Seth

Three days. 83 hours and counting since Brooke was taken. Sleeping has never been my strong suit, but in the past few days, whenever I get more than an hour, I consider it a victory. Kyle and Raffi are in the same situation, averaging three to four hours of sleep.

I’ve lost count of how many times Rafael has cleaned all the weapons we have around the house, even the new ones Kyle brought from headquarters. He dismantles each one methodically, cleaning them and lining them up. Less than an hour after finishing the last one, he’s back at it. Even my daggers have been sharpened.

Thorne spends hours staring at his cell phone, as if he could force it to ring with the power of his mind. When he’s not focused on the device, he’s keeping me company in the gym, working out and training at every available moment.

We have nothing to do but prepare. Adônis is the best equipped to find Brooke; he has a whole team at his disposal, and I know he will succeed. I’ve discovered that the worst kind of torture is waiting, and I know a thing or two about torture.

Nothing can distract my mind. Memories of when I was captured blend with the times I was chosen to gather information from terrorists, but all I see is Brooke’s face. Always her, every time I blink, I’m hit with another image created by my own mind. Sometimes, I can’t distinguish what is real from what is imagination.

I repeat my mantra more frequently: “I’m not in the desert, I’m at home. I’m out.” But it’s not enough to ease the need for violence coursing through every fiber of my being. With each passing second, I make an effort worthy of Atlas holding up the sky to stay in control.

“Seth, when was the last time you ate?” Raffi asks, holding the barbell I use for bench presses.

“I don’t know, I think it was when you made those sandwiches, why?”

“Because that was this morning, over ten hours ago,” he explains, putting the barbell back on the rack. “You’re not going to be any use if you pass out from hunger when we go after her.”

“Any news?” I ask, already knowing the answer from his expression but unable to resist.

“Nothing yet. Apparently, the call and everything done so far, including renting the car, was done through the internet using several IPs or something. They have a firewall, I think that’s the term, of excellent quality, and that’s slowing Adônis down,” he informs me, heading towards the kitchen where another sandwich is prepared.

“Thanks,” I say, indicating the plate, and he shrugs.

“It was nothing; I was making one for myself.”

I’m on my third bite when Kyle rushes into the kitchen, his alert posture and vibrating energy tell me everything I need to know before he even opens his mouth.

“We know where she is,” he declares. And the beast pulls against the restraints I’ve kept on it, as if sensing the smell of blood about to be shed and eagerly waiting to taste it. “We leave in ten minutes,” he adds and disappears down the hallway.

I drop the food on the plate and head to the living room, where all our arsenal is prepared, with Raffi by my side. When we enter, Kyle is already putting on the bulletproof vest. We follow suit, arming ourselves. None of us speaks a word, focused on the tasks at hand. The feeling is as if we are in a foreign land about to follow any orders given to us. We’ve done this hundreds of times, but this time it’s personal.

We left the house ahead of schedule. Kyle drives the Silverado well above the speed limit, heading toward the industrial area on the other side of the city. Each kilometer seems to stretch like the nightmares where you run endlessly but never get anywhere.

My heart screams for us to hurry as the beast roars, demanding to be unleashed. Hold on, Abelhinha, we’re almost there, just a few more minutes. I plead, even knowing that each minute feels like an hour when everything you have has been taken from you.

Finally, the warehouse takes shape before us, and it takes all my self-control not to leap from the car and run straight inside.

We stop some distance away to make use of the fading night and blend in, side by side, staring at the warehouse where Brooke is.

“Three enter,” Raffi chants.

“Four exit,” we respond in unison. We hadn’t planned this, but we all knew we would only leave with Brooke.

“Alright, let’s get our girl!” Kyle says, chambering his weapon. Raffi does the same beside him. I draw my double-edged curved blades from their sheaths and we advance, a unit divided into three bodies.

I know my brothers are heavily armed, ready to face a small battalion, even though Adônis estimated 20 mercenaries from the security cameras around the warehouse. With only two guards at the entrance, it’s almost an insult that they aren’t better prepared to face us, but it only means it will be quicker to get Brooke into the safety of my arms. However, today, I’m carrying only two semiautomatic pistols in my holsters; they’re my backup plan, and I have no intention of using them.

I need to feel the life drain from each of the bastards who hurt Brooke. Today, they will find out why my nickname is Hellhound.

We’re ten meters from the entrance when I pull away, moving along the side as my brothers draw the guards’ attention. Before they can even draw their weapons, I slit their throats. The hot blood warms my hands as they fall without a sound.

The sound of the iron door opening echoes through the space. I feel Kyle and Raffi at my back as I quickly count how many enemies we’re about to face. Six, eight, but then I see her, and I lose count. Nothing else matters.

Blood covers much of her blonde hair. When she notices us, a small smile spreads across her face before she grimaces, as if that tiny movement caused her pain. The ground around her glistens red under the yellow lights, her arms and legs bound to the chair, her skin a kaleidoscope of bruises, and something is wrong with her hands. Rage in its purest form fills my body as I understand what has happened. My blood seems to boil in my veins, and the control I maintain over the beast that lives under my skin evaporates.

The bestial sound that tears through my vocal cords as it is completely unleashed is like a roar. Brutal. Barbaric. Unrestrained. I can't pinpoint exactly what my brothers are doing, but I hear the sounds of gunfire around me, though the noise seems distant as I draw a straight line toward Brooke.

The first unlucky soul who crosses my path meets my blade directly at the base of his abdomen. I slide it upward to his sternum, pulling it back and burying it in the next one. Blood splatters on my face with each new opponent who makes the mistake of getting in my way, expecting a different outcome.

One of the mercenaries closest to her pulls a gun from his back and aims at me, firing. I zigzag toward him, because I marked his face three days ago. I feel a smile form on my lips as I approach, eager to punish him for everything he did to Brooke, as he had been the miserable son of a bitch who attacked her and injected the drug. I memorized his features to ensure I would be the one to end his pathetic existence.