Page 62 of Unmasking Mayhem
The first punch connects with a sickening thud. I land it squarely on his jaw, knocking him to the ground. But the impact sends me sprawling into the chaos, and I barely have time to spin kick the second guy hard enough to send him crashing against the wall. Boston springs into action, grabbing a brokenglass bottle from the floor and wielding it like a weapon, while Raze holds off the third man with a wild series of wild blows with the baseball bat. The sound of skin meeting flesh and bone cracking blends with the sharpness of panic in the air as the remaining goons spring into action.
It’s a brutal dance—every strike a prayer for Whitney, every blow a step closer to reclaiming her life from the grip of darkness. In the back of my mind, a countdown begins, the urgency of reaching her heightening with each passing second. We can’t fail—we won’t fail. Fists fly, bodies slam against the walls, and the fight becomes a blur. Finally, with one last swing, I catch the third guy with a vicious jab that sends him sprawling long enough for me to pull out Whitney's gun and put a bullet in all three of their heads, and then we slip past the mess as if nothing happened and onto the cold, deserted street.
The cold air hits me, grounding me momentarily, but there’s little time for respite. I know I can’t worry about what's behind us—only what lies ahead, my feet pounding against the pavement, eyes locked ahead where the flickering lights of the warehouse loom in the distance.
“Where were those warehouses?” Raze asks, voice strained as we run.
“Down by the docks,” I growl between breaths. “Just past the ferry terminal. We’ll find him before it’s too late.”
Boston nods firmly, determination lighting her fierce expression. “We’re going to put an end to this shit. Together.”
Together. The word reverberates in my chest like a heartbeat. I couldn’t do this without them, without the strength of our bond. With every step, confidence takes root in my heart—Whitney is out there, lost but not gone. As we round the last corner, I spot the flickering lights of the warehouse blinking through the fog—a solitary body in the night, an oasis tainted by the malevolence it housed. We pause for a brief moment at the entrance, my heart racing with the intensity of the storm rising inside.
“No matter what happens, we’ll bring her home.”
With that, we push through the entrance into the dimly lit abyss, our hearts roaring with the fight of our lives. But as we cautiously explore the abandoned warehouse, we become well aware that there isn't anyone here. Either the junkie lied to us and she's working with Dustin and lead us into a fucking trap, or they already took off.
After a thorough, exhaustive search, we come up empty, meeting in the alleyway between the warehouse and an old boarded-up bar that used to serve as a hub for one of Boston's notorious biker gangs. Panting, I bend over with my hands on my knees and gasp for air, trying to figure out where Whitney could be and why we were led here of all places.
"This was fucking pointless," Raze snaps, irritation lacing his voice. "Let's get the fuck out of here and regroup."
The three of us walk away, using the darkness to our advantage in case we're still being watched. But only minutes after we make our way down the alley, a huge explosion shakes the ground beneath our feet, knocking us off balance and leaving us with a piercing ringing in our ears. Turning around, my jaw drops; the warehouse is now a giant ball of fire with the glasswindows busting out one by one as the flames grow hotter and hotter.
"It was a fucking trap!" I exclaim, shocked at how high-pitched my voice comes out, but also about the fact that we knew it might have been a trap and we didn't take it seriously.
"The motherfucker tried to blow us up!" Raze hollers, frantically running his hands over his face and through his hair, disheveling his appearance. "I'm gonna fucking kill him."
"If he hasn't seen us yet, he probably assumes we're dead," Boston adds, looking like something big is coming to her with each passing second. "Quick, take off anything Dustin knows belongs to you and throw it beside the warehouse. If he's watching, he'll be sure to scope the place out before the fire department comes. We can use this fire to our advantage and pretend his little plan worked, killing us in the blaze."
As crazy as it sounds, she's right, and glancing at Raze to see his thoughts, he nods his head to go along with Boston's plan. Quickly we discard clothing and jewelry, scattering it along the perimeter of the burning warehouse, careful to stay out of view. Once we're satisfied with our plan, we sneak back into the darkness and take a different way back to town, leaving the rental car burning along with the warehouse.
By the time we get near Club Mayhem, Boston begins to hyperventilate, knowing she has to go back into King's office where he left her, while we have to figure out somewhere to go where we're not in the open and easy for Dustin to find us. If we want our plan to work, we have to play dead, and that means hiding out until we can figure out a way to get Whitney home and end that motherfucker for good.
I grab Boston and hug her, while Raze comes over to join, sandwiching her in the middle of us while we pray for our higher power to watch over her. She wipes her tears as she untanglesherself from our arms, backing up towards the back exit with fear in her eyes.
"It's going to be okay," I assure her, trying to get myself to believe my own words.
"Yeah, we'll be close by so we can make sure you're not hurt in any way. As far as I'm aware, King and D don't have anything against us, so it's worth seeing if they'll hide us while we figure out our next move," Raze mutters, smiling at Boston to ease her troubles.
Once she's inside, we stay crouched behind a row of bushes, smoking a blunt to calm our racing nerves. Nothing worked out the way we planned, and it feels like Whitney is now further from our grasp, and I'm terrified that we just lost our only chance of getting her back safely.
A long moment passes as we stare at the pulsating bright lights of the club, its shadows cloaked in uncertainty—the lifeblood of the city flowing just beyond reach, a cruel reminder of what’s at stake.
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Raze asks quietly, his voice barely cutting through the tension between us.
"Who, Boston or Whitney?" I ask, bile rising up my throat.
"Well, obviously, Whit, but I was talking about Boston this second," Raze whispers through his hit, smoke flowing from his parted lips.
I don’t know,” I admit, feeling the weight of uncertainty pinning me down. “But she has to get inside and convince King and D to go along with us being dead.”
“We should’ve pushed harder for a plan,” Raze mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair in frustration. “We can't afford to feel like this again—not when we’re so close.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I nod. “But right now, this is the best shot we have. We need to bide our time until we can regroup.”
The minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. The last wisps of the smoke drift up into the night, and I feel time slipping through my fingers, threads of hope unraveling before my eyes. The club's doors swing open, and a group of familiar faces spills out—men and women laughing, their joy contrasting with the tumult in my soul.
“Dustin won’t let this lie.” Raze slaps his knee in anxiety. “He’ll come looking for blood if there's the slightest belief that we're not dead.”
