Page 134 of Out for Blood
“Tonight, we cut every fucking string.” My voice is cold enough to surprise even me.
The outcome feels inevitable.
By sunrise, that theater will never host another damn auction again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The theater looms at the end of the street like a corpse dressed in its finest clothes, even from two blocks away it’s impossible to ignore.
Faded bulbs flicker weakly beneath the crooked marquee that hangs above the entrance with several letters missing. Cracks spiderweb through the brickwork, and the towering columns are stained by decades of neglect. The windows are blacked out. Weeds push through the pavement. Time has stripped away most of its grandeur, leaving behind peeling paint and the hollow shell of what was once something magnificent.
At night, the building feels less like a theater and more like a mausoleum.
A place built to bury secrets.
The kind that festers in the dark.
The kind that survives because nobody is brave enough to drag them into the light.
Unfortunately for the monsters inside, Tyler and I have become very good at filling graves.
We’re parked three buildings down inside the shelter of a covered loading dock attached to a forgotten furniture warehouse.The structure squats at the edge of the block, its sun-bleached sign canted above shattered display windows.
From the street, the overhang camouflages the car seamlessly.
Tyler has already coordinated with the rescue crew. I know they are standing by, ready to move the second they are clear to come in.
I sit in the passenger seat with a pair of binoculars pressed to my eyes, watching the theater. Tyler has his seat reclined in the driver’s seat with his iPad balanced on one knee, recording arrival times, and vehicle descriptions.
Silence fills the car. The city feels far away from here. Beyond the windows, the distant hum of traffic carries through the night, accompanied by the constant chorus of insects nestled within the overgrown weeds. Every so often, a dog barks somewhere farther away.
But compared to the noise persistently living inside my head lately, it feels almost peaceful.
For the last forty minutes, we’ve run surveillance.
A black Mercedes glides to the curb in front of the theater.
Immediately, my attention sharpens.
The driver exits first then moves to open the rear passenger door.
A man emerges onto the pavement wrapped in money and arrogance. His suit is tailored. A luxury watch circles his wrist as he straightens his tie, his shoes polished to a mirror shine and silver cufflinks catch the light with every movement.
On the surface he wears respectability like a second skin. He looks like a man who sits on corporate boards, donates to multiple charities, and smiles for photographs at galas that wind up in the local newspapers.
He looks out of place attending an auction for human beings.
Dread unfurls through my gut like poison.
A security guard stationed at the front entrance departs his post and approaches him. I see their mouths move as the guardsteps aside, allowing him to pass and the door swings shut after he passes the threshold.
One by one they arrive. Another expensive vehicle, then another. Three buyers in total, just as Tyler said there would be.
My fingers curl around the binoculars until my knuckles ache.
I wonder if any of them have wives, daughters, or sisters.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
