Driving his Challenger, Ethan returned to the flower shop more than twenty minutes later. A white van was parked in front of the door, and Jessica stood behind it, visibly anxious.
When she saw Ethan coming, her expression relaxed slightly.
—What's going on? —Ethan asked, closing the car door and looking at the van.
The back door was already open, and half of the vehicle was loaded with materials.
—The delivery guy threw out his back and can't keep working —Jessica said quickly—. It's just some shelves, and the installers will be here soon to set them up.
Ethan slapped his forehead.
—This is what you call an emergency?
—Of course it is. Banshee isn't like home where there are workers everywhere —Jessica said, kissing him and pushing him toward the back of the van—. Please, the installers will be here any minute, and if we can't start on time, they'll have to leave, which means another day lost… so less talk and more action.
In disbelief, Ethan had no choice but to climb into the van and start working. When Jessica had said it was urgent, he thought something bad had happened — not that she was just short on labor.
After working for over ten minutes, he finally moved everything from the van into the flower shop. The pots and jars were heavy, and the reinforced shelves even more so. No wonder the delivery guy had hurt his back.
After a while, Ethan was sweating too. Jessica handed him a soda can.
—Where's Daria? —he asked.
He hadn't realized until then that Jessica was the only one working in the shop.
—I don't know —she replied, sitting at her worktable to keep arranging flowers—. She called me two hours ago and said she was coming.
—Maybe something delayed her —Jessica said casually, picking up her phone—. She's been busy lately. I'll call her now.
After a moment, she set her phone down on the table.
—It's off.
—Huh? —Ethan also pulled out his phone and called Daria, but there was no answer; it went straight to voicemail.
Jessica picked up her scissors.
—Maybe her phone ran out of battery.
—Daria never forgets to charge her phone. She'd rather die than miss a chance to gossip on Facebook —Ethan said, sliding his phone into his pocket—. With everything that's been happening in the city lately, I'm worried.
—I'll go with you —Jessica offered after a short pause.
—No, I can handle it. Just stay here, and when the workers leave, lock up the doors and windows properly —Ethan said, quickly heading out of the flower shop.
—Got it! If anything happens, just call me! —Jessica shouted, worried.
She'd heard about the serial killers targeting young, beautiful women — something that had caused great unease in Banshee.
Ethan waved a hand and got into his car.
First, he checked Milles' restaurant, but no one had seen Daria.
Then he went to her house, but it was empty.
After asking around the neighborhood, someone finally said they'd seen her leave about two hours earlier. When he returned, Ethan narrowed his eyes at the empty room.
This wasn't normal. Could she be the killer's next target? Daria's features were very similar to those of the three previous victims.
Desperate, he pulled out his phone.
—Ethan, what's up? —Job's sleepy voice filled the line.
—I need a favor. A friend of mine is missing —Ethan said quickly—. Is there any way to trace a phone's location? It's turned off.
—Sure —Job's voice sharpened at the urgency—. But if the SIM card's been removed, there's nothing I can do.
—Got it. I'll text you the number —Ethan said quickly, sending Daria's number—. Hurry, how long will it take?
—Fifteen minutes. Damn it! —Job muttered before hanging up.
Hoping he wasn't overreacting, Ethan put his phone away and drove from Daria's house back to the flower shop. He didn't see her car on the way. Parking a distance away from the store, he lit a cigarette in silence and checked his watch: it was almost time.
Just as he reached for his phone, Job called.
—You're in luck. The phone's off, but the SIM card's still inside. I'll send you the address by text.
—Good. Hurry up.
He hung up, and the message came through seconds later. Ethan stared at it, stunned — the address was in Clearfield County, on the border with Banshee.
Why would she drive that far with no reason… and with her phone off? Something must have happened.
Ethan started the engine and headed toward the location — about a thirty-minute drive.
While gripping the steering wheel, he called Phillips. If his assumption was right, Phillips and Hank should already be on their way to Clearfield County to speak with the Sheriff's Office and get information about Declan's arrest.
He could contact them first and ask them to check the address.
