Page 79 of Cole: Bloodlines
“How is Angel?” Maddy asked, clearing his throat with a raspy sound. He pulled away from Dane's embrace, leaving cold patches where his tears had soaked through the fabric. “Is he still asleep?”
“Yeah,” Dane murmured, exchanging a look with Devlin, who discreetly shook his head. The subtle gesture conveyed the weight of unspoken horrors, silently telling Dane that the kids weren't aware of the blood-soaked events at the park. “He was exhausted and worried. Devlin gave him something to sleep.” He looked at Savannah, noting how her small fingers twisted the hem of her gown. “And Abel too.”
“I think it would be okay to wake them up now.” Devlin smiled, his weary eyes heavy with a relief none of them was sure they would ever feel again.
CHAPTER 36: SHATTERED
When the Egyptian stirred,Clint went to him and knelt on the cold concrete floor, his jeans soaking up a thin film of moisture. Although he had insisted to Cole that Cochise would be fine, the fear of losing his brother had clung to him like a second skin until the man's eyelids finally fluttered open. Cochise blinked, his steel-gray eyes squinting, his bronze skin ashen beneath its natural olive tone. “What the fuck...?” The words scraped out of his throat with a gravelly edge. He started to sit forward and winced, a flash of pain contorting his face into a grimace, a thin sheen of sweat breaking across his forehead. Clint planted a firm hand on his chest, feeling the solid Kevlar beneath his brother's shirt as he pushed him back down.
“Take it easy for a moment,” Clint said, his own voice tight with lingering fear.
“What happened?”
“You were shot. The vest stopped the bullet, but it knocked you out cold.” The memory flashed before Clint's eyes—Cochise insisting they wear the vests, his dark eyes serious as he handed one to Clint, concern etched in the lines of his face. A cold chill ran down Clint's spine, raising gooseflesh along his arms; if they hadn't opted for the vests, would he be cradling his brother's lifeless body now, drenched in his blood?
Cochise frowned, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Who fucking shot me?”
Cole's jaw clenched as he pointed across the dim room at the Mangler, whose face was now a mess of purple bruises and dried blood. “That fucker right there.”
Cochise's upper lip curled back in a feral snarl as he tried to lunge forward. His muscles tensed beneath Clint's restrainingpalm. “Easy,” Clint murmured, applying firm pressure to Cochise's shoulder. “You have plenty of time to fuck him up, but for now, just rest for a second.”
Cole sank to his heels with a sharp intake of breath, his face contorting as he hugged his ribs, fingers digging into his sides. Cochise's gray eyes swept over Cole's hunched form. “You okay?”
Breathing in shallow gasps, Cole nodded, sweat beading on his upper lip. “I think the fucker broke some ribs, or at least cracked them. Hurts like a bitch, either way.” Cole swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, voice dropping to a raw whisper. “You saved my life.” His throat worked visibly beneath stubbled skin. “I thought for sure I was on my way out.”
“You're not going anywhere,” Cochise muttered through gritted teeth as he grunted and slowly sat forward, his gaze darting to each corner of the concrete room. “Who took down the shooter?”
“A, uh…” Cole shook his head, eyes distant as if replaying a nightmare. “Actually, I’m not sure who he was. Big, scary fucker, for sure. He…” Cole exchanged a meaningful look with Clint, something unspoken passing between them. “He saved your life,” he told Cochise. “That motherfucker over there was going to finish you off, and he stopped him.”
Clint had only glimpsed the giant as he and his strange little companion left the room, but his identity didn’t matter—he could be a fucking demon straight from hell—Clint wouldforeverbe in his debt for saving his brother’s life.
The heavy steel door scraped against concrete as Cruz and Sanchez entered, their boots tracking through the grime on the floor. “Holy shit.” Cruz's face drained of color as he rushed over, the leather of his jacket creaking as he dropped to one knee and gripped Cochise's shoulder with calloused fingers. “You okay, big guy?”
“Fucking dandy,” the Egyptian grunted.
Clint and Cruz hoisted him up, muscles straining against Cochise's solid weight. Cole snatched the jacket from the dusty floor, brushing off concrete debris before handing it over. Cochise's bronze face twisted as he eased into the coat, the material stretching taut across his back. Clint winced, imagining Kane's face when he saw the ragged, quarter-sized hole punched through leather and cotton, the fabric edges singed black with gunpowder residue, the frayed edges of the shirt beneath, and the angry purple-black bruise blooming like a deadly flower between his shoulders.He’s alive—andthat’swhat will matter to Kane.
“Good call on the vests,” Sanchez murmured, his fingers tracing an invisible bullet trajectory in the air, his dark eyes haunted by phantom scenarios. Clint didn’t want to think about‘what ifs’.
“Doesn’t look like yours did you much good,” Cruz said, nodding toward the dark stain spreading across Clint's shoulder, the fabric torn and glistening wet.
“What?” Cochise's hand shot out, fingers digging into Clint's bicep as he yanked him around, surveying the wound. His brow ground low over his gray eyes. “What the fuck happened?”
“The fucker clipped me,” Clint said, wincing as the movement pulled at torn flesh.. “Flesh wound. I’m fine.” He left out the part about bending over just in the nick of time—and how, if he’d moved just a second too late, his brains would be painting the basement wall right now. Cochise didn’t need to know that.
Sanchez walked over to the killers, his boot heels striking concrete like hammer blows. “What're we doing with these two? The guest room?”
Clint locked eyes with Cole. “Any special requests?”
The younger man stared at the two men, his gaze finally locking onto the Mangler. His pupils dilated until only a thinrim of gray remained. “He would make me help him,” Cole whispered, each word scraping up his throat like rusted metal. “Help him kill them... cut them up, and...” A violent tremor rippled across his shoulders, down his arms. Tears welled, catching the dim light. “… made me carry still-warm pieces and dump them into the feeding trough while the pigs squealed and fought over...” His Adam's apple bobbed three times in quick succession beneath skin gone pale. “He'd stand there gloating about the genius of using pigs to dispose of evidence... how they'd devour everything—bones, teeth, hair—until nothing remained.”
The gangsters stared at him in silence.
Cole's eyes suddenly cleared, the haunted fog lifting like a theater curtain to reveal something feral underneath—a predatory gleam that hadn't been there moments before. His jaw muscles twitched beneath stubbled skin as he stared directly at the gangsters, his gaze no longer that of a victim but of an executioner weighing methods. “Are there any pig farms nearby?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the concrete room more completely than a shout. His eyes, cold as river stones in winter, drifted back to the killers, lingering on their bound hands and bruised faces. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but the promise of one. “Reap what you sow... and all that.”
Detective Wil Jordan followed Cole down the rusted metal stairs, each step groaning under their weight. The stairwell funneled them into darkness that smelled of mildew, rat droppings, and corroded metal. Two paramedics trailed behind them, the aluminum frame of their folding stretcher occasionally scraping against the narrow walls, their medical bags swingingwith each careful step. Flakes of rust dusted Cole’s fingertips where he gripped the railing for support, his other arm curled protectively around his midsection. Wil had suggested he stay up top at the ambulance, but the man had insisted on showing him the way, though Wil didn’t understand why. He wondered at the younger man’s resilience after the nightmare events at the park—and god only knows the horrors he endured inside this factory.
Wil's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, illuminating dust motes that swirled like microscopic ghosts. His mind flashed back to the orphanage from months ago. He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. Nothing could be worse than that scene, he told himself, though the deeper they descended, the less certain he became. The temperature dropped with each step, as if they were moving toward some frozen heart of human depravity.
