Page 72 of Rage

The look of abject terror on the man’s face as we drag him from the room is almost enough to sate the fire burning in my veins.

Almost.

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.

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