Killing snow, p.8
Killing Snow, page 8
His sanity is slowly disappearing and as much as I understand it, I know we must tread carefully. His brutal efficiency may be an asset in our line of work, but unchecked, it threatens to consume him—and perhaps us all.
Meanwhile, I struggle to contain the raging inferno of anger and frustration burning within me. Every day that passes without news of Everly feels like another dagger to the heart. I want to set the world on fire, to leave a trail of destruction in my wake until someone breaks and gives us the information we need to find her.
But Damon, usually the voice of reason among us, is retreating into himself. His once-bright spirit is dimming and twisting, overshadowed by the weight of our failure to save Everly. I know though, if we're not careful, there's a very real risk that he may become an even greater threat than the emotionless killer Killian presents.
Owen, our boss, seems to sense the shift in our demeanor. He's a shrewd man, always calculating, always watching. He can see the simmering anger beneath the surface, the desperation clawing at the edges of our sanity. And rather than try to quell it, he feeds it.
If anything, Owen takes advantage of our heightened ruthlessness. He can see it in the evidence we provide when we finish a job, in the way we carry ourselves, in the glint of steel in our eyes. And so, he sends us out on more jobs, utilizing our efficient brutality for his own gain.
Each assignment becomes more demanding, more dangerous. The targets become more high-profile, the risks greater. But we don't protest. We welcome the chance to channel our frustration, our rage, into something tangible, something productive. Anything to drown out the gnawing emptiness left by Everly's absence.
And with each successful mission, Owen's confidence in us grows. He sees us as his most valuable assets, his weapons of choice in a world where power is everything. And we, in turn, become more dependent on him, more reliant on the rush of adrenaline that comes with each kill.
But beneath the surface, a storm is brewing. The cracks in our facade deepen with each passing day, threatening to shatter the fragile illusion of control we've built around ourselves. And as the darkness closes in, I can't help but wonder if we'll ever find our way back to the light.
Chapter 14
Everly
The days blend into one another, a never-ending cycle of solitude and despair. It's been at least two weeks since I was imprisoned in this desolate place, maybe three, but it feels like an eternity. I only know how long it’s been due to the rising and setting of the sun through the tiny window. My mind, starved for stimulation, begins to play tricks on me. Shadows dance in the corners of the room, morphing into sinister shapes that mock my suffering. The constant drip, drip, drip of water every time it rains, which is frequently, becomes a maddening rhythm that echoes in my ears, driving me to the brink of insanity.
My stepfather hasn't returned since that first visit, leaving me to wonder whether his absence is a deliberate tactic, a waiting game to see how long it takes for my sanity to depart, or if he simply enjoys watching me suffer, waiting for me to beg for mercy—a plea I refuse to give.
The only semblance of human contact comes from the hooded man who delivers my meager meals twice a day. He moves with an unsettling efficiency, never uttering a word or meeting my gaze. He's just a silent specter.
One desperate attempt at defiance ends in humiliation. I try to wield the tray as a weapon, hoping to catch my captor off guard. But I'm weak, too weak to put up a fight. He disarms me effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise. I'm left sprawled on the floor, bruised and defeated, my dignity stripped away along with my last shred of hope.
That night, I go without food, the gnawing hunger a cruel punishment for my failed rebellion. But even as my stomach twists with hunger pains, I refuse to surrender. I may be trapped in this prison, but my spirit remains unbroken. And as long as I draw breath, I'll never stop fighting for my freedom.
When the key sounds in the lock, I move toward the door with a desperate hunger for the small amount of sustenance being provided. Complacency has settled in, a bitter acceptance of my grim reality. But when my stepfather steps through the door, I'm taken by surprise.
His hand snaps out, seizing my throat with a vice-like grip as I instinctively recoil toward the bed. He keeps his fingers digging into my throat, bending me down with him as he uses a key to undo the shackle around my ankle. "Time for you to get cleaned up and make yourself useful," he sneers, his face contorted with disgust as he surveys me.
