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fourteen

Mason

Harlan and Cole drag Peterson’s father away, his whimpers fading as they disappear into the shadows. The acrid stench of fear and blood lingers in the air. My knuckles ache, skin split and raw. But the pain feels good. Righteous.

Dad’s eyes meet mine, a fierce pride blazing in their depths. My chest swells. This is what we’re meant for. What I was born to do.

“Let’s go find that fucker,” I tell my brothers, and we all get back on our bikes.

I hope to fuck that this fucker is there. I can’t wait to unleash my rage on this bastard.

The roar of engines shatters the night as we tear out of the warehouse parking lot. Adrenaline courses through my veins, the thrill of the hunt singing in my blood. The cannery looms ahead, a hulking shadow against the starless sky.

We kill the engines a block away, rolling silent into position. Lane gestures forward, dividing us into teams with practiced efficiency. Caiden and I are already moving, weapons drawn as we approach the rusted gates.

The lock gives way easily under my bolt cutters. We slip inside, boots crunching on broken glass and debris. The stench of rotting fish and mildew assaults my nostrils.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. I spin, gun raised, only to see a rat scurrying for cover. My jaw clenches. Not the vermin we’re after.

We clear the ground floor room by room, finding nothing but cobwebs and abandoned machinery. Frustration builds with each empty space. Where the fuck is he?

Then, Caiden’s voice crackles over the comms. “Found something. Southeast corner, behind some old crates.”

We converge toward his position. Sure enough, a section of wall slides away, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The hidden room.

I take point, night vision goggles revealing each treacherous step. The air grows thick, heavy with the scent of chemicals and something darker. My skin crawls.

At the bottom, a reinforced door stands between us and our prey. I nod to Liam, who places the charges with practiced ease. We take cover as the explosion rocks the building.

Smoke clears. We run through the shattered doorway, weapons at the ready.

The scene that greets us steals the breath from my lungs.

Monitors line one wall, displaying feeds from what must be dozens of hidden cameras. Hospital rooms, offices, private homes—all laid bare. But it’s the center of the room that truly turns my stomach.

A chair, like the one we left Peterson’s father strapped to, sits empty. Beside it, a tray of medical instruments gleams under harsh fluorescent lights. The floor is stained dark, the copper scent of old blood heavy in the air.

“Fuck,” Caiden breathes, voicing what we’re all thinking.

This isn’t just a hideout. It’s a torture chamber.

My eyes lock on to the far wall. My blood runs cold.

Pictures. Hundreds of them. All of Meadow.

At work. At home. Sleeping.

It’s a shrine. A twisted, obsessive catalog of every aspect of her life.

The room is silent for a moment and that’s when I hear it. I put my finger to my lips and point below our feet.

I turn over a rug that was taped down to a trap door and I swear I can hear cries better now the rug is gone.

I grip the handle of the trap door, muscles tensed. The others flank me, weapons trained on the opening. With a sharp nod from Lane, I wrench it open.

The stench hits me first. Rot. Piss. Fear. My stomach churns as I descend the ladder, boots hitting damp concrete. Darkness presses in, thick and oppressive. Caiden’s flashlight beam cuts through, revealing a scene from hell.

Bodies. Everywhere. Women chained to walls, huddled on filthy mattresses. Some twitch at the sudden light. Others lie unnaturally still.

“Please,” a voice croaks. Barely human. “Help us.”

My vision turns red. Rage pulses through me, hot and vicious. I want to tear this place apart with my bare hands.

“Mason.” Liam’s voice, tight with fury. “We need to get them out. Now.”

I nod, forcing myself to focus. “We need to get them to safety.”

He’s already on it, voice low and urgent as he talks to our people. “Call ambulances,” I tell them, and one of the women start screaming.

“Ambulances are what brought us here. We were all in small car accidents and then dropped off here instead.”

Holy shit. I look at the others in horror at what the fuck I just heard. “Clubhouse.”

I approach the nearest woman, moving slow. She flinches, eyes wild with terror. “It’s okay,” I murmur, keeping my tone soft. “We’re here to help.”

Her gaze darts to my cut, to the patches that mark me as a Grim Sinner. Recognition flickers. Hope, maybe.

“He… he said no one would come,” she whispers, her voice raw from screaming or disuse. Maybe both.

“We’re here now,” I promise, reaching for the chains. The metal is cold, and slick with God knows what. It takes all my willpower not to vomit. “You’re safe.”

More brothers filter down, faces grim. We work in silence, freeing the women one by one. Some sob. Others are too weak to stand.

As we carry them up, I catch snippets of horror. Torture. Rape. Experiments. My blood boils hotter with each revelation.

Peterson. That fucking monster. When I find him…

A whimper from the far corner catches my attention. I turn, flashlight beam revealing a huddled form. My heart stops.

No. It can’t be.

But as I draw closer, dread settles like lead in my gut. I know that face.

Sarah. The nurse from Meadow’s hospital.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathe. “Sarah? Can you hear me?”

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. “Dr.… Beckham?” she mumbles.

I crouch beside her, hands hovering uncertainly. Every inch of visible skin is mottled with bruises. “No, it’s Mason. Meadow’s… friend. We’re getting you out of here.”

We get them all out of here, discovering bodies of women where they are too decayed to even decipher.

We then turn the place back into the way we found it as best we can.

I’m going to fucking be here even if it takes a week, because this fucker doesn’t know what rage is until I get my hands on him.

Then, finally, a creak of hinges from above.

Footsteps.

The bastard’s back.