Previous Chapter (16) - Nadav | First Chapter - Camila
The silence in Jack Derringer’s office was a physical thing, a heavy blanket that smothered all sound. It had been twenty minutes since Keystone and Backblast had disappeared back into the rainy night, twenty minutes that had stretched into an eternity.
Sarah sat on the threadbare sofa, her arm wrapped protectively around Jolene. The older woman was a wreck, shivering violently despite the rough wool blanket draped over her shoulders. Jolene's time in the Quiet Room had shattered something fundamental inside her. She hadn't spoken since they were pulled from the cages; she just rocked back and forth, her eyes wide and staring at nothing.
"It's okay, Jo," Sarah whispered, smoothing a stray lock of blonde hair from Jolene's tear-streaked face. "We're safe. They got us out."
Jolene flinched at the touch but didn't look at her.
Sarah pulled her friend closer, a fierce protectiveness rising in her chest. She looked at the other women huddled in the small, dim room. Priya was curled in a fetal ball on the armchair, weeping softly. Chloe was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her eyes darting nervously towards the door every few seconds. Camila was pacing back and forth like a caged panther, her energy furious and electric.
Sarah’s gaze drifted back to Jolene. If they hadn't come tonight… The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. The auction. She had overheard the guards talking. Jolene was scheduled to be sold tonight. She was supposed to be shipped out to some buyer, gone forever into a darker hell. She had been minutes away from disappearing.
You were lucky, Jo, Sarah thought, her heart aching for the broken woman beside her. So damn lucky.
She focused on the immediate, tangible reality of the room, trying to keep her own panic at bay by anchoring herself to the others. She watched Jack Derringer checking his watch for the tenth time, the nervous tic of his jaw. She listened to the rhythmic squeak of the floorboards under Camila's pacing.
Then, a sound cut through the quiet tension.
Not a gunshot. Not a scream.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A sharp, authoritative knock on the office door. It was loud. Confident. Official.
Every person in the room froze. Jolene’s rocking stopped. Camila’s pacing halted mid-stride. Jack Derringer’s head snapped up, his face a mask of alarm.
Jack Derringer moved to the door, his movements suddenly cautious and deliberate. He didn't reach for the knob. He pressed his ear against the wood for a moment, listening.
"Who is it?" he called out, his voice a low, gravelly growl that held no welcome.
A voice from the other side answered, calm, confident, and utterly unthreatening. "Detective Vince Morvillo, City Homicide. I need to ask you a few questions about the seven dead men at the bottom of your stairs."
Sarah watched Jack's expression. His brows knot as if in recognition. "What was your name, detective?"
"Vince Morvillo, homicide. I'm here on official police business. Open the door."
Jack shook his head a little like dismissing a thought and spoke "Slide your badge under the door," Jack commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A beat of silence, and then a thin, black leather wallet containing a gold shield was pushed under the door, scuffing to a halt on the dusty floorboards.
Sarah watched, holding her breath, as Jack bent down and picked it up. He held the badge up to the light of the desk lamp, turning it over and over, examining the cut of the shield, the laminate on the ID. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of Jolene's ragged breathing.
Finally, Jack let out a long, slow breath. "It's legit," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He moved back to the door. "What do you want, Detective?"
"Witness statements," Morvillo's voice replied. "Standard procedure for a multiple-homicide scene. Now, we can do this one of two ways. Either I take your statements here, nice and quiet, or we all take a ride downtown. Your choice. But if we go downtown, everyone gets cautioned, and everyone gets a lawyer, and this becomes a very, very long night for all involved."
Jack muttered a low, vicious curse under his breath. Sarah saw the resignation on his face. He was trapped.
With a final, weary sigh, Jack unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.
Detective Vince Morvillo was a man in a rumpled, off-the-rack suit, his tie slightly askew, his face etched with the weary lines of a man who'd seen too much and was paid too little. He stepped into the office, his movements slow and methodical.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the scene. He saw the battered detective. He saw the five terrified women, huddled together like a flock of sparrows. His gaze lingered on them—on Jolene’s shaking hands, on the blanket wrapped around Sarah—and his expression softened. The bureaucratic mask slipped, revealing what looked like genuine, fatherly concern.
