The Missing Pattern

Inferno Part 20

The rage didn't subside as I followed Calvin and Bailey out of the room; it festered, black and boiling, threatening to consume every part of me. I moved behind them, each step deliberate, carrying the weight of a fury that could no longer be contained. The fire inside me—unholy, relentless, ravenous—had been simmering for too damn long. Calvin carried Kiara toward safety, his pace urgent but steady, her fragile frame nearly swallowed by the blanket I'd wrapped around her.

We had them all. Twenty-two girls, accounted for for this case. But those words—so many—kept slicing through my mind like jagged glass. How many more were out there? How many still waiting, still trapped, still screaming?

And the bastards who did this? Not a single one of them was getting out unscathed. Every man in this hellhole had at least one bullet in them by the time we were done. Some were lucky—if you could call a headshot lucky—dropping instantly in the chaos of gunfire. Cowards who got the easy way out. The rest? Oh, the rest weren't so fortunate. They got to feel every ounce of pain, every moment of justice tearing through their flesh, and it wasn't nearly enough for what they'd done.

Now that all the girls were out of harm's way, there was nothing left to contain the storm inside me. My rage surged, dark and unrelenting, demanding retribution. These monsters had taken everything from those girls—their innocence, their lives, their very humanity. They didn't deserve quick deaths or even the cold comfort of prison walls. No, the men who did this would pay in blood and agony. They would suffer in ways that made hell look merciful, and I would make sure they felt every single moment of it.

The warehouse buzzed with activity, a grim orchestra of chaos and procedure. Crime scene investigators moved with methodical precision, documenting every sickening detail carved into the walls of this nightmare. Fire and rescue crews worked tirelessly, carrying the broken survivors out one by one, their faces pale as the weight of this place settled over them. But for me, none of it was enough. Not yet. The air still felt thick with evil, and the bastards responsible were still in one piece.

I walked back into the room, my eyes already locked on Cortez's second in command. I turned to the paramedics, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Make sure that bastard doesn't get moved," I ordered, the words sharp enough to draw blood. My gaze was ice-cold, relentless. "He's not priority. The girls are."

"I still have some questions for him."

My voice was a razor's edge—sharp, unforgiving, and unyielding, as if every word carried the weight of the gun in my hand.

One of them looked at me, eyes wide with panic. "If we don't treat him soon, he's going to die. He's lost a lot of blood—two gunshot wounds—his condition can become critical if not treated soon."

I didn't flinch, didn't even twitch. "Stabilize him best you can. How much time does he have before it becomes critical?" I asked, my tone ice-cold.

He glanced down at the spreading pool of blood, his gaze flicking back to me with a hint of dread. "If I had to guess... maybe twenty thirty minutes its hard to tell."

I looked down at the bastard, fury and rage burning in my chest like a furnace. This bastard who'd broken so many girls and destroyed so many lives. "Then come back for him in ten," I said, my expression vacant, unconcerned. "You'll have ten minutes to stabilize him. If not... oh well. I'll take full responsibility."

My voice dropping low, filled with venom. "Trust me, you wouldn't give a damn either if you knew what he did to all those helpless girls."

I didn't care. Not about him, not about his life. Not after everything he'd taken from them—everything he'd put them through. All I cared about was making sure he felt a fraction of the agony he'd inflicted.