Page 70 of Cole: Bloodlines
A cigarette lighter suddenly sparked to life with a metallic scrape, the small flame dancing and guttering in a draft, casting a sulfurous glow that carved deep hollows beneath the killer's cheekbones and glinted wetly in his unblinking eyes. “Here, son.”
Cole's grip on the gun tightened until his knuckles ached, the weapon's grip biting into his sweaty palm as he held it low against his denim-clad thigh. His heart thumped against his ribs, each pulse sending a tremor through his fingers as he fought to control his shallow, rapid breathing. Despite his father’s beliefs, killing would never come easy to him—even killing a monster.
CHAPTER 31: CLASH OF TITANS
Daniel held the lighter uplike a beacon in the darkness, guiding Henry to him. Though his son insisted he wasn’t a killer and that he never would be, here he was, drawn to his father like a moth to a flame. His ability—and willingness—to stab Daniel was evidence of the monstrosities flowing through his veins. Byrne was wrong about his brother; the bloodline was secure.
As Henry approached, the flickering glow of the flame illuminated the young man’s face, and in this ghostly light, Daniel saw the monster hiding inside his son. A small smile played on his lips. For a brief moment, right after Henry wounded him, Daniel felt a wave of disappointment and despair, worried he might have been wrong about Henry—and Byrne was right.
Daniel wasn’t wrong, though. And the proof was right in front of him. “Henry.”
While still a few feet away, Henry paused. “Tell me what happened to Ezra.”
“What?”
“I want to know what you did to him.”
Daniel sighed. “All right,” he murmured. “I kept him for a while… then I killed him. I made it quick and painless because you loved him.”
Henry fell silent, the flickering flame reflecting the dampness in his eyes. “You’re a liar,” Henry rasped. “Byrne told me that you kept him alive for two years… and you let Byrne rape him… over and over. There was nothing quick or painless about that.”
“Your brother is a special breed all his own,” Daniel said quietly, unapologetically. “I never could control him. He took a shine to Ezra.”
“He hurt him because he hatedme,”Henry whispered tightly, tears in his voice. “And you let him.”
“I couldn’t watch him every minute.”
Henry trembled. “What did you do with his body? Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel replied honestly. “He was still alive when I went to prison. Only Byrne would know. And I have to be honest, I doubt he’ll tell you. You’re right, he does hate you.”
“I hate him, too,” Henry said, bitterness rising in his strained voice. His face tightened in the weak flickering glow of the lighter flame. “As much as I fucking hateyou.”
Daniel caught thetwitchat Henry's temple a half-second before the gun barrel flashed upward. He flung the lighter away, plunging them into absolute darkness as the muzzle flash exploded, searing his retinas. The bullet screamed past his ear, so close he felt its heat. Daniel lurched sideways, shoulder slamming against concrete as he scrambled blindly down the corridor, each ragged breath burning in his lungs.
Henry's second shot punched into the wall inches from his shoulder, spraying his neck with bits of concrete. Three more shots cracked through the blackness in rapid succession—Bam-Bam-Bam—each muzzle flash freezing the corridor in strobing snapshots of hell, each shot a thunderclap in the confined space, bullets chewing into the wall inches from Daniel's head, showering him with concrete fragments that stung his face like hornets. Henry's footsteps pounded after him, gaining with every second, the sound of his son's rage-filled breathing closing the gap between them in the suffocating blackness.
The distant, heavily muffled gunfire echoed through the concrete walls like thunder, each pop sending a cold spike ofadrenaline down Clint's spine. He slammed his good shoulder against the rusted metal door once more, the impact jarring his bones and sending shockwaves of blinding pain through his injured shoulder, yet the door remained immovable as bedrock. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the basement chill. Every second his Egyptian brother was out there alone with those two psychopaths twisted his gut even tighter.
A flicker of movement in the shadowy room drew his attention to the cages. Two boys had crept forward on scuffed knees, fingers curled around the rusted bars like pale spiders. Their hollow eyes peered fearfully at the cowboy from beneath matted hair, tear tracks carving clean lines through the grime on their gaunt cheeks. The flashlight’s beam caught the quivering of their chapped lips as they watched him, their thin frames and hunched shoulders making them seem much younger than they were—children trapped in a nightmare they couldn't comprehend.
Clint left the unyielding door behind and moved quietly toward the row of cages, his boots scraping the concrete. As he approached, the boys backed away, pressing their spines against the rusted bars. Their eyes flashed white in the darkness like cornered animals.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” Clint whispered, the words catching in his throat as his fingers traced the cold metal of the first padlock. His flashlight beam swept the floor, catching on thin metal glints—discarded wire coiled like dead snakes in the dust. He snatched three pieces, testing each between calloused thumbs until they bent without breaking.
The wire trembled between his fingers as he worked the first lock, then the second, each click echoing in the silence. When the third cage door swung open with a rusty whine, no one moved. The smallest boy—couldn't have been more than twelve—curled tighter into himself, rocking with a mechanical rhythm that sentchills down Clint's spine, taking him back to the orphanage… to the traumatized boy named Luke, his son. His vacant stare fixed on nothing—a painfully familiar stare—as Clint's hand gently closed around the boy's ice-cold wrist.
The boy's body convulsed like a wounded animal, his spine arching against Clint's grip, fingers clawing at nothing. Ragged whimpers tore from his cracked lips.“No... no... don't... I don't want to... it hurts…”His voice was barely audible, a ghost of sound from a throat raw from screaming.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” Clint said quietly, but the boy's eyes—sunken pools of terror in a face bleached white as bone—stared through him at horrors Clint couldn't see, but which he understood. Drawing a steady breath, Clint eased the child from the cage. The boy erupted into a frenzy, limbs flailing wildly, his screams ricocheting off the concrete walls. “Hey. Hey. It's okay.” Clint enveloped the boy's thin frame, feeling each vertebra through the tattered shirt. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Gradually, the fight drained from the boy. He collapsed against Clint's chest, his sobs fracturing into hiccupping gasps that shook his entire frame. Clint held him close, pressing his lips to the boy's dirty hair—ice cold against his mouth, the child's skin like frozen marble beneath his calloused hands. Despite his fear, the boy burrowed against Clint's warmth, trembling violently, his small body desperately seeking heat like a dying flame.
“Come on,” Clint murmured, rising with the featherlight burden in his arms. “Let's get you warm.” He carried the boy into the office, each step sending jolts of agony through his bullet-torn shoulder. Blood seeped through his shirt, hot and sticky against his skin as he positioned a chair near the heater's feeble glow. Carefully lowering the child, Clint peeled off his jacket—the movement forcing a hiss through clenched teeth—and wrapped it around the boy's trembling shoulders. The coatswallowed him whole. “It's going to be all right,” he whispered into the stale air. “I'm going to get you out of here.”
Clint returned to the other cages, pausing a few feet away, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He gestured for the two boys to come out, palm upturned like coaxing feral cats. They hesitated, with hollow eyes flickering between him and the office where a faint orange glow promised warmth. Their blue-tinged lips quivered, and their breath formed tiny clouds in the frigid air.
“It's all right,” Clint murmured, his voice rough but gentle. “I'm here to help. Come into the office and get warm. I'm not going to hurt you.”