"Jesus," he murmured, shaking his head. "You ladies look like you've been through hell." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues, offering them vaguely to the group. "Is everyone physically okay? Do we need paramedics?"
"We just want to go home," Priya sobbed, her voice trembling.
"I know, honey," Morvillo said gently. "And we'll get you there. I promise. But first, I need you to help me understand what happened here tonight." He pulled a small, dog-eared notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. "Let's just get the basics down right here. Who wants to start?"
The question broke the dam.
"We were kidnapped," Camila blurted out, stepping forward. "Held in a warehouse in the West District. Romano—"
"They kept us in cages!" Chloe interrupted, her voice rising in panic. "Knuckles and Slick, they were the guards—"
"And Dr. Atkins!" Priya cried out. "He drug us up for them!"
They were all talking at once, a cacophony of trauma and desperation. Camila was explaining the layout of the print works, Chloe was sobbing about the studio, and Jack Derringer was trying to interject with details about the rescue team. The noise filled the small room, bouncing off the walls, a tangled mess of accusations and terror.
Morvillo held up his hands, grimacing as if the noise physically hurt him.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on!" he shouted over the din. "Stop! Please!"
The room fell silent, the women looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.
Morvillo dragged a hand down his face, looking pained. "This… this isn't going to work. Look, I want to help you, but I can't write a report based on everyone shouting at once. The D.A. will tear this to shreds. If we want this to stick, everything needs to be clean. Untainted."
He sighed, tapping his pen against his notebook. "We have to do this one at a time."
He pointed with his pen to the door of Jack's small, adjoining bedroom. "We'll use that room. Nice and private. Just me and one witness at a time." He then pointed to a second door visible inside the bedroom. "After I take your statement, I'll have you wait in that back room until I'm done with everyone. Keeps the stories from cross-contaminating. Standard procedure."
It sounded reasonable. It sounded like the only way to make sense of the chaos.
Jack let out a long, weary sigh, the old cop in him recognizing the logic. "He's right," Jack grumbled. "Group statements are useless in court. Fine. I'll go first. Let's get this over with."
He turned and followed Morvillo into the bedroom. The door closed behind them, the soft click of the latch sounding unnervingly final in the silent, tense room.
The clock on Jack Derringer’s wall ticked, each second a loud, deliberate beat in the suffocating silence.
Sarah tightened her arm around Jolene, whispering soothing words that she hoped were true. She watched the closed bedroom door, waiting. It remained shut for what felt like an eternity. Finally, it opened. Detective Morvillo stood in the doorway, his expression as impassive as ever. Jack was not with him.
"The blonde lady," Morvillo said, his gaze landing on Jolene. "You're next."
Jolene looked up, her eyes wide with a fresh terror, shaking her head. "No… no please…"
"It's okay, Jo," Sarah said gently, helping her friend stand. "Just tell him what happened. It'll be okay."
Trembling, Jolene shuffled into the bedroom. The door closed.
The pattern was established.
Sarah sat, holding onto Priya now, trying to be strong for the others as the population of the small office dwindled. She watched as Priya was called next. Then Chloe. Each one went into the bedroom, and the door closed. None of them came back out. The office, which had felt claustrophobic and crowded just an hour ago, was now eerily empty and quiet.
Soon, it was just Sarah and Camila left, two silent sentinels in a sea of shadows.
The bedroom door opened again.
Morvillo stood there, looking at the two remaining women. He pointed a thumb at Camila.
"Okay, ma'am," he said. "You're next."
Camila pushed herself off the windowsill. She squared her shoulders, a glint of hard, defiant steel in her eyes.
She strode past the detective and into the room. The door closed, leaving Sarah completely, utterly alone in the silent, waiting office.
