Page 69 of The Hitch
Fourteen of us in total crowd around the front door. I see my furious face looking back at me in the cracked glass, the interior of the house hidden by moth-bitten curtains. They used to be floral and bright. A country cottage for the overworked police woman to recuperate on her meager vacations.
I look forward to destroying it. I look forward to destroyingher.
"On three," Roman whispers. "One, two, three."
He kicks in the door with abangand rushes inside—I'm hot on his heels. The other men point their flashlights into the disgusting place and hustle in. They scatter like insects and scour every room, kicking in doors, yelling "clear," searching the house while I grapple with my own uncharacteristic panic.
Roman throws himself to the floor and starts peeling up the brittle wooden planks, grunting with effort as he reveals the crawl space. Bones of dead animals, tufts of fur, and tree roots poking through the soil meet his gaze. He curses and throws a clod of dirt at the wall.
Ella hasn't been here. I know it before the crew reports back. She may own this place, but she hasn't been here in months, maybe years. We are the only ghosts haunting this shack. A thick layer of dust coats every surface. Only our boot prints mark the floor. Dead flies litter the windowsills.
My wife isn't here. Helena isn't here. My hopes die and join the rat skeleton in the corner. Dread and grief sink into me like a toxin.
"They're not here," I mumble. Roman snaps his head up from his destructive investigation and scowls.
"You can't make that call yet," he snarls. "I will tear up every goddamn plank before I let you."
"Sirs," one of the men clomps back into the room. "We've cleared everything."
"Then get started on the floors!" Roman yells, and the man drops to his knees, bashing the cracked wood with the butt of his gun.
The rest of the crew follow along, and we tear the place to pieces. There isn't a stone unturned by the time we're done, and sweat pours from my brow like a faucet. Two of the men punched a hole in the ceiling and crawled into the tiny space, inspecting the beams and rafters holding the moldering roof up.
"Nothing in there but some dead raccoons," a man reports to Roman.
He grunts and sits back on his heels, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. His brow furrows as he scowls in thought, muttering under his breath. I watch his hands flex around the grip of his handgun, toying with the safety.
"They're not here!" I yell and stomp onto the front porch. "Fuck!"
The first rays of morning sun peek through the thick canopy, illuminating the reds and oranges of fall. It's absolutely gorgeous, and all I can think is how much Melody would love to see it. I toss my rifle to the side and twist the wedding ring around my finger. The warm metal grounds me. Physical proof of my wife.
"I'm so sorry, Melody. I'm so sorry I didn't save you. I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please hold on, love. I'm coming, and I'm going to fucking kill the people responsible for this," I promise the empty night air.
Grief sits heavy in my chest as I crouch to the ground and close my eyes. Melody wouldn't let this crush her. She's so goddamn strong, and I'm a fake, a phony, a weak man without her. I never thought I would admit this to anyone, not even myself. But she brought so much light into my life. Especially when she fought me tooth and nail. I would give away all of my money, my properties, my belongings, if it meant she would show up right this second and scold me for being so defeatist.
"Sir?" Roman's footsteps were so quiet, I didn't hear his approach. "I'm sorry. I apologize for… all of this."
I look up at him, huffing out furious breaths. Dirt and sweat mingle on his face, with his jaw set in grim acceptance. He tips his head to the side and taps his watch. "We have two hours until the meeting. If we leave now, we'll just make it."
"Fuck, let's go." I raise myself up from the ground and clasp his shoulder. "Thank you. If there was any chance of her being here, I'd kill you myself for not telling me."
"I know, sir. That's why I did." He gives me an uncomfortable smile. "Still, I apologize. We'll find them. I promise."
Roman screeches to a halt outside the head office. Opulent wealth surrounds us, but I don't give a singular shit if it can't get me my wife back. I wave away the doormen who reach for our coats. Not that we're wearing any, but habit is habit. I'm not ready to let go of the mud-stained bulletproof vest yet.
Well-dressed assistants surround us, talking at all angles, eyes bugging out of their heads at the state of us. I don't grace any of them with a response. Neither does Roman, but he's not known for dramatic speeches. Checking my watch, I see that we're just about two minutes early. The other Demons are already seated and awaiting our appearance, according to someone—I don't know who, and I don't care.
Another pair of men in black suits swing open the main auditorium doors for us and incline their heads in deferential bows. It's just about now that I realize I still have my gun; I picked it up before leaving the shack and never put it down. Roman has his in the (very visible) holster strapped to his waist. We look like we're ready for war.
And, in a sense, we are. Ignoring the whispers and stares, I head straight for the microphone and podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Goetic Consortium, we are under attack," I announce. The whispers become murmurs and shouts, but I press on. "The Seraph have fired the first shot. This is a declaration of war, and I implore you all not to take this lightly."
Roman steps up beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder, nodding. He leans into the microphone, angling and projecting his voice, "They've started with us—with The Dantalion—but they will notstopwith us."
"How can you be so sure? What if you've just pissed someone off by being, well, an asshole?" The Belial stands from his seat in the audience and glowers at me.
"They have my goddamn wife!" I yell into the microphone, ignoring the feedback. "They took my fucking wife and her bodyguard—you're telling me that's not war?"
