Page 60 of Unmasking Mayhem
As we step outside into the night, the air crackles with tension. The city feels alive and indifferent, as if it knows what’s about to unfold. I take a deep breath, inhaling the cold and letting it ground me in the moment.
“Alright, let’s roll,” I say, my voice unwavering.
With each step we take toward our destination, a sense of inevitability forms around us. The darkness is calling, and tonight, we're gonna answer the call with violence and retribution. We’re going to take back what was stolen from us and put an end to the horror Whitney's been dealing with for too fucking long.
We get into Boston's rental car and drive in silence, hearts racing, as the neon lights of the club come into view; a sick feeling settles in, even as we pass it. We continue to drive into the darkness, to a part of town we know all too well. But we pray, even though we don't believe. We try to think and remain positive. For Whitney. For all of us. And for the hope that when this is over, we’ll be stronger than ever, and we won't have to look over our shoulders anymore.
"I can't believe Dustin finally got to her," Raze says in disbelief, rolling another blunt with crumbs of cocaine mixed into the herb. "I thought he was just fucking with her since he's been watching her for the last year and hasn't tried anything."
I shrug, focusing on the road as I ignore Boston's heavy stares from the backseat. My hands are shaking, so I grip the wheel tighter, watching my knuckles turn white under the faint glow of the streetlight just outside the windshield. My heart hurts, but I try to remain as calm as I can, even though the voices are torturing me something fucking terrible. They're screaming at me; this is my fault. If something happens to her, it'll be on my shoulders, her blood on my hands.
When Whitney escaped Dustin all those years ago, it was only because he was sent to prison. There's no way or reason heshould be out after beating her so severely she lost the baby she was carrying. So why is he free? Why is he back making her life a living hell and bringing us along for the ride?
As the car glides through the darkness, the weight of the unanswered questions presses heavily on our shoulders. The air inside feels thick with anticipation and dread, every moment stretching out like an eternity as we approach the address she wrote down—a rundown apartment complex that reminds me of a place where only bad things happen. The dim exterior light flickers ominously, illuminating the depths of our fears with flashes of bleak color and dark shadows that breathe a sense of fear into every corner of our minds. Raze's hands move purposefully, lighting the blunt and taking a long drag, the smoke curling in the confined space as he exhales.
“You think she’s in there?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The high mixes with our apprehension like oil and water, his expression reflecting the chaotic turmoil churning within us all.
“I don’t know,” I admit, though a part of me refuses to accept that reality. “Whit would never willingly go back with him. Not after everything.” But even as I say it, doubts creep in—the specter of King’s influence looms large, and that terrifying thought twists in my gut.
I could almost hear Dustin's voice taunting me in the back of my mind, reminding me of our failure to protect her. Boston tosses a handful of her hair over her shoulder, the alley's shadows contrasting against her determined expression.
“If he’s got her, we’ll find her,” she declares. “This ends tonight.”
With a surge of adrenaline, I shove the car into park, and we pile out, resolute. It’s time to confront the monster that’s been feeding off our insecurities and fears for too long. As we approach the building's entrance, fighting, screaming,and pounding music vibrate through the walls, the chaos and darkness within drawing us in like moths to a flame. A feeling of inevitability surrounds us, the fighting thrumming like a war drum as we push through the sleek glass doors.
The interior of the apartment complex has a vibe as sinister as a fucking nightmare, flickering lights casting treacherous shadows on the warped linoleum floors. The sounds of raucous laughter and bitter shouts echo off the walls, an intoxicating mix of disarray that makes my stomach churn. I glance back at Raze and Boston, our eyes exchanging the unspoken agreement that if we fall apart now, we lose her.
“Stay focused,” I whisper as we step into the dim hallway, its oppressive atmosphere smothering us as we traverse closer to the gathering storm.
My heart beats like a fucking drum in my chest, every ounce of survival instinct screaming at me to get Whitney back before it’s too late. I lead the way, navigating the narrow passage, my palms slick against the cold grip of the brass knuckles tucked away in my pocket. Each step feels like we’re walking closer to hell but motivated by an undeniable love—a love that fights through fear, a love that breathes life into our falling hopes.
Boston trails right behind me, steady and vigilant, while Raze lingers just at my side, the faint scent of weed still clinging to him like a protective cloak, sheltering us from the darkness that envelops everything else. As we near the source of the chaos, the muffled shouts morph into something more personal—a familiar tone that sends a jagged slice of panic racing through my veins. It feels like a scream disguised as laughter, and the raw emotion forces me to halt.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper, locking eyes with Raze.
He nods. “It’s her,” comes his urgent response, understanding washing over his face.
The thought ignites a fire in my chest—the urge to move, to throw myself into action, overwhelms everything else. Boston’s breath catches beside me.
“It’s coming from that door,” she says, pointing to a battered wooden door at the end of the hall, its peeling paint hinting at secrets long kept and truths bound tightly with chains.
A sense of dread settles upon me. “Are we ready for this?” I whisper, steadying myself against the flood of fear gushing through my mind.
“We fucking have to be,” Raze responds, grim determination etched across his features. “For Whitney.”
I rush forward, adrenaline coursing, my hand raised to push the door open. The noise floods out instantly, piercing my ears like a needle—a world that echoes with broken dreams and shattered innocence. Inside, the room is a chaotic blend of bodies, hostility buzzing in the air thick enough to smell, empty tequila bottles, bloody, used needles, and broken crack pipes strewn about carelessly like discarded promises.
A man who isn't Dustin stands smugly over a girl who looks like Whitney, who's slumped over in a chair, a predatory grin mapping out his sinister intentions, his eyes swirling with malice. It's a sickening sight, and the anger circulating within me kicks into high gear, ready to burn something down. But I remember this isn't Dustin, and that isn't Whitney, although the poor girl looks to be in need of medical attention, maybe a shot or two of Narcan. The room erupts into chaos as shouts of confusion and anger come from the occupants once they realize we’ve crashed their party. My breath quickens as I push further inside, adrenaline flooding my system. The guy over Whitney’s look-alike spots us, and his grin falters, transforming into a scowl.
“Who the hell are you?” He barks, his voice laced with the authority of someone who thinks he can command respect simply by being a fucking asshole.
“We’re here for her,” I reply, my own voice stronger than I feel. “Let her go.”
The girl in the chair lifts her head slightly, and my heart clenches at the sight of her pale face. It’s not Whitney, but the resemblance is close enough to make my stomach drop.
“Please… Just go,” she whispers, her eyes pleading. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the man snaps, slapping her across the face before pushing her backward roughly against the chair, a sick gleam in his eyes.