The silence in the room was absolute now. Sarah was the only living thing in it. She stared at the closed bedroom door. Why was it taking so long? Where were the others? Were they just sitting in that tiny bathroom?
She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and took a tentative step toward the bedroom door. just to listen. Just to be sure.
At that exact moment, the front door to the office—the one Morvillo had knocked on so politely—exploded inward.
It was kicked off its hinges with a single, violent, percussive impact, slamming against the interior wall with a deafening crash.
A frantic, black-clad Keystone stormed into the room, his rifle up, his movements a blur of controlled, desperate urgency. His eyes, visible behind the lenses of his gas mask, were wild, sweeping the room.
He saw Sarah, alone in the center of the room.
"THE COP!" he roared, his voice a distorted, electronic bark through his mask's comms system. "WHERE IS HE!?"
Sarah, stunned by the violence of his entry, didn't scream. She pointed a single, trembling finger at the closed bedroom door.
Keystone didn't waste a second. He pivoted on his heel and drove his combat boot into the center of the flimsy bedroom door.
The wood splintered. The door flew open.
Sarah, standing just behind him, saw the scene inside in a single, horrifying flash.
Vince Morvillo was behind Camila. Not questioning her. He had a thin, metallic wire—a garrote—wrapped around her throat, pulling it taut. His knee was braced against her back, his face a mask of desperate fury. Camila's face was purple, her hands clawing uselessly at the wire.
Keystone’s rifle was already up.
"Let her go," he commanded, his voice a low, cold growl.
Morvillo tightened his grip.
The suppressed shot was a soft, wet thump.
A small, neat hole appeared in the center of Morvillo's forehead. His head snapped back. The garrote went loose. He collapsed, a dead weight, falling away from Camila.
Camila dropped to her knees, the garrote clattering to the floor beside her. She wasn't screaming. She was just gasping, huge, shuddering, desperate gulps of air, her hands at her throat, touching the raw, red lines the wire had left behind.
Keystone didn't immediately rush to her. He remained scanning the room, his rifle up, ensuring the threat was truly gone. He reached up, pressing a gloved finger to the side of his throat mic.
"Target neutralized," he reported, his voice a flat, distorted monotone through his mask's external speaker. "Two confirmed alive. Hold."
He lowered his weapon slightly and moved toward the second door—the one to the small en suite bathroom where everyone else had disappeared.
He drove his boot into the wood, kicking it wide open.
He froze in the doorway. His shoulders slumped, just a fraction of an inch.
"Shit," he breathed.
He touched his throat again.
"Four dead," he stated, the lack of emotion in his voice somehow making the words heavier. "He was executing them."
Then Keystone nodded as he pressed the comms again "yeah, your hunch was right, Longshot. RTB."
Sarah, trembling uncontrollably, crept forward. She peeked around the soldier's bulk and through the broken doorframe.
Her world tilted.
It was a tangled heap of limbs in the small, tiled space. Jack. Priya. Chloe. And at the top… Jolene. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, her eyes wide and staring at nothing.
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, a silent sob racking her body. She turned away, unable to look at the women she had spent so much time with over the last few months, who she thought were also going to go home.
Movement at the front door made her jump. Backblast entered through the broken frame, his weapon drawn. He was guiding a woman in flimsy lingerie—Jessica—who looked like she was in shock, clutching a blanket around herself.
Keystone turned away from the bathroom of horrors and walked over to his partner.
"Longshot's hunch was right," Keystone said, his voice grim. "This piece of shit must have been on Romano's payroll. He was cleaning house."
Backblast cursed softly, looking from the dead cop on the floor to the open bathroom door. He didn't need to ask what was in there.
The tactical assessment seemed to end there. The two men, these terrifying, faceless soldiers who dealt in death, suddenly shifted gears. They lowered their rifles, letting them hang on their slings. The aggression evaporated, replaced by a focused, urgent concern.
Keystone knelt beside Camila. He didn't touch her roughly. He gently moved her hands away from her neck to inspect the damage.