But only the sound of a phone shutting off came through. Ethan looked at the number — it was correct. He tried again, but it was still off.
—Damn it —he muttered.
He hit the accelerator and quickly dialed Job's number.
—What now, bastard? Didn't I already send you the address? —Job's distracted voice came through, music playing softly in the background.
—I need you to track another number. I've got a bad feeling. —Ethan's voice was urgent.
The music stopped, and Job groaned.
—You think I'm your secretary or something, bastard?
Ethan overtook a car.
—I'm serious. Write down the number.
Job sighed.
—You're lucky I'm still at the computer, and the hacked system's still open. This time it'll be quick.
After Ethan dictated the number, there was silence.
—Shit —Job exclaimed—, why the hell did you ask me to trace the phone of an FBI special agent?
—He's a friend —Ethan replied firmly—. What is it?
—You've got a friend in the FBI? —Job said, surprised—. But this is weird… it's the same address as before.
Wasn't Phillips supposed to be looking for the victim from that old rape case? How could he be at the same place where Daria went missing?
—Shit —Ethan growled, hitting the steering wheel—. Job, I need you to pull up all the information on the owner of that property. Right now.
—Got it —Job replied calmly—. I'm checking… hold on.
Ethan now had every reason to believe that Daria had been kidnapped by the serial killer — and that Phillips and Hank had been ambushed by the same man.
Job skimmed the information on his computer screen, eyes focused.
—The house at that address was registered to a woman named Kim Newton, —he said, pointing to the data on his screen—. Thirty years old, white woman, blonde hair. —No criminal record, —he added—, although she was a rape victim eight years ago.
Ethan held the phone to his ear, frowning.
—Are you sure?
—Completely, —Job replied calmly, checking the file over and over—. I'm verifying it right now.
Ethan thought for a moment, weighing the possibilities, then answered quickly:
—Okay, I'm on my way. Thanks, Job. I owe you one.
—Yeah, yeah, whatever, —Job said, shaking his head—. Just take care of your back.
—I will, —Ethan said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he hung up.
He sat in silence for a moment, thinking, then decided to call Brock. He was the sheriff now, and Ethan didn't want to be rude by taking action without telling him.
After briefly explaining the situation, Brock answered firmly:
—We'll head out right away. But wait for backup before you move.
Ethan ignored him with a few words and pocketed the phone.
The Dodge Challenger roared to life, kicking up clouds of dry leaves that danced in the air as the engine vibrated under the hood. The car sped off, leaving the lane strewn with ochre and gold tones behind, the wind carrying a metallic echo of its passage.
Elsewhere….
He could only see darkness.
Phillips shook his head, trying to clear it. His hands were tied; the pressure hurt. He felt his feet dangling, his body suspended by a rope.
He gasped sharply, trying to focus his vision.
—Phillips? —a deep, rough voice called from one side, startling him. It came from very close, just over two meters away.
Phillips noticed his mouth was free and asked quickly:
—Hank?
—Yeah, it's me, —the voice replied.
—Damn the tea, —Phillips cursed under his breath—. That bitch.
—Yeah, the iced tea was drugged, —Hank said sarcastically—.
After Ethan left, Phillips had quickly pulled up the victim's details. Without pausing, they drove to Clearfield County. When they arrived at the victim's house, Phillips and his partners, while interrogating the suspect, drank a glass of iced tea and, without realizing it, passed out.
—Cross your fingers, pray that Ethan can find us, —Phillips said resignedly.
—What can he do alone? —Hank sighed—. He doesn't even know where we are.
At that moment, a shaft of light appeared ahead. The brightness blurred with the sound of footsteps, growing stronger.
Both men straightened and looked toward the newcomer. A blonde woman, dressed in white and holding a candle, descended the stairs. Her face was incredibly sweet.
Phillips ground his teeth in anger when he saw her.
Behind her, a man in a red robe followed. He had four fleshy horns on his forehead, and many tattoos decorated his arms.
The woman moved quickly, lighting each candle one by one. With the light, Phillips could finally make out his surroundings more clearly.
