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13

DEMON’S DEN

CADE

The road stretched ahead, cracked and faded, a ribbon of broken asphalt cutting through what had once been a thriving community. Cedar Springs, population 1,200 according to the weather-beaten sign we'd passed a mile back. Now, it was just a husk, buildings standing in eerie silence, abandoned cars rusting along the streets. The midday sun hung overhead, but it cast no life into this place. No birds called. No wind stirred the crisp autumn leaves that should have been dancing along the sidewalks. Just stillness. A town frozen in time.

I sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, fingers drumming against my thigh, a restless rhythm that matched the unease spreading through me. Something felt wrong. Not just in the town, with its broken windows and empty storefronts, but in me. The hollowness that had been my constant companion since returning from hell seemed to widen here, resonating with the emptiness around us.

“Place looks like the set of a zombie flick,” I murmured, eyes scanning the desolate main street. A newspaper box still stoodon the corner, its plastic window sun-bleached and cracked, headlines from months ago trapped inside like insects in amber.

Sean slowed the Impala, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. A traffic light swung overhead, blinking yellow into a long-empty intersection. “This place is giving me serious 'bad idea' vibes,” he muttered. But he didn't stop.

I reached for my gun, checking it with practiced movements. “Hawk chose it for a reason.”

“Yeah, because he's a paranoid bastard with a death wish.” Sean's jaw tightened. “Just like every other hunter with a grudge who's lived past forty.”

We turned a corner, the Impala's engine echoing too loudly in the silent town.

“Shit!” Sean slammed on the brakes, tires squealing against pavement. The car lurched to a stop, throwing me forward against my seat belt.

A man stood in the middle of the road, not ten feet from our bumper. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a military bearing that was unmistakable even from a distance. But it wasn't his stance that made my pulse quicken; it was the gun aimed directly at us, rock-steady in his grip.

I barely had time to react before more figures stepped from the shadows of a dilapidated storefront. Five, no, six of them. All armed. All with the same cold, calculating stares fixed on our car.

“Well,” Sean said, voice unnaturally calm. “Looks like we got ourselves a goddamn welcome party.”

The burly man leading them—scars crisscrossing his forearms, tattoos disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves—stepped forward. His trigger finger was steady, the barrel of his shotgun unwavering as he pointed it at Sean's head through the windshield.

“Hands where I can see them!” he shouted, voice carrying across the empty street.

Sean muttered under his breath, “Well, this is familiar.” His hands stayed on the wheel, muscles tense beneath his jacket. I could almost hear the calculations running through his head—how fast he could draw the gun tucked at his back, how many he could take out before they returned fire.

“Don't,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the armed men surrounding us. “We're outnumbered.”

“I can count,” Sean replied, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He knew I was right.

I raised my hands, slow and deliberate, keeping them visible through the windshield. “We're looking for Hawk,” I called out, voice steady. “Sterling sent us.”

The name dropped like a stone into still water. The leader's eyes narrowed, assessing. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the soft metallic click of a round being chambered somewhere to our left.

Then, with a barely perceptible nod, the leader gestured to one of his men. “Take 'em inside.”

The guns didn't lower, but the air of immediate threat diminished slightly. We were being allowed to move, at least for now. Sean exhaled beside me, a soft hiss between clenched teeth.

“Great,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “Let's see what fresh hell we just walked into.”

We stepped out of the car slowly, hands still raised. The leader watched me with particular interest, his gaze lingering on the outline of my jacket where it couldn't quite hide the sigil burned into my chest. I met his stare evenly, refusing to show discomfort.

“That way,” he said, jerking his shotgun toward the former auto shop across the street. Heavy metal shutters covered its windows, and the garage doors had been reinforced with sheetsof steel bolted into the frame. A fortress in the middle of a ghost town.

As we were marched across the empty road, Sean caught my eye. The look we exchanged was brief but loaded with meaning. Be ready. Stay alert. We'd been in worse situations, I reminded myself. But somehow, that thought brought no comfort.

The safe house was, indeed, an old auto shop. The showroom and offices had been converted into a military-grade command center, reinforced with steel plating and lined with weapons. Tactical gear hung on racks near the door, and a bank of monitors displayed security camera feeds from around the town. A makeshift war room sat in the center—maps, reports, ammunition scattered across tables that had once held car brochures and financing paperwork.

Hawk was waiting.

He stood when we entered, setting aside a well-worn rifle he'd been cleaning. Mid-fifties, with gray at his temples and a trim beard that did little to hide the scar running along his jaw. His eyes were sharp as a knife's edge, taking in every detail of our appearance with a single glance. This was a man who'd seen too many battles and survived all of them, each victory etching itself into the lines of his face, each loss adding weight to his shoulders.