"Breathe," he instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle through the modulator. "Deep breaths. The larynx looks intact. You're going to have some bruising, but you're okay."
Camila nodded, tears streaming down her face, coughing as she tried to inhale.
Meanwhile, Backblast moved to Sarah and Jessica. He towered over them, but he crouched down to bring himself to their eye level.
"Are you hurt?" he asked Sarah, his hidden eyes scanning her for injuries. "Did he touch you? Are you bleeding anywhere?"
Sarah shook her head, unable to find her voice. She was physically unharmed, but inside, she felt hollowed out.
"And you?" Backblast asked Jessica.
"No," Jessica whispered, shivering. "I… I'm okay."
"Good," Backblast said firmly. He placed a heavy, gloved hand on Sarah's shoulder for a brief second—a grounding, human touch. "You're safe now."
Keystone stood up, helping Camila rise to her feet. He looked at Backblast.
"We're blown," Keystone said. "This whole city is a liability now. Whatever cover we had is gone."
"So what's the play?" Backblast asked. "We've got three survivors and a city full of Romano's ghosts."
Keystone looked at the dead cop, then at the three women standing amidst the wreckage.
"We get them somewhere secure," he said, his voice decisive. "Off-grid. An associate has an estate in the Catskills. It's clean. Untouchable. You take them. Get them gone."
"Copy that," Backblast said.
Keystone reached up and tapped the hard drive secured to his tactical vest. "I'm reporting to Kowalski," he said, the grim satisfaction evident even through the mask. "We have the intel. We know where Elena is."
Sarah stood in the center of the ruined office. She looked one last time toward the bathroom, a silent goodbye to the friends who wouldn't be making the trip to the Catskills. She looked at the dead cop who very nearly killed her. And finally, she looked at the black-clad giants who had kicked down the door and stopped him.
As Backblast gestured for them to move out, guiding them toward the waiting night and a future she couldn't yet imagine, Sarah realized with a strange, dawning certainty that their part of the nightmare was over. They were free.
Next Chapter (18) - Dolly
The silence in Jack Derringer’s office was a physical thing, a heavy blanket that smothered all sound. It had been twenty minutes since Keystone and Backblast had disappeared back into the rainy night, twenty minutes that had stretched into an eternity.
Sarah sat on the threadbare sofa, her arm wrapped protectively around Jolene. The older woman was a wreck, shivering violently despite the rough wool blanket draped over her shoulders. Jolene's time in the Quiet Room had shattered something fundamental inside her. She hadn't spoken since they were pulled from the cages; she just rocked back and forth, her eyes wide and staring at nothing.
"It's okay, Jo," Sarah whispered, smoothing a stray lock of blonde hair from Jolene's tear-streaked face. "We're safe. They got us out."
Jolene flinched at the touch but didn't look at her.
Sarah pulled her friend closer, a fierce protectiveness rising in her chest. She looked at the other women huddled in the small, dim room. Priya was curled in a fetal ball on the armchair, weeping softly. Chloe was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her eyes darting nervously towards the door every few seconds. Camila was pacing back and forth like a caged panther, her energy furious and electric.
Sarah’s gaze drifted back to Jolene. If they hadn't come tonight… The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. The auction. She had overheard the guards talking. Jolene was scheduled to be sold tonight. She was supposed to be shipped out to some buyer, gone forever into a darker hell. She had been minutes away from disappearing.
You were lucky, Jo, Sarah thought, her heart aching for the broken woman beside her. So damn lucky.
She focused on the immediate, tangible reality of the room, trying to keep her own panic at bay by anchoring herself to the others. She watched Jack Derringer checking his watch for the tenth time, the nervous tic of his jaw. She listened to the rhythmic squeak of the floorboards under Camila's pacing.
Then, a sound cut through the quiet tension.
Not a gunshot. Not a scream.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A sharp, authoritative knock on the office door. It was loud. Confident. Official.
Every person in the room froze. Jolene’s rocking stopped. Camila’s pacing halted mid-stride. Jack Derringer’s head snapped up, his face a mask of alarm.
