Page 89 of The Collector
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes, but… can I stay once we arrive? Help protect them?"
A dry laugh.
"You can't aim a gun, your hands shake so bad, Thomas. What makes you think you'll do a better job than my team at taking care of their safety?"
Silence, then, barely audible:
"But I… I owe my family that much. If they're not safe, then—then what was any of this for? "His voice cracked as he struggled to keep his composure. "I know they'll never forgive me. I don't expect that. I just… I need to try."
The Collector closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, breath shallow. The phone creaked in his grip, plastic straining like bone under pressure.
"Do what you're fucking told, Thomas. Or it'll be your brains decorating some forgotten wall. You're weak. Untrained. Fragile. Be smart. This task isn't about redemption—it's about survival."
A beat.
"I understand."
The Collector ended the call with Thomas. Satisfied that he would carry out the orders. Thomas was already afraid of the Kings, scared they might kill him. He was scared that they might make his daughters pay for his mistakes with their lives. He'd told the Collector as much.
That fear had lived in him for months now, a quiet, corrosive emotion. It wouldn't take much to break the man to an unretrievable mental state. Because lately, something else had begun to take root. A conscience. Or the ghost of one. Over the past few weeks, the weight of what he'd done had started to press in. Not just the debt—or the slow, choking accumulation of loans he'd taken out with no way to repay them—but the cost of it. The collateral. His family. He was already a weak, useless man; with the addition of his conscience, he was even more malleable and soft. It worked to the Collector's benefit; it made him a tool he could mold.
He knew he'd put his family at risk. With every lie, every delay, every desperate gamble to try and recoup his losses, he had drawn the Kings closer. And now, they weren't just circling him.They were inside his life — his wife and daughters' lives too. He walked the line because he knew what waited beyond it.
He'd seen what happened to men who thought for themselves.
He wasn't ready to bleed for a principle. Trying to pay a penance for his sins.
The Collector paced the length of the cabin. He needed to gather his thoughts before taking the next step in his plan. The Kings had eyes everywhere, and he needed to make a few minor adjustments to the plan.
Scrolling again, he found Pierre Le Grange's contact. Hit the call button.
"Pierre?"
The voice on the other end answered smoothly and expectantly, like he'd been waiting for the call.
"What do you have for me? Were you— able to get—what I wanted? The girl—"
"I have it. But you'll need to meet me at the address I text you after this call to collect."
He let the pause hang—baited.
"I'll sweeten the deal if you make the transfer immediately. A sister. Two for one special—if you're interested—"
Pierre's breath caught. "You're serious?"
The Collector didn't answer right away. He didn't need to.
He knew Pierre well enough—his appetites, his rituals. The man didn't require his victims to be unwilling, but he preferred it that way. The fear, the resistance they put up—made the act fulfilling.
They were similar. Too similar for the Collector's liking.
In another life, they might've been friends. Might've hunted together, traded stories over blood and bourbon. But it didn't work that way.
Serial killers didn't collaborate. They didn't share territory. When you became aware of another— operating in your orbit, you didn't reach out.
You removed them. Cleanly. Quietly. Before they got curious. Before they got bold.
