Page 71 of Cole: Bloodlines
The two teens—about fourteen or fifteen years old—crept warily from their confines on bare feet mottled purple with cold. They huddled close, shoulders touching, fingers laced, watching Clint with the alertness of prey animals. Their dirty hair hung in greasy clumps around faces marked with dried tear tracks.
Clint motioned toward the office, wincing as the movement tugged at his wounded shoulder. “Come on, you need to get warm.”
The boys moved together in a wide arc around Clint, never taking their eyes off him, their steps uneven and stiff from confinement. Once past him, they hurried into the office and immediately rushed to the heater. They dropped to their knees in synchronized desperation, holding out trembling, dirt-encrusted hands toward the warm air, their faces showing the first hint of relief.
Stepping into the office, Clint closed the door with a soft click that sealed away the basement's bone-deep chill. He slid into a creaking metal chair behind the desk, keeping a cautious distance from the boys. The overhead bulb cast sickly yellow shadows over his bloodstained shirt. “I'm Clint,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper in the silence. “The men who took you...They took some friends of mine, too. A boy and a girl, just a little older than you. Savannah and Maddy. Have you seen them? Were they down here with you?”
One of the boys kneeling near the heater—the taller one with a jagged scar running across his left eyebrow—gave a slight shake of his head, his matted hair barely shifting. “He... he only brings boys... down here,” he whispered, each word marked by visible puffs of breath. His eyes darted toward the office door, fingers digging into his bare knees until his knuckles turned white. “The boy out there... he... he's been dead for three days. The man just left him there.” His chin trembled, teeth chattering loudly. “He likes to scare us. I-I think that's why he left him... so we could look at him and... and know it was gonna happen to us, too... that we were going to die here.”
“You're not going to die here,” Clint said quietly, leaning forward so the dim light caught the steel in his eyes. A fresh rivulet of blood traced a crimson path down his arm as he reached for his gun. “My partner is on his way back to open the door. We're going to get you out of here.”
A faint scraping noise emanated from within the crate—hardly noticeable in the silence.
Clint's eyes locked with the boy's. Both had caught it.
“He talks to the box,” the kid whispered, his stare fixed on the wooden crate. “Sometimes he opens it and… and talks to… whatever’s inside.”
Clint slowly got up from the chair. Blood pounding in his ears, he moved toward the wooden box. Unlike the cage locks he'd opened before, this padlock was industrial-grade—designed to keep secrets. Whatever the killer had locked inside, he'd gone to great lengths to contain it.
His jaw tightened. He slipped out of the office, grabbed the broken pipe he'd seen earlier before taking the bullet, andcame back, shutting the door behind him. He wedged the metal against the lock and began to lever it with controlled force.
The dark corridor swallowed the Mangler whole, his silhouette dissolving into inky blackness as Cole fired three wild shots that echoed like thunder in the confined space. The acrid smell of gunpowder stung Cole's nostrils, and his breath came in shallow gasps that clouded before his face. His ears strained through the ringing aftermath of gunfire—footsteps—rapid and uneven—scraped somewhere up ahead, growing fainter with each second. No sounds of stumbling or crunching debris followed, just the rhythmic thud of boots against concrete fading into the distance.
He rounded a bend where water-stained pipes snaked along the ceiling and spotted a pale light spilling from an open doorway, casting long shadows across the grime-covered floor. Cole's breathing slowed to shallow, controlled inhales as he approached, the bitter taste of adrenaline coating his tongue. He pressed his cheek against the rusted steel doorframe and looked inside. Dawn was gradually breaking beyond a row of shattered windows high on the far wall, the sky a bruised palette of charcoal and slate that cast the room in a twilight murk where shapes remained vague and threatening.
Heavy shadows flooded the spacious machinery room like living creatures, their jagged edges stark against the pale dawn filtering through grime-streaked windows. Towering silhouettes of abandoned equipment—massive, rusted gears, partly dismantled conveyor belts, and skeletal metal frameworks—created a labyrinth of potential hiding spots. Cole moved carefully into the room, nostrils flaring at the sharp mix of motor oil, rust, and a coppery smell beneath.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the gun with both hands, the cold metal of the muzzle aimed at the cracked concrete floor. As he moved forward, his boots crunched softly on debris, each step deliberate. Three feet in, he spotted them—droplets of fresh blood, thick and ruby-red, shimmering in the weak light like scattered garnets. The trail vanished into an impenetrable wall of darkness that swallowed the back half of the cavernous room, where even the morning light couldn't penetrate.
