Page 41 of Total Carnage
"Good work," I managed, my eyes scanning the faces around me. Moab nodded, his expression hard as flint, while Shivs spat blood onto the concrete floor, a feral grin splitting his face.
"Anyone see anything?" I asked, hope as thin as a razor's edge.
"Nothing, Vin," Canon replied.
"Then we get it out of them," I said, nodding toward the corner where a Russian mobster sat cuffed and wide-eyed, realizing his life hung by a thread. The others parted, a sea of leather and sin, as I stalked over to him. "Hey, comrade," I started, squatting down to his level. His eyes darted to mine—big mistake. In them, he'd find no mercy, just the cold promise of pain if he didn't start singing. "You're gonna give me what I need, or this night's gonna get a whole lot longer for you."
"Fuck you," he hissed, trying for bravado but his voice betrayed the quiver of fear.
"Creative," I mocked, drawing my knife and letting it catch the light ominously. "But here's the thing—I don't need your cooperation. I just prefer it. So, how about you tell me where they took Raven? Make it easy on yourself."
"Go to hell," he spat, defiance sparking briefly before I leaned in closer, the blade now dancing dangerously near his face.
"See, pal, you're already there," I said, my voice a low growl. "And I'm the devil deciding your fate. Talk, and maybe you walk out of this with all your parts attached."
"Vin," Canon cautioned, a silent reminder not to lose myself in the darkness.
"Fine," the mobster finally gasped, breaking under the pressure. "I'll talk."
"Smart move," I replied, pulling back slightly, giving him room to breathe and spill his guts. As he babbled, every word heuttered was one step closer to her, every syllable a bead in the rosary of retribution I was stringing together. Raven, wherever you are, hold on. We're coming. "Time's up," I growled, my patience threadbare as the Russian mobster's eyes darted around the shadowy warehouse corner, searching for an out that didn't exist. "Start talking, or I start cutting."
"Okay! Okay," he croaked, his voice now barely a tremble over the distant echo of shifting feet and murmured reassurances to the women we'd just liberated. "Stansfield, he... he operates from an old meatpacking plant. Out on Route 127. Hidden in plain sight."
"Details. I want every fucking detail you've got," I commanded, pressing the flat of my blade against his cheek, feeling his skin jump under the cold steel. "Security. Entrances. Shift changes. Spill it!"
Through chattering teeth, words tumbled out like coins from a slot machine jackpot—guarded entry points, coded locks, patrols. My brain mapped it all out, each piece locking into place with tactical precision.
"Good boy," I sneered, pocketing the knife as Canon gave me a curt nod. The plan for our next assault was already taking shape in my mind, a dangerous puzzle coming together with every whispered confession. I stepped away from the man, but he wasn’t done.
“Kasparov will slice you open,” he said in a heavy Russian accent. He spat blood in my direction.
Ice formed in my veins as I turned to the man, raising my Glock, one bullet to the forehead.
We left the warehouse behind, its dark maw swallowing the screams and sins of the night. The women, huddled in blankets, their faces ghostly pale but alive with newfound hope, boarded the vans we had ready, tearful thanks mingled with soft sobs.
"Let's ride," I barked, twisting the throttle. The road stretched before us, a coiled serpent waiting to strike. People were not done dying.
Raven
Iwas pacing the cramped space of my makeshift cell, each step a silent scream in the dim light that barely fought off the shadows at the corners of the room. The meat packing plant, with its stench of blood and cold metal, had become my new cage. I could feel the walls closing in, suffocating me with the reality of my captivity.
"Get it together, Raven," I muttered to myself, my voice barely breaking the silence. My mind was a damn hurricane, thoughts tearing through at a hundred miles an hour, all of them circling around one desperate need—escape. My movements were restless as hell, mirroring the chaos inside my head. I traced the same pattern on the concrete floor, back and forth like some caged animal plotting its next breakout. But this wasn't some wildlife documentary; this was my life, hanging by a thread because Daddy dearest didn't know when to quit his power plays.
Just then, my ears pricked up. There was a heated exchange happening somewhere beyond the thin walls—a muffled war of words that set every nerve in my body on high alert. I pressed my ear against the cool surface. Who knew eavesdropping could feel like a damn drug coursing through your veins?
"Shit," I whispered under my breath, catching fragments of the argument. It was like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the parts missing. But I had to know. Any scrap of information could be the key to getting out of this mess. So, I held my breath, focusing everything I had on separating voices from the background noise of machinery and the occasional clang of metal.
The conversation grew louder, more agitated. Someone was throwing around threats like confetti at a parade I didn't want to attend. My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms—a raw reflection of the turmoil twisting inside me. Whatever they were planning out there, it had my name written all over it, and I'd be damned if I just sat here waiting for the hammer to drop.
A voice cut through the stale air, sharp as a blade and twice as deadly. "The bomb was meant for him, you understand? To wipe that bastard off the map." It was him—Charles Stansfield, Daddy dearest, serving up his venom like it was Sunday dinner.
I froze, my spine rigid against the cold wall. The words hit me with the force of a freight train, derailing every thought in my head except one: Vin. My breath hitched, and I could almost taste the metallic tang of shock on my tongue. Vin—my Vin—was supposed to be six feet under because of this?
I wanted to scream, to shatter the silence with the roar of my disbelief, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. My father, the man who read me bedtime stories and taught me to ride a bike, had plotted murder. And not just anyone's murder, but the man I'd risked everything for.
"Raven has no clue, does she?" The associate's question sliced through the room, taunting me with its cruel irony.
"Clueless?" I thought, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. "Oh, I've got a clue now, alright."
