Chapter 112: Shadows That Hunt
Chris peered through the shattered windshield, his face pale under the streetlamp’s sickly glow. A motorcycle’s snarl cut off a few yards away. Jinx, the assassin, swung off her bike, her leather jacket catching the neon from a nearby bar sign—*Rusty’s Roadhouse, Open ‘Til 2.* She moved like a panther, all precision and menace. “We gotta move, Peter,” Chris hissed. “She’s coming to finish us.”
“That's not good,” Peter grunted, kicking the warped door. It groaned but gave way.
Jinx strode toward the wreck, twin pistols glinting in her hands. The early night was heavy with summer heat, the air thick with the stink of oil and asphalt. Somewhere, a radio blared Springsteen’s *Born to Run*, mocking their desperation. Jinx crouched, peering into the car, her eyes cold and searching. Empty. Her lips curled in frustration. She scanned the alley, her gaze landing on a manhole cover, shoved aside like an afterthought. ***The sewers.***
Peter and Chris were already gone, swallowed by the dark below. Jinx’s fingers twitched toward her guns. She could follow—track them through the muck, end this now. But police sirens wailed, closer every second. Red and blue lights danced on the brick walls. She straightened, her jaw tight.
“Next time, little birdie,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. She mounted her bike, the engine roaring as she vanished into the Nebraska night.
Below, Peter and Chris slogged through ankle-deep filth, the sewer’s damp walls echoing their ragged breaths. Peter’s vision swam, pain radiating from his side. He’d taken a beating in Kansas City weeks ago, and this crash hadn’t done him any favors. Chris wasn’t much better, clutching his arm where Jinx’s bullet had grazed him.
“Keep moving,” Peter rasped, though his legs felt like lead. Sharon’s face flashed in his mind—*her fierce green eyes, her stubborn hope. He’d promised to find her. He wouldn’t break that vow.*
Chris glanced back, his usual cockiness dulled by pain. “Think we lost her?”
“For now,” Peter said. “But she’s not the type to quit.” He thought of Jinx’s reputation—whispers of a killer who’d taken down entire gangs without breaking a sweat. Addicus must’ve hired her to tie up loose ends. Peter’s gut twisted. If Jinx was after them, Sharon was in worse danger than he’d feared.
They emerged in a deserted lot, the manhole clanging shut behind them. The safehouse was a mile away, a rundown duplex tucked behind a shuttered gas station. Every step was agony, but Peter pushed on, driven by the thought of Sharon trapped in Addicus’s grip. Chris kept pace, muttering curses under his breath, his shirt stained with blood and grime.
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The safehouse door creaked as they stumbled inside, the air stale with cigarette smoke and mildew. Peter collapsed into a sagging armchair, its floral upholstery a relic of better days. Chris, swaying on his feet, looked like he’d aged a decade since morning. Their clothes were shredded, caked with sewer muck. Cuts and bruises mapped their skin—Peter’s from the crash, Chris’s from the bullet and a nasty fall.
Chris steadied himself against the wall. “Hang tight, buddy. I’ll grab the first aid kit.”
He limped to the bathroom, returning with a dented tin box that rattled with supplies. The room’s single bulb buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows.
“Alright, Pete,” Chris said, kneeling beside him. “Let’s patch you up.”
Peter managed a weak laugh, wincing as he shifted. “I’m half bandages already. Any more, and I’m a damn mummy. Gimme that—I’ll handle this graze.”
Chris handed over the kit. Peter poured alcohol on the wound, hissing as it burned. He threaded a needle with shaking hands, stitching the gash with grim focus before wrapping it in gauze. The routine was too familiar—too many fights, too many close calls since Sharon vanished.
Chris slumped onto the couch, cradling his arm. “Can’t believe we got our asses kicked by a woman.”
Peter shot him a look. “She’s no ordinary woman, Chris. Jinx is a pro. We’re lucky to be breathing.”
“Lucky, sure,” Chris muttered. “But she’s a problem. How do we save Sharon with that psycho on our tail?”
Peter’s hands stilled, the bandage roll dangling.
“No clue. But we rest, get strong, and find her. Whatever it takes.” His voice cracked on Sharon’s name. He saw her in every quiet moment—her laugh, her defiance, the way she’d clung to him before Addicus’s men tore her away. He’d failed her once. ***Not again.***
Chris nodded, but his eyes were distant. “Addicus doesn’t hire cheap. Jinx means he’s desperate. What’s he so afraid of?”
Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t know. But he’d seen the letters Sharon found years ago—Addicus’s ravings about destiny, about her. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t just her life. It was her soul.
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Sharon sat on the cold floor, her back against the bedframe. The room was a prison—bare walls, a locked door, the faint hum of a radio somewhere playing. Despair clawed at her, heavy as the bruises on her wrists. Addicus’s words looped in her mind: *Peter’s dead.* She refused to believe it, clinging to the certainty that Peter was out there, fighting for her. But doubt crept in, a poison she couldn’t shake.
“You’re alive, my love,” she whispered, her breath hitching. “You’re coming for me. I’ll hold on.”
The words were a lifeline, fragile but unbroken.
The lock clicked. Sharon’s heart lurched as Addicus entered, shirtless, a belt looped around his neck like a noose. A tranquilizer gun gleamed in his good hand, the other scarred from some long-ago fight. She scrambled to her feet, backing toward the wall as he locked the door and pocketed the key with a deliberate slowness.
“No,” she said, arms shielding her body. “You’re not touching me again.”
Addicus sighed, his voice low and venomous. “This isn’t just about that, Sharon. You tried to escape. You still don’t grasp how much I hate defiance.” He paused, his eyes glinting with something darker than anger. “But you’ll learn.”
He raised the gun. Sharon froze, her back against the wall. She sank to her knees, staring into the barrel. “Go ahead,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear. “Do it.”
She should’ve begged—part of her screamed to—but she’d rather die than give him that power again. Addicus’s laugh was sharp, cruel. He fired. Pain flared in her neck. She yanked out the dart, her fingers trembling as the room tilted. A tranquilizer, not a bullet. **Worse.**
“No,” she gasped, crawling toward the door, her limbs heavy. “Not again.”
“You will,” Addicus said, watching her struggle with a predator’s patience. *Darkness swallowed her.*
He lifted her limp form, laying her on the bed. Ropes appeared; he bound her wrists and ankles to the bedposts, his movements practiced. Leaning close, he inhaled her blonde hair, his lips brushing her unconscious face. “You drive me mad, Sharon,” he murmured. “This is what you’ve forced me to do.”
He stepped out, returning with a wooden chair. He dismissed the guard with a curt nod and locked the door behind him. Setting the chair beside the bed, he sat, the tranquilizer gun on the floor, the belt dangling from his hand. The radio outside shifted to *Hotel California*, its eerie chords seeping through the walls. Addicus waited, his eyes fixed on Sharon, for the drug to fade—for his punishment, and his pleasure, to begin.