Jack Derringer moved to the door, his movements suddenly cautious and deliberate. He didn't reach for the knob. He pressed his ear against the wood for a moment, listening.
"Who is it?" he called out, his voice a low, gravelly growl that held no welcome.
A voice from the other side answered, calm, confident, and utterly unthreatening. "Detective Vince Morvillo, City Homicide. I need to ask you a few questions about the seven dead men at the bottom of your stairs."
Sarah watched Jack's expression. His brows knot as if in recognition. "What was your name, detective?"
"Vince Morvillo, homicide. I'm here on official police business. Open the door."
Jack shook his head a little like dismissing a thought and spoke "Slide your badge under the door," Jack commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A beat of silence, and then a thin, black leather wallet containing a gold shield was pushed under the door, scuffing to a halt on the dusty floorboards.
Sarah watched, holding her breath, as Jack bent down and picked it up. He held the badge up to the light of the desk lamp, turning it over and over, examining the cut of the shield, the laminate on the ID. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of Jolene's ragged breathing.
Finally, Jack let out a long, slow breath. "It's legit," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He moved back to the door. "What do you want, Detective?"
"Witness statements," Morvillo's voice replied. "Standard procedure for a multiple-homicide scene. Now, we can do this one of two ways. Either I take your statements here, nice and quiet, or we all take a ride downtown. Your choice. But if we go downtown, everyone gets cautioned, and everyone gets a lawyer, and this becomes a very, very long night for all involved."
Jack muttered a low, vicious curse under his breath. Sarah saw the resignation on his face. He was trapped.
With a final, weary sigh, Jack unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.
Detective Vince Morvillo was a man in a rumpled, off-the-rack suit, his tie slightly askew, his face etched with the weary lines of a man who'd seen too much and was paid too little. He stepped into the office, his movements slow and methodical.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the scene. He saw the battered detective. He saw the five terrified women, huddled together like a flock of sparrows. His gaze lingered on them—on Jolene’s shaking hands, on the blanket wrapped around Sarah—and his expression softened. The bureaucratic mask slipped, revealing what looked like genuine, fatherly concern.
"Jesus," he murmured, shaking his head. "You ladies look like you've been through hell." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues, offering them vaguely to the group. "Is everyone physically okay? Do we need paramedics?"
"We just want to go home," Priya sobbed, her voice trembling.
"I know, honey," Morvillo said gently. "And we'll get you there. I promise. But first, I need you to help me understand what happened here tonight." He pulled a small, dog-eared notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. "Let's just get the basics down right here. Who wants to start?"
The question broke the dam.
"We were kidnapped," Camila blurted out, stepping forward. "Held in a warehouse in the West District. Romano—"
"They kept us in cages!" Chloe interrupted, her voice rising in panic. "Knuckles and Slick, they were the guards—"
"And Dr. Atkins!" Priya cried out. "He drug us up for them!"
They were all talking at once, a cacophony of trauma and desperation. Camila was explaining the layout of the print works, Chloe was sobbing about the studio, and Jack Derringer was trying to interject with details about the rescue team. The noise filled the small room, bouncing off the walls, a tangled mess of accusations and terror.
Morvillo held up his hands, grimacing as if the noise physically hurt him.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on!" he shouted over the din. "Stop! Please!"
The room fell silent, the women looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.
Morvillo dragged a hand down his face, looking pained. "This… this isn't going to work. Look, I want to help you, but I can't write a report based on everyone shouting at once. The D.A. will tear this to shreds. If we want this to stick, everything needs to be clean. Untainted."
He sighed, tapping his pen against his notebook. "We have to do this one at a time."
He pointed with his pen to the door of Jack's small, adjoining bedroom. "We'll use that room. Nice and private. Just me and one witness at a time." He then pointed to a second door visible inside the bedroom. "After I take your statement, I'll have you wait in that back room until I'm done with everyone. Keeps the stories from cross-contaminating. Standard procedure."