As the chain drops to the floor, something inside me snaps. The months of pent-up rage and defiance erupt like a volcano, fueling my fight for survival. I swipe at his face, my nails extended like claws.
But he holds me at arm's length, just out of reach. I claw at his arm, desperation lending strength to my movements. His hand tightens around my throat, cutting off the air to my lungs. Panic sets in, but it only fuels my struggle.
My nails, useless against the fabric of his suit, find purchase in the flesh of his hand. I dig in, drawing blood as I fight for my life. With a guttural growl, he throws me backward away from him.
I seize the opportunity, propelled by sheer adrenaline and desperation. With a burst of speed I didn't know I possessed, I dart past him toward the open doorway, my heart pounding in my chest. Freedom is within my grasp, tantalizingly close.
But before I can fully register what's happening, I feel a sharp tug on my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force. My feet stumble and lose traction, but momentum carries me forward, and I crash to the ground with a sickening thud.
Pain explodes in my head as it connects with the unforgiving concrete floor. The world spins around me, the darkness closing in like a suffocating blanket. I let out a scream, a raw, primal sound of agony and frustration.
The pain is sharp and intense, a white-hot blaze that consumes my senses. It drags me down into the depths of unconsciousness, where the torment of my reality momentarily fades into oblivion.
The return to consciousness is harsh and abrupt, a cruel awakening from the temporary respite of unconsciousness. It feels like a bucket of ice-cold water is being emptied onto me, my body jolts as it shocks my senses back to reality.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light of the room, I realize with a sinking dread that I'm still in the same desolate prison, but now strapped into a chair. My arms and legs are secured by tight restraints, rendering me completely helpless. Panic surges through me, clawing at the edges of my consciousness like a relentless predator.
Before me stands my stepfather, his arms crossed over his chest, his face contorted with rage and disgust. It's clear that whatever plans he had for me have been ruined by my failed escape attempt. A small spark of satisfaction ignites within me at the sight of the blood still seeping from the scratches on his hand, a testament to my brief moment of defiance.
The hooded specter shuffles back into the room, carrying a bucket that I now realize contained the ice-cold water that brought me back to consciousness. The pain in my head throbs with renewed intensity, threatening to overwhelm me with its sharp, piercing agony.
My stepfather's gaze pierces through me like a knife, his fury palpable in the air between us. "You little bitch," he seethes, his voice dripping with venom. "You think you can defy me and get away with it?"
I meet his gaze with defiance, refusing to cower before him. "I'll never give in to you," I declare, my voice trembling but still strong.
A cruel smile twists my stepfather's lips, a chilling sight that sends shivers down my spine. "We'll see about that," he sneers, his words dripping with malice. He moves his arms, unfolding them, and it’s then that I see the knife in his hand.
The sight of the gleaming blade sends a shiver down my spine, fear gripping me like a vice. I try to maintain a facade of courage, but as he approaches, the tendrils of terror tighten their grip around my heart.
The closer he comes, the more my fear intensifies, a primal instinct urging me to flee, to escape the impending danger. I tug against my restraints with desperate urgency, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat of impending doom.
His free hand closes around my right wrist, holding it painfully tight against the arm of the chair. His words cut through the air like a razor, each syllable dripping with malice. "What was it you wanted to be, a doctor, right?" he taunts. "Need steady arms for a doctor, don't you? Don't need them to be a glory hole though."
His words are like venom, seeping into my mind and fueling my fear. But before I can respond, he presses the blade into the flesh of my forearm, a searing pain ripping through me. I cry out, the sound raw and guttural, as the blood wells up and spills over my skin.
The agony is overwhelming, consuming my senses until all I can feel is the burning pain of the blade slicing into me. I claw at my restraints, desperate to escape the torment, but it's futile. I'm trapped, at the mercy of my sadistic captor.
