Page 68 of Cole: Bloodlines
The weapon’s muzzleflashed orange-white in the darkness, its report a deafening crack that bounced between the factory's water-stained concrete walls like a pinball. Fine dust rained down from the ceiling as the 9mm round whistled past Byrne's left ear, close enough that he felt its heat before it punched a crater in the wall, sending limestone chips skittering across the floor. He threw himself sideways as the second shot thundered through the cavernous space, this one catching him—a white-hot poker dragging across his bicep, shredding his leather jacket and the flesh beneath. Warm blood welled instantly, trickling down to his elbow as he slammed his full weight against the rusted steel door and cranked the industrial lever downward with a metallic shriek, sealing the other gunman in his concrete tomb.
Blood seeped into the inner fabric of his jacket, leaving a sticky trail that matted his arm hair to his skin. He holstered his weapon, the metal still hot against his hip. From beyond the rusted door came the hollow echo of desperate footfalls, followed by the frantic rattle of the industrial handle—metal scraping against metal like fingernails on a chalkboard. Byrne's lips curled into a half-smile as a string of muffled profanities erupted from inside, each word punctuated by another violent jerk of the handle. Then came a different sound: the staticky crackle of a radio transmission, followed by a low, urgent voice. Byrne's smile vanished; he hadn’t come here alone.Fuck.
Byrne climbed the rusted metal stairs two at a time, each footfall echoing through the stairwell like a hammer strike. Sweat beaded on his upper lip despite the bone-deep chill of the abandoned factory. His ears strained for any sound beyond his own ragged breathing—a footstep, a radio crackle, anything tobetray the other man's position. The Glock felt slick in his palm, still warm from the shot that should have painted the concrete with the fed's brains. If the bastard hadn't bent down at that precise moment, reaching for that pipe... Byrne's jaw clenched until his molars ached.
He knew who these men were and should have anticipated the pair. His finger twitched against the trigger guard, waiting. The fantasy of having them strapped to his table, their skin peeling back under his favorite filleting knife, made his mouth water, but Byrne knew better. There was no time for the knife work he preferred, for watching the light fade from their eyes inch by agonizing inch. These weren't street punks to be savored. These were predators, like him.
Daniel froze in the doorway, staring at the empty space where his captives should have been. The door hung open, its heavy latch dangling uselessly. He dragged his palm across his stubbled jaw, his mind racing. The boy couldn't have done this—could he? But if not the boy—then who? The factory housed only the boy, the girl in the reinforced cage, and now these intruders who couldn't possibly have slipped past him and Byrne to orchestrate this escape.
Daniel's gut clenched like a fist, acid rising in his throat. He backed out, boots crunching on broken glass, and navigated the labyrinthine corridors—past water-stained walls and exposed pipes dripping condensation—toward the girl’s holding cell. The sight of the second unlatched door sent ice through his veins, but it was the empty cage beyond that ignited something primal within him. His blood surged hot as magma, pounding in his temples until his vision blurred crimson at the edges.
Leaving the room, Daniel drew his weapon, the cold steel of the grip slick against his clammy palm. He moved with a slight hitch in his step, each footfall sending lightning bolts of agony from the knife wound in his side, the once-white bandage now wholly saturated with crimson that spread across his shirt like an oil spill. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the factory's bone-chilling cold.
“Fuck,” he muttered through gritted teeth and limped back to his makeshift office. Stripping off his shirt with trembling fingers, he peeled away the soiled bandage, wincing as it tore at the ragged edges of the wound. The jagged six-inch gash gaped like a hungry mouth, still seeping dark arterial blood that trickled down his ribs in thin rivulets.Shit.
Daniel replaced the bandage, packing the wound tighter with gauze that immediately bloomed red. Without a clean shirt on hand, he pulled the blood-soaked fabric back over his torso, the damp cotton clinging to his skin like a second layer of filth, and tucked it in with a hiss of pain.
Daniel left the office, each step a fresh torment, and started hunting for Henry, weapon in hand, his finger close to the trigger.
Shots rang out—a distant, slightly muffled echo deep in the belly of the factory—one, two, three.
The kids instinctively flinched and ducked, holding onto each other.
Cole and Gabe flinched, too. “What was that?” Gabe asked.
The shots weren’t close—who was shooting at whom?
The gangsters? They'd been following Gabe when Byrne took him to the factory.
The giant and his creepy little companion?
“Do you think it’s Clint and Cochise?” Gabe asked low. “They were tracking the deputy’s car.”
“Could be,” Cole whispered. "Or... the others.” He stayed alert despite the shots coming from a distant part of the factory. “If it’s Clint and Cochise, they can handle themselves. We need to focus on getting the kids out of here.”
“Any idea where the exit is?”
“Not a fucking clue,” Cole admitted. They had left behind the windowed corridors. Now they crept through absolute darkness again, fingers trailing along mildew-slick concrete walls, each breath amplified in the suffocating silence, each footfall a gamble against unseen debris that might betray their position with a telltale crunch.
“We just have to hope luck is on our side.”
“It has been so far,” Savannah whispered with a tremor.
Cole glanced at her, surprised by her statement after everything she’d gone through.
“We’re all still alive,” she said thickly. “Before you came…” Tears caused her words to tremble. “I thought… I thought Abel and… and Maddy were…” She pressed closer to Maddy. “I-I thought Isawthat mankillMaddy.” A sob caught in her throat. “I thought I was alone and that… that I was going to be raped and killed.” She sniffed. “But then Jitterbug came, and he brought Maddy to me, then you guys.”
The girl made sense. Cole hugged her. “You’ve got a point, darling. I guess we have been pretty lucky so far.”
“I don’t think it’s luck,” Gabe murmured. “I think something more powerful than luck has a hand in this.”
Cole admired his husband’s enduring faith even in the midst of hell. “Well, let’s hope it knows the way out of here.”
As if taunted by fate, a gunshot rang out when they came around the bend in the corridor—close enough that Cole felt the concussive thud in his chest—and a bullet zipped past overheadwith a sound like angry hornets, striking concrete with a shower of limestone dust that rained down on their shoulders.
“Fuck!” Cole and Gabe grabbed the kids and dropped to the floor, the cold concrete scraping Cole's palms raw. Cole shoved them all behind him, feeling Gabe's ragged breathing against his neck, and held his weapon ready, the metal slick with sweat as he squinted into the impenetrable darkness ahead. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out even the ragged breathing of the others huddled behind him.Fuck—he couldn’t see a goddamn thing!
“We can shoot this out, son,” the Mangler’s voice drifted eerily out of the darkness. “Risk your husband’s life—he’s already wounded—and the kids’ lives. Or…” A heavy silence settled over the corridor. “… we can talk this out, father to son. Which is it going to be, Henry?”
