Page 64 of The Hitch
"I don't like this, sir." Roman paces around the living room. "One is a fluke, two is concerning. Have you checked the tracker app?"
"No, hang on." Pulling up the app, the little blue dot for Melody's marker is grayed out. She's offline. Her last known location was a gas station in New Jersey, just up the road from a shooting range. My stomach sinks in my gut as I read the last ping: 1:57PM today.
Almost four hours ago. No word from her, no word from Helena. Helena's dot is grayed out as well, but in a different location. Hers went offline at 2:03PM, but a few hundred yards down the same highway. Away from the city.
"Fuck. Fuck!" I run my fingers through my hair, snagging on a few tangles and nearly ripping out the strands. "They're gone, Ro! They're fucking gone. Shit, we need to go—the gas station, check your app, we need to gonow."
"Shit. On it, sir. Let's go." Roman nods and sprints to the door, snagging the keys on his way. I quickly lock up behind him, and we race back to the car.
The only thing moving faster than my feet is my mind. I can't get images of Melody being hurt out of my head. Kidnapped by some asshole whodoesn'ttreasure her, who only sees her as a way to get to me, with no regard for her health. Her safety. Her happiness.
"Faster," I growl out as Roman floors the accelerator. The engine revs and vibrates through the soles of my feet—I can practically hear the pistons pumping like my own heart. Melody. Melody. Melody.
Someone has my wife, and I pray to any god that might be listening: take them before I do. I will not be kind. I will not show any mercy. No, I will hand Melody her carving knife and keep a matching one for myself. I'll beg her, plead with her, to let me have the killing blow. But I know myself, and I know myself around her, and I know that I'll give her anything she asks for. Anything she wants. As long as she comes back to me.
"In the spirit of collaboration, sir, have you considered calling The Paimon?" Roman asks, interrupting my morose thoughts. He expertly weaves through the rush hour traffic, earning us a few honks, but he pays them no mind.
"Shit. No." I yank my phone from my pocket and dial the master of secrets himself. Lucky for me, he picks up on the second ring. "Paimon? It's Dantalion. My wife is gone."
"What do you mean, gone?" His voice is slightly muffled. "One moment, please. I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of my dinner."
"And I apologize for the intrusion," I grit out. "She ismissing. Along with her guard—since this afternoon, last known location is a gas station on Crown Point Road, in New Jersey—"
"By the gun range, I'm familiar. Are you en route?" His voice is clearer now, and I can hear him typing with fervor.
"We are. ETA fifteen minutes."
"Ten minutes, sir," Roman interjects.
"Ten, my apologies." I correct myself and nod at Roman, mouthing a thank you.
"Oh-ho, what have we here," The Paimon snickers. "Nothing worse than some past due taxes and a shoddy—but functional—camera system. God, I bet the password is 'password.' Ha!"
"Please recall that mywifeis on the line, Paimon," I snarl, feeling my blood rush through my veins with fury. "Can you get in, or not?"
"Don't insult me. Of course I can. Here we go—when was she there?"
"A little before two this afternoon. What do you see?" I wait for his (most likely) sardonic response, but it doesn't come. There's only silence, except for a few taps of his keyboard.
"Nothing. There's nothing. At exactly 1:55 and 32 seconds, a black SUV pulls up to pump two. Your wife—lovely woman, by the way, happy to hear she took down that asshole, Frank—butyour wife gets out of the car, and the video cuts. Black. Nothing. This continues for…" He mumbles to himself. "… seven minutes. At 2:03, the feed returns. The SUV is gone. Melody isn't in the store. The only person in the store looks to be a middle-aged man scrolling on his phone behind the register."
"Fuck!" I shout and pound my fist on the dashboard. "This has to be the Seraph! They just—they killed Valencia, they have mywife, they have Helena."
"Why target you? Why not target, I don't know, The Belial? The Belphegor?" Paimon's questions rattle around in my brain, and I'm ashamed to say, I don't know.
"Fuck if I know. God, shit. Send me a screenshot of the clerk. I need to know if I'm ripping the right man apart." My grip on the grab handle nearly cracks the piece of plastic in half. Roman pulls an extremely illegal left turn and screeches to a halt in the gas station lot.
"Done. Give 'em hell, Dantalion."Click.
Without a word, Roman flips open the center console and pulls out two pistols. One for him and one for me—only the finest German engineering that money can buy: customized SIG Sauer. I check the magazine to find it full—as expected—and flick off the safety.
"Is that wise, sir?" Roman slides his into the inner pocket of his coat.
"Quite frankly, Roman, I don't give a shit.Someoneis going to die tonight. If it's not Melody's kidnapper, it'll be an accomplice. Let's go." I swing open the door and stomp towards the stupid little mini-store. Just like The Paimon said, a balding middle-aged man sits behind the register, scrolling on his phone. He doesn't even look up when the bell jingles as I enter.
The man is balding, with a slightly greasy look to him. A heavy brow casts his eyes in shadow from the fluorescent lighting. Yes,this is him. I'm vibrating with rage when Roman holds up his hand, stepping between myself and the clerk.
He's got this. Of course, he does; this is what he's trained for. He is in complete control of his emotions, and I've never been more envious of the man in my life. All I want to do is rage: trash the store, stomp the man's head in, rip out his throat, and laugh at his corpse.