For a moment, Cole stood perfectly still, listening to the pounding of his heartbeat and the rhythmic drip of water on metal somewhere in the darkness.
Then—a subtle shift in the blackness.
Cole's finger tightened on the trigger as a freight train exploded from the darkness, slamming into his shoulder with such force that his body spun like a rag doll. His vision detonated into white-hot nothingness, a supernova of pain bursting behind his eyes. The cinderblock wall caught him like a sledgehammer, ripping the skin from his cheekbone before gravity dragged him down. His skull cracked against the concrete floor, teeth snapping together on the soft flesh of his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth, bones jarring on impact. The gun tore from his grip and vanished with a metallic skitter into oblivion.
He clawed at the floor, lungs fighting for air that wouldn't come, when two hundred pounds of murderous flesh crashed onto his chest and drove a knee into his sternum, crushing his ribs inward. A bald head gleamed with sweat in the half-light, face contorted into something barely human—lips peeled back, teeth bared, eyes bulging with homicidal ecstasy.
Byrne.
The killer’s hands crushed Cole's windpipe like steel clamps, fingers digging into the soft hollows beneath his jaw until black spots bloomed across his vision. Cole thrashed wildly, lungsscreaming for oxygen, but Byrne's weight pinned him like a crucified insect—two hundred pounds of brutal intent grinding his ribs to breaking. The machete appeared in Cole's dimming peripheral vision, its serrated edge catching the anemic light, each jagged tooth promising mutilation. Blood pounded in Cole's ears, his own heartbeat becoming thunder in the narrowing tunnel of consciousness.
Cole's knee shot upward with the force of pure terror, slamming into the killer's gut. The man absorbed the blow like concrete, his teeth bared in a death-grin. The man's forearm crashed down like an iron bar across his windpipe, cartilage compressing with an audible crunch. The machete's edge bit cold across his jaw, then plunged into the hollow of his collarbone. Pain exploded through him—not just pain but annihilation—nerve endings screaming as muscle and sinew parted. Blood gushed hot down his chest, soaking his shirt in seconds.
Cole thrashed wildly, lungs burning, vision tunneling to pinpricks. His right hand lashed out blindly, fingers hooking into the killer's ear, ripping flesh. Blood sprayed hot across his face, but the monster's grip only constricted further, each heartbeat thudding louder as the noose of flesh tightened.
The machete ripped through Cole's shirt and carved into his flesh like a branding iron, sending a geyser of blood spattering across his face. His world collapsed to a single crimson heartbeat of agony. Pure animal instinct drove his hand upward, fingers clawing frantically until they found Byrne's face. Cole punched his thumb deep into the wet orb of the killer's eye, rupturing it with a sickening pop.
Byrne's scream split the air as Cole twisted free, his skull cracking against concrete with such force that his consciousness flickered like a dying bulb. Lungs heaving, he scrambled desperately, boot scraping for traction in his own blood. ThenByrne was on him again—a rabid, wounded beast—his roar so primal it bypassed language entirely and struck Cole's hindbrain like a physical blow.
The machete sliced air molecules inches from Cole's skull, shearing a lock of hair that floated down like ash, and buried itself in the wall with a teeth-rattlingclangthat vibrated through his bones. For an instant, it caught, and the man’s grip faltered. Cole seized the moment, clamping both hands around Byrne’s wrist and wrenching down with all the leverage of fear and desperation.
Byrne's fist rocketed into Cole's temple with the force of a sledgehammer. His skull seemed to detach from his spine as his vision exploded into a kaleidoscope of black and crimson. Blood flooded his mouth as he bit through his cheek, but primal survival kept his fingers locked, his thumb gouging savagely into the pressure point between Byrne's tendons until cartilage separated with a wetsnap. The killer's scream pierced his eardrums as the machete crashed into the concrete, spinning away into the darkness like a severed limb.
CHAPTER 32: IN THE SNAP OF GOD’S FINGERS
The gunshots echoed through the factory like firecrackers, each pop jolting Gabe's heart against his ribs. He froze mid-step, one foot hovering above the concrete. Cole was back there. Alone. His body swiveled halfway toward the sound before his mind caught up. The kids. He had to protect the kids. But Cole might be bleeding out right now, might be calling his name. Gabe's mouth went desert-dry as he forced himself forward, each step away from Cole feeling like a betrayal.
“Do… Do you think Cole is okay?” Savannah whispered with a tremor.