It was obviously a basement. The space was large, several dozen square meters. The decor was sinister: rows of red candelabras, a faint smell of blood in the air, demonic totems everywhere, and weapons hanging on the walls — machetes still stained.
In the center stood a platform upholstered in black leather. A young woman lay on it, hands and feet bound. She was clearly the killer's latest victim.
Phillips and Hank were suspended in a corner of the basement, tied with a thick rope — it wouldn't be easy to free themselves.
—Heard you were looking for me? —the horned man asked, approaching with a smile and a glass of red wine in his hand.
The blonde woman brought him a chair, and he sat in front of them.
Phillips spat to one side, containing his fury.
—Declan Bode.
—Yes, that's me, —the man replied calmly.
Bode raised his glass and smiled.
—Special Agent Robert Phillips, —Phillips introduced himself—. And you are Hank Voight, —he added, fixing his gaze on the man before them—. You're welcome as well.
Hank let out a harsh, mocking chuckle.
—Don't play the wise guy, —he growled—. If you turn yourself in now, you could spend the rest of your days behind bars. Not the death penalty. Isn't it enough to be a serial killer and now you want to be a cop killer too?
Bode smiled —a smile that was too serene and cold. His eyes showed no remorse, only a strange calm.
—No, —he said slowly—. I don't think you understand… or maybe you don't want to. This is part of a sacrifice. You will witness my ascent.
Hank snorted and stepped forward, hostile.
—Yeah, yeah, —he sneered—. We've heard the script: rituals, illuminati, crazy talk. Anything more original?
Bode rose with the measured slowness of someone speaking theatrically and, in a theatrical voice, replied:
—You call me lunatic and you hurt me, —he pretended to be sad—.
Bode's smile was not kind; it belonged to someone who enjoyed frightening others.
He pressed a bell, and figures began to descend from the distant staircase. A dozen people, candles in hand, came down with solemn faces.
Phillips hadn't expected to see so many people there. Leading the group was none other than Doctor Quick, the illegal surgeon they had encountered that day at the dry cleaner's.
Quick approached with contempt.
—You bastards trashed my office and stole my things. I'll show you that you messed with the wrong person.
—Pfft! —Phillips spat a thick gob of phlegm in his face, looking at him with disdain.
Quick wiped himself with a trembling hand, looking up in disbelief.
—How could you do that? It's unhygienic! —he exclaimed, then punched Phillips in the stomach.
—Ah! —Phillips groaned in pain, spitting again in his face.
—You're disgusting! —Quick shouted, trembling with rage, before running toward the nearest sink.
Hank, watching the scene, closed his eyes in helplessness.
—Tape their mouths, —Bode ordered with a cold expression.
A moment later, Phillips's and Hank's mouths were firmly sealed with gray duct tape.
Quick, after cleaning his head, returned and looked at Bode angrily.
—Soon it will be your turn. I can't wait for that moment.
He then went to the altar and slapped the woman lying there to wake her. He took a syringe from a small box beside him — an anesthetic prepared to keep the victim awake but immobilized.
He gently pressed the plunger, and a clear liquid flowed from the needle's tip.
At the sight of the gleaming needle, Daria struggled desperately. But her hands and feet were tied, preventing her from moving. The gag over her mouth allowed only muffled moans. What she saw filled her with panic.
A dozen people gathered in a circle, staring at her like cattle being led to slaughter. That same morning, as she left home, a car had bumped her from behind.
The damage had not been serious, and the girl had been sweet, so Daria had not made an issue of it. Unexpectedly, as she turned around, someone had placed a handkerchief over her face. When she woke up, she found herself in this chilling scene.
—Everyone, come here, —Bode said sternly, approaching the altar—. This was supposed to be a more glorious occasion, but the police have insulted our sacred ritual.
This time, we will give them an answer.
The blonde woman who accompanied him, Kim Newton, stepped forward with a tray. On it were a dozen shot glasses filled with whiskey.
Each glass contained a pill resting at the bottom.