It sounded reasonable. It sounded like the only way to make sense of the chaos.
Jack let out a long, weary sigh, the old cop in him recognizing the logic. "He's right," Jack grumbled. "Group statements are useless in court. Fine. I'll go first. Let's get this over with."
He turned and followed Morvillo into the bedroom. The door closed behind them, the soft click of the latch sounding unnervingly final in the silent, tense room.
The clock on Jack Derringer’s wall ticked, each second a loud, deliberate beat in the suffocating silence.
Sarah tightened her arm around Jolene, whispering soothing words that she hoped were true. She watched the closed bedroom door, waiting. It remained shut for what felt like an eternity. Finally, it opened. Detective Morvillo stood in the doorway, his expression as impassive as ever. Jack was not with him.
"The blonde lady," Morvillo said, his gaze landing on Jolene. "You're next."
Jolene looked up, her eyes wide with a fresh terror, shaking her head. "No… no please…"
"It's okay, Jo," Sarah said gently, helping her friend stand. "Just tell him what happened. It'll be okay."
Trembling, Jolene shuffled into the bedroom. The door closed.
The pattern was established.
Sarah sat, holding onto Priya now, trying to be strong for the others as the population of the small office dwindled. She watched as Priya was called next. Then Chloe. Each one went into the bedroom, and the door closed. None of them came back out. The office, which had felt claustrophobic and crowded just an hour ago, was now eerily empty and quiet.
Soon, it was just Sarah and Camila left, two silent sentinels in a sea of shadows.
The bedroom door opened again.
Morvillo stood there, looking at the two remaining women. He pointed a thumb at Camila.
"Okay, ma'am," he said. "You're next."
Camila pushed herself off the windowsill. She squared her shoulders, a glint of hard, defiant steel in her eyes.
She strode past the detective and into the room. The door closed, leaving Sarah completely, utterly alone in the silent, waiting office.
The silence in the room was absolute now. Sarah was the only living thing in it. She stared at the closed bedroom door. Why was it taking so long? Where were the others? Were they just sitting in that tiny bathroom?
She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, and took a tentative step toward the bedroom door. just to listen. Just to be sure.
At that exact moment, the front door to the office—the one Morvillo had knocked on so politely—exploded inward.
It was kicked off its hinges with a single, violent, percussive impact, slamming against the interior wall with a deafening crash.
A frantic, black-clad Keystone stormed into the room, his rifle up, his movements a blur of controlled, desperate urgency. His eyes, visible behind the lenses of his gas mask, were wild, sweeping the room.
He saw Sarah, alone in the center of the room.
"THE COP!" he roared, his voice a distorted, electronic bark through his mask's comms system. "WHERE IS HE!?"
Sarah, stunned by the violence of his entry, didn't scream. She pointed a single, trembling finger at the closed bedroom door.
Keystone didn't waste a second. He pivoted on his heel and drove his combat boot into the center of the flimsy bedroom door.
The wood splintered. The door flew open.
Sarah, standing just behind him, saw the scene inside in a single, horrifying flash.
Vince Morvillo was behind Camila. Not questioning her. He had a thin, metallic wire—a garrote—wrapped around her throat, pulling it taut. His knee was braced against her back, his face a mask of desperate fury. Camila's face was purple, her hands clawing uselessly at the wire.
Keystone’s rifle was already up.
"Let her go," he commanded, his voice a low, cold growl.
Morvillo tightened his grip.
The suppressed shot was a soft, wet thump.
A small, neat hole appeared in the center of Morvillo's forehead. His head snapped back. The garrote went loose. He collapsed, a dead weight, falling away from Camila.
Camila dropped to her knees, the garrote clattering to the floor beside her. She wasn't screaming. She was just gasping, huge, shuddering, desperate gulps of air, her hands at her throat, touching the raw, red lines the wire had left behind.
Keystone didn't immediately rush to her. He remained scanning the room, his rifle up, ensuring the threat was truly gone. He reached up, pressing a gloved finger to the side of his throat mic.
