Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I survived watching my father die. I survived five years of running and hiding and building a new life from nothing. I survived becoming someone stronger than the girl who used to cry herself to sleep every night.
My father’s compass pulses against my throat with each heartbeat, steady and sure. North. Always north. Always toward whatever comes next, toward survival, toward becoming who I need to be.
But first, I’m going to show the Crow exactly what happens when you underestimate a Mitchell.
They want to wait for Brutus? Perfect. That gives me time to plan, time to learn their routines, time to figure out how to turn their own cruelty against them.
Let them think I’m still unconscious. Let them keep talking about their business, their murders, their sick fucking plans.
Every word they say is another reason to make sure none of them live to see sunrise.
Chapter Six
Blue
The safe house sits like a tumor in the Oregon wilderness with rotting wood and broken windows. It’s tucked deep in Crowshaven’s backcountry, miles from the main highway where tourists stop for coffee, clam chowder, and saltwater taffy. Most people never see this part—the logging roads that wind through dense forest, the compounds, and the numerous safe houses hidden behind walls of Douglas fir where the Crow run their operation.
It’s easy to get lost in the maze of the Witchwood forest that separates Crowshaven from Grimlock. Crowshaven’s a shithole. Grimlock’s something else entirely. My town has character—old Victorian houses, narrow cobblestone streets, iron gates that look like they’ve been there forever. Even our graveyard has more class than most places.
Crowshaven just sprawls without giving a damn. But lucky for Grimlock, the forest gives a separation stronger than any stone wall or barbed wire fence could. The trees grow so thick they block out most of the daylight, turning everything underneath into permanent twilight. Deer paths branch off in every direction, some leading to abandoned camps, others just petering out into nothing. More than one hiker has gone in and never come back out.
But not me. I know every inch of Crowshaven and how it tries to utilize the mass of the Witchwood for its benefit. Five and a half hours. It took exactly as long as the flight from New York to Oregon on my jet to track down where the Crow dragged Sara after grabbing her from her apartment last night.
“Four heat signatures,” Hans murmurs beside me, lowering his thermal scope. “Main room. They’re not even trying to be smart about this.”
Smart isn’t in their vocabulary. Brutus took his A-team to handle some cartel business in the Caymans, leaving these bottom-feeders to play babysitter. Their mistake. My opportunity.
The intel came from Hans’s network—someone spotted the black sedan heading into the mountains. Not exactly a sophisticated operation—more like amateur hour with delusions of competence.
“Remember,” I tell Hans as we approach the building’s rear entrance, “I don’t kill tonight. You handle the wet work.”
Hans raises an eyebrow. “Boss, are you sure? You seem very . . . tense.”
Tense doesn’t begin to cover it. My hands shake with the need to paint these walls with Crow blood, to make them suffer for every hour they’ve kept her captive. Three years of therapy, three years of Jay’s breathing exercises and redirected aggression, and it could all disappear in the next ten minutes.
“I’m on the wagon,” I repeat, as much to convince myself as Hans. “Can’t risk falling off. Not now.”
The back door hangs askew, held by one stubborn hinge that squeaks like a dying mouse. Hans oils it with spit and patience while I control my breathing the way Jay taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Meditation that keeps reformed killers from relapsing.
The air inside hits like a slap—thick with smoke and the sour tang of men who’ve given up on hygiene. These idiots couldn’t maintain a decent hideout if their lives depended on it.
Voices drift from the main room, unguarded. They’re not expecting company.
“—should’ve heard him scream when Brutus started with the pliers. Sounded like a fucking opera singer hitting the high notes.”
Laughter follows, blood-curdling and genuine.
“Wait here,” Hans whispers, already moving toward the sound. “I make this quick.”
Through the doorway, I watch Hans work. Three men clustered around a card table, playing poker with cigarettes as chips because they’re too broke for actual money. And there, on a decrepit couch against the far wall, is Sara. Eyes closed, breathing steady, but I can tell she’s awake. Smart girl—playing possum while gathering intelligence.
The first one dies mid-laugh, Hans’s blade sliding across his throat like he’s opening mail. The second one starts to stand, confusion replacing amusement on his face, but Hans is already there. The knife finds the sweet spot between ribs, puncturing the lung and heart in one efficient thrust.
The third man—younger than the others, with nervous eyes and shaking hands—actually manages to draw his gun. Almost manages to aim it before Hans’s blade opens his carotid artery.