Chapter 7 - The Price of Blood
The gunshot was a single, deafening crack that swallowed every other sound in the universe.
The 9mm hollow-point round struck Caleb directly in the center of his right wrist.
The impact tore his hand open, shattering the bone and sending the snub-nosed revolver flying into the dark water six feet away.
Caleb let out a high-pitched, pathetic wail of pain, dropping to his knees as he clutched his shattered wrist against his chest.
Nora stumbled forward, away from him.
Damian was there instantly.
He caught her before she could hit the hard concrete, lifting her up into his arms in one fluid movement. He pulled her tight against his chest, his broad shoulder shielding her from the room, his face buried in the wet, cinnamon-scented silk of her hair.
“I have you,” Damian whispered, his voice cracking for the first time all night. “I have you, Nora. You’re safe.”
Nora wrapped her bound hands over his neck, pressing her face into the damp wool of his tux jacket. She let out a long, shuddering sob—not of fear, but of profound, overwhelming relief.
“I knew you’d find the note,” she murmured against his neck.
“I’d find you anywhere,” Damian whispered.
Behind them, Caleb was writhing in the shallow water on the floor, weeping and cursing as blood pooled around his knees.
Leo stepped up to Caleb, kicking the silver hunting knife into the corner of the room, while Miles pulled a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his tactical belt.
“Get him up,” Damian commanded, without turning around. He held Nora tightly, keeping his hand over the back of her head so she wouldn't have to look at the creature on the floor.
Miles yanked Caleb up by the collar of his jacket, pulling his bloody hands behind his back and snapping the cuffs shut with two loud CLICKS.
Caleb spat blood onto the floor, looking at Damian’s back with pure, unadulterated venom.
“Kill me then!” Caleb spat. “Go on, Damian! Do it in front of her! Show her what you really are! Show her you’re just another butcher!”
Damian paused.
He stood holding Nora, the weight of her body warm and real against his ribs.
He looked down at her face. Her green eyes were looking up at him, silent, watchful, waiting to see what he would do.
Five years ago, Damian would have put a bullet through Caleb’s forehead without a second thought. He would have left him to rot in the swamp water and walked away feeling like justice had been served.
But five years ago, he hadn't known Nora Whitaker.
He hadn't learned that the hardest part of power wasn't taking a life—it was choosing not to let the darkness consume the things you loved.
Damian looked over his shoulder at Caleb.
His silver eyes were completely devoid of anger. There was only pity—cold, absolute, and dismissive.
“I’m not going to kill you, Caleb,” Damian said softly.
Caleb blinked, confused by the lack of rage in Damian’s voice. “What?”
“If I kill you, you become a ghost that haunts her memory,” Damian said. “You get to die thinking you were important enough to warrant my bullet.”
Damian gestured to Miles.
“Take him to the compound in Newark,” Damian ordered. “Call Federal Prosecutor Vance. Tell him we have the man who murdered two union officials three years ago. Give them the evidence files from the safe in my office.”
Caleb’s face went completely slack. “No… no! Federal prison? You’re giving me to the feds?”
“You’re going to spend the next forty years in a six-by-eight concrete cell in Florence, Colorado,” Damian said, turning back toward the exit with Nora in his arms. “You won't see the sun. You won't hear a voice. And no one—least of all Nora—will ever remember your name.”
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Caleb began to scream—a frantic, desperate sound of a man realizing that his grand, dramatic vengeance was ending not in fire, but in absolute, eternal insignificance.
Miles dragged him out through the broken doorway, his shrieks fading into the cold pine forest outside.
