Page 42 of Buried in Blood
“They’ve been quiet for too long,” I say. “Not a single new shipment. No transports. That either means they’re keeping them longer… or they’re planning something bigger.”
Lucien runs a hand through his hair. “They’ve been conditioning them. You know that. He waits until his captives look clean, pretty, and desperate.”
“Fucking monsters,” I snap.
The air in the room thickens.
Lucien stands. “We give it three more days. If they don’t move by Friday, we go in.”
I pace. “And if Damien catches wind?”
“Then we improvise.” His voice is cold steel. “You and I have done worse with less.”
He’s right. But this isn’t just about strategy anymore. This is personal. Destiny. Harmony. The others. Damien’s starting to tighten the noose. And Reese? I don’t trust that bastard. Something about him feels… split.
I stare at the camera footage again. The trucks enter and leave. No one enters except for Damien, Reese, and, on occasion, Harmony.
Lucien—he hasn’t been sleeping. He hasn’t been talking much either.
I feel it in my gut.
Something is going to snap.
And when it does, we’re going in. I don’t care how much blood it takes.
18
Damien
The cigarette tastes like ash and gasoline on my tongue. I love the burn that it gives me.
I stare out over the property, watching the fog rise off the grass like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt. Brooke is sleeping. Harmony, probably pretending to. Reese is still gone, or at least not stupid enough to show his face unannounced.
I’m sick of waiting.
Every second that passes feels like a fucking countdown. Like someone’s winding the clock behind my back. Tick. Tick. Tick.
They think they’re smart—Dante, Lucien. Watching my trucks. Counting my shipments. Mapping my blind spots.
They don’t realize I intentionally left those blind spots there.
Still, they’re getting too close. Too clever. And I’m not about to let them touch what’s mine.
I need to move the captives soon. But how?
The tunnels?
They’re secure, but if anyone’s watching the property, it’s a risk. One breach, and I lose everything.
Flying them out?
Clean. Fast. But the cost—and the attention—isn’t worth it. One tail from the feds and I’m done.
So what’s left?
A fake-out.
A decoy move.
