Page 50 of Knife Thrower

The sound tears through the trailer, bouncing off the walls, raw and agonizing. He jerks his hand, but my grip is absolute iron. Blood wells up instantly, spilling over my thumb, dripping down the wooden armrest and splattering against the floor.

I don’t stop. I slide the knife completely under the nail, threatening to rip the entire shield off the nailbed in one pull.

“Wait! Stop! I’ll tell you!” Raymond shrieks. Tears streak through the sweat on his face. He hyperventilates, snot running from his nose. “I’ll tell you everything! God, stop!”

I freeze the blade. I don’t pull it out—I just leave the steel wedged in his flesh, an agonizing reminder of the alternative.

“Start talking,” I command.

He breaks. He shatters completely.

The men who run the Sanctum of Ash preach the holy gospel of suffering, but they possess absolutely no stomach for torture when the blade turns on their own skin. They only like hurting people who can’t fight back. The second a weak predator faces a monster bigger than himself, he folds into a pathetic, weeping coward.

Raymond spills it all.

He gives up the name of a massive logistics front operating out of Oregon. He drops the location of a heavily fortified compound tucked deep into the mountains of Idaho. He lists three surviving Prophets who relocated to Texas, funding their operations through shell real estate companies. He babbles addresses, bank account routing numbers, and the dates of their upcoming leadership summits.

Silas writes furiously in his notebook. The illusionist doesn’t miss a single syllable.

“The Idaho compound,” Silas prompts, not looking up from the page. “How many guards?”

“About a dozen,” Raymond sobs, his chest heaving. “Ex-military. Heavily armed. They shoot trespassers on sight. That’s everything. I swear to God, that’s everything I know.”

He slumps back in the chair, completely spent. He wheezes, staring at the knife still buried under his fingernail.

I look over my shoulder. Silas finishes the final line, clicks his pen shut, and offers a single, satisfied nod. We have the network. We have the map. The hunting season just extended for another five years.

I pull the knife free with a violent jerk.

Raymond cries out, his head lolling against the wood.

I wipe the bloody blade clean on the fabric of his expensive clothes, then step back, sliding the steel effortlessly into the sheath strapped to my thigh.

Logan pushes off the metal wall. Jonah cracks his massive knuckles. Silas slips the notebook into his jacket pocket.

Without a single word, my brothers turn on their heels and walk out of the trailer. The heavy metal door slams shut behind them, the deadbolt engaging from the outside with a loud, final click.

They leave Raymond entirely at our mercy.

I walk over to the folding table. I don’t pick up another knife. I simply step back, leaning my hips against the edge, crossing my arms over my chest, and surrender the floor.

Sloane steps out of the shadows.

She walks slowly. Deliberately. She approaches the chair, stopping directly in front of the bleeding, weeping man who stole her childhood and forced her to build a fortress of ice.

She reaches her right hand across her body, wrapping her long fingers around the hilt of the serrated blade strapped to her own thigh. She draws the steel with a deadly, whispering hiss.

Raymond looks up. True, absolute horror finally dawns in his eyes. He realizes the interrogation was merely the prologue.

The main event belongs entirely to her.

“Sloane, please,” Raymond begs. He strains against the zip ties, shaking his head frantically. “I’m your father. I raised you.”

Sloane tilts her head. The severe, beautiful line of her jaw locks tight. Her icy blue eyes go terrifyingly dark.

“You aren’t my father,” she whispers.

She steps forward, raising the blade.