"Target neutralized," he reported, his voice a flat, distorted monotone through his mask's external speaker. "Two confirmed alive. Hold."
He lowered his weapon slightly and moved toward the second door—the one to the small en suite bathroom where everyone else had disappeared.
He drove his boot into the wood, kicking it wide open.
He froze in the doorway. His shoulders slumped, just a fraction of an inch.
"Shit," he breathed.
He touched his throat again.
"Four dead," he stated, the lack of emotion in his voice somehow making the words heavier. "He was executing them."
Then Keystone nodded as he pressed the comms again "yeah, your hunch was right, Longshot. RTB."
Sarah, trembling uncontrollably, crept forward. She peeked around the soldier's bulk and through the broken doorframe.
Her world tilted.
It was a tangled heap of limbs in the small, tiled space. Jack. Priya. Chloe. And at the top… Jolene. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, her eyes wide and staring at nothing.
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, a silent sob racking her body. She turned away, unable to look at the women she had spent so much time with over the last few months, who she thought were also going to go home.
Movement at the front door made her jump. Backblast entered through the broken frame, his weapon drawn. He was guiding a woman in flimsy lingerie—Jessica—who looked like she was in shock, clutching a blanket around herself.
Keystone turned away from the bathroom of horrors and walked over to his partner.
"Longshot's hunch was right," Keystone said, his voice grim. "This piece of shit must have been on Romano's payroll. He was cleaning house."
Backblast cursed softly, looking from the dead cop on the floor to the open bathroom door. He didn't need to ask what was in there.
The tactical assessment seemed to end there. The two men, these terrifying, faceless soldiers who dealt in death, suddenly shifted gears. They lowered their rifles, letting them hang on their slings. The aggression evaporated, replaced by a focused, urgent concern.
Keystone knelt beside Camila. He didn't touch her roughly. He gently moved her hands away from her neck to inspect the damage.
"Breathe," he instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle through the modulator. "Deep breaths. The larynx looks intact. You're going to have some bruising, but you're okay."
Camila nodded, tears streaming down her face, coughing as she tried to inhale.
Meanwhile, Backblast moved to Sarah and Jessica. He towered over them, but he crouched down to bring himself to their eye level.
"Are you hurt?" he asked Sarah, his hidden eyes scanning her for injuries. "Did he touch you? Are you bleeding anywhere?"
Sarah shook her head, unable to find her voice. She was physically unharmed, but inside, she felt hollowed out.
"And you?" Backblast asked Jessica.
"No," Jessica whispered, shivering. "I… I'm okay."
"Good," Backblast said firmly. He placed a heavy, gloved hand on Sarah's shoulder for a brief second—a grounding, human touch. "You're safe now."
Keystone stood up, helping Camila rise to her feet. He looked at Backblast.
"We're blown," Keystone said. "This whole city is a liability now. Whatever cover we had is gone."
"So what's the play?" Backblast asked. "We've got three survivors and a city full of Romano's ghosts."
Keystone looked at the dead cop, then at the three women standing amidst the wreckage.
"We get them somewhere secure," he said, his voice decisive. "Off-grid. An associate has an estate in the Catskills. It's clean. Untouchable. You take them. Get them gone."
"Copy that," Backblast said.
Keystone reached up and tapped the hard drive secured to his tactical vest. "I'm reporting to Kowalski," he said, the grim satisfaction evident even through the mask. "We have the intel. We know where Elena is."
Sarah stood in the center of the ruined office. She looked one last time toward the bathroom, a silent goodbye to the friends who wouldn't be making the trip to the Catskills. She looked at the dead cop who very nearly killed her. And finally, she looked at the black-clad giants who had kicked down the door and stopped him.
As Backblast gestured for them to move out, guiding them toward the waiting night and a future she couldn't yet imagine, Sarah realized with a strange, dawning certainty that their part of the nightmare was over. They were free.
Next Chapter (18) - Dolly
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