New York to Oregon on my jet to track down where the Crow dragged Sara after grabbing her from her apartment last night.
“Four heat signatures,” Hans murmurs beside me, lowering his thermal scope. “Main room. They’re not even trying to be smart about this.”
Smart isn’t in their vocabulary. Brutus took his A-team to handle some cartel business in the Caymans, leaving these bottom-feeders to play babysitter. Their mistake. My opportunity.
The intel came from Hans’s network—someone spotted the black sedan heading into the mountains. Not exactly a sophisticated operation—more like amateur hour with delusions of competence.
“Remember,” I tell Hans as we approach the building’s rear entrance, “I don’t kill tonight. You handle the wet work.”
Hans raises an eyebrow. “Boss, are you sure? You seem very... tense.”
Tense doesn’t begin to cover it. My hands shake with the need to paint these walls with Crow blood, to make them suffer for every hour they’ve kept her captive. Three years of therapy, three years of Jay’s breathing exercises and redirected aggression, and it could all disappear in the next ten minutes.
“I’m on the wagon,” I repeat, as much to convince myself as Hans. “Can’t risk falling off. Not now.”
The back door hangs askew, held by one stubborn hinge that squeaks like a dying mouse. Hans oils it with spit and patience while I control my breathing the way Jay taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Meditation that keeps reformed killers from relapsing.
The air inside hits like a slap—thick with smoke and the sour tang of men who’ve given up on hygiene. These idiots couldn’t maintain a decent hideout if their lives depended on it.
Voices drift from the main room, unguarded. They’re not expecting company.
“—should’ve heard him scream when Brutus started with the pliers. Sounded like a fucking opera singer hitting the high notes.”
Laughter follows, blood-curdling and genuine.
“Wait here,” Hans whispers, already moving toward the sound. “I make this quick.”
Through the doorway, I watch Hans work. Three men clustered around a card table, playing poker with cigarettes as chips because they’re too broke for actual money. And there, on a decrepit couch against the far wall, is Sara. Eyes closed, breathing steady, but I can tell she’s awake. Smart girl—playing possum while gathering intelligence.
The first one dies mid-laugh, Hans’s blade sliding across his throat like he’s opening mail. The second one starts to stand,confusion replacing amusement on his face, but Hans is already there. The knife finds the sweet spot between ribs, puncturing the lung and heart in one efficient thrust.
The third man—younger than the others, with nervous eyes and shaking hands—actually manages to draw his gun. Almost manages to aim it before Hans’s blade opens his carotid artery.
But Hans doesn’t stop there. He drives the tip of his knife into the man’s left eye socket with a wet pop, then twists the blade with deliberate slowness, stirring the contents like he’s mixing cake batter. The eyeball bursts with a sound like stepping on a grape, and Hans actually hums a little tune while he works. The man’s remaining eye stares up at nothing, blood and vitreous fluid running down his cheek in pink rivulets.
Even I have to look away, and I’ve seen some shit. There’s excessive, and then there’s whatever the hell Hans just did to that poor bastard’s brain.
“You’re just showing off,” I tell him as he wipes the blade clean.
Hans grins, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “Boss, for years it’s always been you leading the charge with that axe of yours. Now it’s my turn to have some fun.” He gestures at the bodies with mock pride. “Besides, when do I ever get to be creative? Usually I just follow your lead and clean up the mess. Where’s the flair in that?” He toes one of the dead bodies on the ground. “They deserve it. Actually... they deserve worse.”
Thirty seconds. Three bodies. One unnecessary eye socket violation. Zero survivors.
Sara’s eyes are wide open, staring at the death scene. She sits up slowly, taking in the carnage, then her gaze finds mine across the room. Her skin has gone ghost-pale, making the bruise on her upper arm look even darker—dark purple against pale skin. The sight makes me want to resurrect these dead assholes just so I can kill them again.
Christ, she looks so young. So fragile sitting there surrounded by death and violence, trying to process what just happened. She shouldn’t have to see this. Shouldn’t have to witness grown men reduced to meat and blood.
“Blue?” Her voice cracks slightly on my name, those expressive eyes moving between relief and suspicion. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you, Sara.” I step carefully around the bodies, hands visible, voice calm. The last thing she needs is another man making her feel trapped. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“How do you know that name?” Her voice wavers, shock bleeding through the words. “Nobody calls me Sara. Nobody even knows—” She stops, staring at me like I’m a ghost. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sara, listen. We need to get you—”
“Don’t call me Sara.” The demand comes out sharp, desperate. “My name is Saylor. And rescue?” Her gaze darts to the bodies scattered around the room, to the blood pooling on the floor, to Hans wiping his knife clean. “This isn’t rescue, this is—oh god, there’s so much blood. They’re all—are they all dead?”
Her breathing picks up, quick and shallow. She’s spiraling, processing too much at once.