The screaming I hear echoes in my ears, a haunting symphony of agony and despair. It takes a moment for me to realize that the sound is coming from me, my own voice torn from my throat in a primal scream of pain and anguish.
I'm not sure what my stepfather is trying to carve into my arm, but the pain is enough to make me retch, bile rising in my throat and spilling over my lips. My body convulses with the force of my heaving, the tremors wracking me as I struggle to breathe through the pain.
And then, mercifully, he stops. He steps away, leaving me trembling and covered in blood and vomit. The room spins around me, the haziness of my mind telling me that I'm slipping into shock.
But before I can fully succumb to the darkness, another bucket of ice water is thrown at me by the hooded specter. The shock of the freezing liquid hits me like a bolt of lightning, jolting me back to painful awareness.
My stepfather watches with sick satisfaction as I suffer, the twisted smile on his lips a cruel mockery of my pain. He takes a step closer, the blade still clutched tightly in his hand, and my heart lurches in my chest.
"What's the matter?" he taunts, his voice laced with malice. "Can't handle a little pain? I would have thought my boys would have gotten you accustomed to it."
His words are the equivalent of him stabbing that blade directly into my heart, and for a moment I wished he would.
I struggle to focus, my vision blurred by tears and pain, but I see the sick satisfaction on my stepfather's face as he turns and leaves the room, the blade still clutched in his hand, dripping with my blood. The door is left open, a cruel invitation to freedom that is just out of reach as I remain secured to the chair.
The hooded man takes up his position by the door, his presence a silent reminder of my imprisonment. I gasp for breath, the pain still wracking my body, my muscles trembling with exhaustion and fear. Time seems to stretch endlessly, each moment filled with the relentless agony of my torment.
As my mind begins to drift, the weight of my suffering bearing down on me like an unbearable burden, I see the shadow of the hooded man leave the room. But by then, I'm beyond caring. Darkness beckons to me, promising an escape from the torment of my reality, and I welcome it eagerly.
Unconsciousness descends like a shroud, enveloping me in its comforting embrace. For a fleeting moment, the pain and despair recede into the background, replaced by the blissful oblivion of sleep.
But just as I begin to slip away, another bucket of ice water crashes over me, jolting me back to agonizing awareness. I scream, a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of my soul, as the shock of the freezing liquid sears through my body.
I sob, the sound raw and ragged, as the hooded man returns to his silent vigil by the door. The pain is a relentless tide, threatening to drown me in its icy depths. But even as I tremble and shake, I refuse to surrender.
Chapter 15
Damon
My satisfaction in the whimpers of the person in front of me is interrupted by a pain filled scream. My heart gallops in my chest at the sound, and I close my eyes momentarily. It’s not uncommon for the sound of screams to fill the cells down here, but a woman’s screams are a rare occurrence.
I know I’m edging closer to letting the darkness take over everything. We have still not been able to find my precious Everly, and Tavish has been hitting brick walls and blank spaces at every turn. I’m not sure how I feel about the sound echoing around me. Should I feel satisfied that someone seems to be getting somewhere with their job or filled with rage that a woman is being hurt while I don’t know where my own woman is?
My heart slows again as the sound recedes and I’m left with the pleading eyes of the man in front of me. Owen wants information, and that’s what I intend to get, it’s my job. I take a deep breath, pushing back the tendrils of darkness threatening to engulf me. Focus.
The man's eyes dart nervously, catching flickers of dim light in the darkened room. His hands tremble, betraying his attempts at composure. I step closer, the weight of my presence pressing down on him like a heavy shroud.
"You know why you're here, Matthew," I say, my voice low and measured. "And you know what I need from you."
Matthew’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, the fear palpable in the air. He nods hesitantly, beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the chill of the room.
"I-I can't tell you anything," he stammers, his voice quivering. "You know I can't."
