Chapter 126: Into The Lion's Den

Peter’s car skidded to a stop by the west gate, tires crunching gravel under the mansion’s looming shadow. The night was heavy, neon from distant Denver signs casting a faint glow. “I’m at the west gate,” he said into his walkie-talkie, voice low. “Martha said it leads to the tunnels where Sharon’s held. Guards’ll be alerted by the time I get her, so I’ll need another exit. Chris, sneak in through the main door, clear a path.”

“Copy,” Chris replied, already moving, his silhouette blending with the estate’s hedges. “Going in.”

“Jinx, how’s your cover?” Peter asked, checking his gear.

“Got you, Killshot,” Jinx crackled back, perched in her treetop nest. “Thermal scopes—see through walls, bullets punch through ‘em. Chris’s back is mine.”

“Alright,” Peter said, zipping his black jumpsuit. “I’m going in.” Twin silenced pistols hung at his belt, a knife gleamed for close work, and grenades clinked for emergencies. He cracked the gate, its hinges groaning, and slipped into the tunnels.

The air was damp, thick with mildew and the hum of generators. Martha’s warning echoed—six guards patrolling. Peter moved like a ghost, boots silent on concrete, ducking into alcoves as footsteps echoed. A guard’s radio hissed nearby, and Peter pressed against the wall, breath held, until the sound faded.

He reached a corridor lined with doors, one guard stationed ahead, motionless. Peter waited, but the man didn’t budge. No time to waste. He drew his knife, aimed, and threw—a flash of steel sinking into the guard’s chest. The man groaned, hand fumbling for his radio. Peter was on him in a heartbeat, snapping his neck with a sickening crack. The corridor fell silent.

Peter crept forward, eyes scanning. A guard—Caleb—stood by one door, rigid, alert. That’s her room, Peter thought, pulse spiking. He lunged, tackling Caleb to the ground before he could react. Caleb’s instincts kicked in, fists swinging, but Peter locked a chokehold, squeezing tight. Caleb thrashed, veins bulging, refusing to fade.

Inside, Sharon froze, hearing grunts and scuffles. Her heart raced—was it rescue or another of Addicus’s games? She clutched the bedframe, torn between hope and dread.

Caleb bit Peter’s hand, forcing a yelp. Peter released him, and both men scrambled up. Caleb reached for his gun, but Peter drew faster, silencer gleaming. “Hands up,” Peter growled.

Caleb smirked, hands raised. “Gonna shoot me cold? No fair fight? What kinda man are you?”

“You want fair?” Peter said. “Drop your gun and knife. I’ll do the same. We settle this.”

Caleb tossed his weapons—pistol, then blade—clattering to the floor. Peter holstered his guns, shed his belt, and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s go.”

Caleb swung first, a wild haymaker. Peter ducked, landing a jab to Caleb’s ribs. Fists flew, each blow a thunderclap in the tunnel’s echo. Caleb stumbled, and Peter aimed a kick, but Caleb caught his leg, slamming him down. Straddling Peter, Caleb rained punches, Peter’s arms shielding his face.

Peter bucked, flipping Caleb off, and mounted him, hammering his jaw. Caleb’s face swelled, blood streaming. Desperate, Caleb grabbed his discarded knife, plunging it into Peter’s shoulder. Peter roared, staggering back. Caleb rose, laughing, and pummeled Peter’s face, kicks to his gut dropping him.

“Thought I’d play fair?” Caleb sneered, looming.

“No,” Peter gasped, revealing a hidden pistol. Three shots—chest, stomach, chest. Caleb’s eyes widened, disbelief fading as he slumped against Sharon’s door, blood pooling.

Peter stood, swaying, and charged, smashing Caleb through the door. They crashed inside, dust swirling. Sharon gasped, stepping back. “Peter?” she whispered, voice trembling with hope.

He looked up, Caleb’s body limp beneath him. “Hey, love,” he said, smiling through blood. “Miss me?”

Sharon ran to him, collapsing into his arms. “You’re here,” she sobbed, hugging tight.

“Ow!” Peter winced, wounds flaring.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling back, but he held her close.

“Only torture’s being without you,” he said, tears mixing with hers. “Not holding you, kissing you—that’s pain.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Sharon whispered.

“Nothing keeps me from you,” Peter said, kissing her deeply—a vow of protection, love, forever.

“Martha said tomorrow,” Sharon said, confused.

“Couldn’t wait,” Peter said, then noticed her bruises. “Did he hurt you?”

Sharon looked away, shame choking her. “I fought, Peter. I tried.”

“How many times?” he asked, voice tight.

“It doesn’t matter—”

“How many, Sharon?”

“Twice,” she admitted, tears falling.

Peter’s rage burned white-hot. “If he’s not dead, I’ll kill him myself.”

He pulled her up, handing her a pistol. “Let’s go.” They stepped over Caleb, moving through the tunnels, toward the main house, freedom so close—yet a faint echo followed, like boots trailing in the dark.