Page 11 of A Midnight Romance
“How many?”
“I counted four.”
“Are they—”
He nods, answering the question before I ask it. “I didn’t check, but from the looks of it”—he sighs—“they’re all dead.”
The way these men trapped those women and the horrendous acts they may have endured fuels my anger—and my hunger to take out thetrash. I grip the longer hair on the back of Pete’s head and jerk it backward. “You and your friends have been busy, haven’t you?”
His beady eyes meet mine. “What can I say? I love me some good pussy.”
I wring my neck. “You just signed your death warrant.”
A chilling scream erupts from his throat before I glide the sharp side of my knife across his throat, sending a waterfall of blood down his chest.
“Did you get any information out of him?” Sebastian asks, slipping his gun into the back of his black pants.
“Nothing we weren’t already aware of,” I say, looking around for a sink.
“There’s one in the basement,” he tells me as if he knew what I was looking for. “But be prepared. These are some sick bastards. I’ll stay up here and start cleaning.”
“It’s what you do best,” I comment.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, maybe it’s about time to discuss our roles in the operation.”
“Maybe,” I say, then give him a curt nod and leave him to it.
He may complain, but he’s the best at managing the night crew.
I take a sharp right turn out of the bedroom and down the hall that leads to the basement. Once at the padlocked door, I move past piles of rubbish and discarded furniture and descend into what I can only describe as Hell.
Thick metal chains hang from holes midway up the concrete wall, while blood-soaked linens are haphazardly piled into a large basin.
A dense scent of copper and mildew infiltrates my nostrils. My eyes scan along the cement basement where I find four beds—each one with rose-stained sheets. Four women in total, all lying on different beds with their arms chained to the iron frame above their heads.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath, taking in the surrounding sights.
All of the women have matted, dirty hair and are positioned on their backs. Three of them have their legs fallen open, exposing their insides. Only one is slightly covered with her knees bent to one side. I’m surprised she doesn’t appear to be as dirty and beaten up as the others.
It’s possible she hasn’t been here as long.
I can’t leave them all in this position. They don’t need to be exposed like this when the police find them. So, one by one, I close their legs and pull the tattered blankets to cover them.
Once I’m done, my eyes dart over to the last woman lying in the corner near the window. Completely naked, she is exposed to the chill of the basement. As I move across the room toward her, I secure my black latex gloves by weaving my fingers together from each hand. When I reach the side of the bed, I assess every inch of her mangled body before I reach pick up her leg and move it even closer to the other.
A subtle bounce of the mattress stops my movements. At first I think I’ve imagined it, but when I grab the knife in my pocket, her leg twitches.
I stand still.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she begs with a shaky voice.
She’s alive.
She has a blindfold on and I’m still wearing my mask, so I’m certain she can’t see me. But I can’t risk being discovered.
The police will be on their way as soon as I can get the fuck out of here and alert them. So, I quietly walk around to her side, past an open tiled shower fit into the corner of the room and toward the stairs. She flinches with each thud of my heavy boots as they hit the concrete floor. I watch the rise and fall of her chest matching the rhythm of the incessant drip of a leaky pipe on the far side of the basement.
“Please,” she whimpers again. “Don’t hurt me. I only want to go home.”