I raise an eyebrow, my expression unreadable in the dim light. "You're in a position to help yourself, Matthew. Cooperate, and things might go a lot smoother for you."
His eyes dart to the door, a desperate hope flickering within them. But he knows as well as I do that there's no escape from this place. Moving to the open cell door, I close it, cutting off both his hope of escape and the distracting noises from the other cells.
The sound of metal scraping on concrete draws Matthew's attention away from me again, causing him to whimper once more. My own gaze flicks to where Killian is pacing around the room, the tip of his blade scraping against the wall with each step. His eyes are closed, relaxed, lost in his own dark thoughts. Rayth stands behind Matthew, his knife clenched tightly in his hand as he watches the scene unfold.
I can feel the darkness clawing at the edges of my mind, threatening to consume me whole. But I push back against it, steeling myself against the abyss that threatens to swallow me.
"You're running out of time, Matthew," I say, my voice cold and relentless. "And I'm running out of patience. Where are the documents? Who else has seen them?"
The man in front of us had stupidly approached Owen with information about a murder associated with someone in The Order that risked its exposure. So here we are, finding out where he has stored the information and who else he may have shown it to so we can take care of both.
Rayth shifts again, digging his blade into Matthew's back and the metallic tang of blood fills the air. Not causing any life threatening damage, but the pain would be just as significant.
With a heavy sigh I take a step closer, the weight of my presence bearing down on him. "You can end this now, Matthew. Tell me where the documents are, and who else knows about them.”
"Please," Matthew pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-I can't..."
His refusal ignites a flicker of frustration within me, but I tamp it down, burying it beneath a mask of icy composure. There's no room for emotion here, only the ruthless pursuit of information.
"You can't or you won't?" I press, my tone sharp and cutting. "Because I assure you, Matthew, the consequences of your silence will be far worse than anything you can imagine."
Matthew's body trembles under the pain of Rayth's blade, his breath hitching as he struggles to find the words to respond. He glances around the room, his eyes pleading for mercy that he knows will not come.
"You're going to kill me anyway," he whispers, his voice laced with resignation.
I nod slowly, emotionlessly, confirming his worst fears. "Do you know that a body can withstand an exorbitant amount of pain and torture before it shuts down?" I ask, my voice low and chilling. "Think of it like edging. We can get your body so close to death you could probably see ghosts, and keep you on that edge for days. Do you want to see ghosts, Matthew?"
The color drains from Matthew's face, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he struggles against the pain Rayth is delivering. But really, I know Rayth is just toying with him at the moment, there isn’t enough blood dripping on the floor yet to tell me he is truly digging in deep.
As Matthew's sobs fill the air, I lean in closer, my voice a whisper that cuts through the silence like a blade.
"If you think that hurts, wait until I let Kill play with you," I say, my tone dripping with menace. "I once saw him peel square sections of skin from someone's back, a section at a time, until they looked like a chessboard."
Rayth takes that moment to dig his blade even deeper into Matthew's flesh, eliciting another cry of pain from the trembling man. His tears mix with sweat and blood, streaking his face in a grotesque display of agony.
"Where are the files, Matthew? Who has seen them?" I demand, my voice cold and unyielding.
But Matthew's only response is another sob, his body trembling with the effort of holding back the pain. It's a futile effort, I know, but still, he clings to his defiance like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood in a storm-tossed sea.
"You're only prolonging your own suffering, Matthew," I warn, my patience wearing thin. "Tell me what I want to know, and this can all end."
Finally, with a ragged gasp, Matthew's resolve crumbles like a sandcastle swept away by the tide. "I-I'll tell you," he chokes out, his voice ragged and strained. "Please... just make it stop."
A sense of grim satisfaction washes over me as Matthew's defiance gives way to submission. "Good," I reply, my tone devoid of sympathy. "Start talking."
"I-I stored them... in a safe... in my apartment," Matthew confesses through his sobs, his voice barely above a whisper. "No one else... has seen them... I swear."
