Somewhere inside that perishing house,monsterinyourcloset868is sitting comfortably at a poker table after what we saw tonight.
After those cages, the girls, the livestream and the hideousness of it all.
Cassidy glides her hand easily through the duffel bag at her feet.
Metal scrapes against metal.
Another one of her favorite blades slipping free, a steel SRK, and for the first time since leaving the warehouse, she smiles.
Her eyes pin me in place, something devastating behind them before she whispers,
“Meet you at the graveyard.”
A chill moves through me as I hold her gaze.
“I’ll be there.”
The SUV rolls onto the muddy shoulder under a cluster of massive oak trees weighed down by rainwater and Spanish moss.
I shut off the engine.
Right away the storm dominates everything, the rain pounds on the roof and the wind whips through the branches in the trees.
Somewhere near the house a loose piece of metal clangs rhythmically in the storm like a warning bell.
Neither of us moves at first.
To the naked eye, without the vehicles parked out front, the place looks abandoned, not like someone’s home.
The house is roughly a hundred yards away, past a stretch of overgrown grass and rusted fencing.
The porch sags on one side and several windows are boarded over.
A junkyard of broken appliances, beer bottles, and rotting furniture litters the property.
But the windows glowing amber and open a fraction tells a different story, someone’s home.
Distant laughter is carried by the wind and trailed by stifled sounds of men arguing over cards. They are definitely intoxicated. Perfect. We are about to sober them up.
Cassidy glares venomously at the house without blinking, the knife rests loose in her hand. She’s been ready for this.
I open and search through the center console and pull out more ammo, reloading my Glock and twisting the suppressor.
Click.
Metal securing into place.
Cassidy looks over at me.
“Do you hear that?”
Another burst of laughter carries through the rain.
One of the men yells something unintelligible before more voices break out around the table.
The casualness of it feels wrong.
As if the man didn’t just facilitate a circus themed streaming of torture out of a warehouse holding women captive like it’s just another fucking hobby before poker night.
