Page 34 of Monstrosity
Meghan makes a face. "I don't want to know what that means."
"No," Tor agrees, pulling her close. "You don't."
Twenty minutes later, I'm in Bodul's truck with Geirolf riding shotgun.
We’re only taking the truck in case we need to take this fucker’s body with us when we’re done.
The kit Bjorn prepared is comprehensive—zip ties, blades, pliers, a small blowtorch, and other items that would make normal people squeamish.
But we're not normal people.
We're the fucking Raiders, and this is how we handle threats to our family.
Bodul is trying to look tough, but I can see the nervous energy vibrating through him.
His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"First time?" I ask.
"First time on a run like this," he admits. "Usually it's just bar fights or escort runs."
"Bar fights are about ego," I tell him. "This is about our family. Completely different animal."
"How do you do it?" He glances at me in the rearview. "Turn it on and off? Be a father one minute and a?—"
"Monster?" I finish. "You don't turn it on and off. You just learn to aim it. The monster's always there, waiting. You just point it at the people who deserve it."
Geirolf nods approvingly. "Like this fucking Carlos. Watching Dasha like she's prey? He deserves whatever Rio gives him."
"It's not about deserving," I correct. "It's about what we need to do. He has information we need. He's a threat to people weprotect. What he deserves is irrelevant. What matters is what needs to be done."
The apartment complex is exactly as shitty as Vanir described.
Peeling paint, broken security gate, the kind of place where people mind their own business because everyone's running from something.
A few locals eye us as we pull up, but they quickly look away.
They know predators when they see them.
Carlos lives on the third floor, apartment 3C.
The hallway smells like piss and the fluorescent lights overhead are flickering like a horror movie cliché.
No answer when we knock, but the lock is pathetic.
Geirolf has us inside in under thirty seconds.
The place reeks of stale smoke and old takeout. There's a laptop on the coffee table, still open, showing surveillance photos that make my blood boil.
Dasha at the coffee shop. Dasha walking to her car. Dasha laughing with Meghan. Dasha with my girls at the park.
"Fucking pig," Geirolf mutters, looking over my shoulder.
The photos are detailed, time-stamped, annotated with her routines.
This isn't casual—this is them preparing for something bigger.
"Check the bedroom," I tell Bodul. "Closets, under the bed. He's here somewhere."