—Thank you, Kim, —Bode said, taking a glass and raising it high—. Today we have a surprise offering, and I think she will appreciate it. Nothing can stop our sacrifice; the lord of darkness will take us into his eternal embrace.
Now there were a dozen people, men and women, present. Kim included, they all took their glasses and raised them high.
—For a glorious embrace —they repeated in unison.
They drank the whiskey, swallowing the pills within. As they set their glasses back on the tray, their eyes lit up with emotion, and their bodies began to tremble.
Led by Bode, they all undressed. Men and women alike stood completely naked. Their bodies bore strange alterations—on Dr. Quick's chest, something protruded beneath the skin, like scales beginning to grow.
They all bore the same tattoo at the center of their chests.
The most striking one was on Bode's back: a massive inverted black cross. Once undressed, he stretched his arms and lifted his head. Under the flickering candlelight, the cross looked particularly terrifying.
Kim and another naked woman knelt before him, kissing the backs of his feet and gazing up at him with reverence.
Sweat gathered on Hank's forehead as he watched.
He and Phillips exchanged a look—each saw the same despair mirrored in the other's eyes. This time, they were likely doomed. The brief ceremony ended quickly, and Quick returned to the altar, picking up the syringe.
—Shh —he said softly, looking at Daria, whose eyes were filled with tears—. Don't be afraid. This is sacred and glorious.
Just as he was about to inject her with the anesthetic, a green light flickered on the nearby wall.
Seeing it, Bode grabbed a remote control.
He pressed a button, and a small screen on the wall came to life, showing someone standing at the front door, pressing the doorbell repeatedly. Everyone froze, waiting for the person to leave.
After a minute, the doorbell rang again.
When Phillips and Hank saw who it was, their hearts began to race; their eyes brightened. They had been silently praying, wondering how Ethan had found the place. They only hoped he'd brought backup—there were too many of them down here.
When the man at the door didn't leave, Bode turned to Kim.
Kim stood and quickly approached the screen, pressing a button.
—Who are you? What can I do for you?
—Good afternoon —said the man at the door, his voice steady as his eyes scanned the woman—. Kim Newton? We need to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.
The security camera captured every gesture, and the tension in the air was palpable as they waited for her response.
Kim glanced at Bode, searching for an excuse to send him away.
—Wait a second —Dr. Quick interjected, stepping toward the monitor with disdain—. I know that guy. He was with the two men hanging down here. We can't let him leave.
Bode pressed the remote several times, switching between the surveillance cameras from different angles, but no one else appeared on the screens.
Hank's sharp eyes confirmed it—Ethan was alone. His chest tightened; if they caught him too, they were finished.
—The ceremony is on hold —Bode ordered—. Kim, greet him. Prepare some tea for our guest.
He took Kim into his arms and smiled.
—This place has been compromised. I've prepared a new location. After we finish the sacrifice, we'll move immediately.
Kim picked up the skirt she'd just removed and slipped it back on.
—I'll do it.
She pressed the button.
—Excuse me, please wait a moment —she said calmly.
Then she turned to a man behind her with a kind-looking face.
The man got dressed as well, took a gun from the wall, and tucked it casually into his waistband.
Because of the drug they had just taken, they were euphoric, unable to resist the impulse to destroy everything. After nodding respectfully to Bode, the two of them hurried up the stairs.
The rest suppressed their impulses and waited patiently.
—Alright, thank you —Ethan said to the intercom system, a polite smile touching his eyes.
The radar was already active, and within its detection range appeared a dozen red dots, tightly clustered—all of them pointing downward. In front of him stood a two-story villa and what was clearly the basement, with white walls and a gray roof, elegant and deceptively peaceful.
Given what Job had uncovered, the scene made no sense. Kim Newton was single, her parents had died over two years ago, so having a dozen people hidden in the basement was beyond suspicious. It didn't take much to imagine what they were planning.
Ethan watched the radar and noticed two red dots moving. Soon, the arrows pointing downward leveled out—someone was coming up.
Footsteps echoed from inside, drawing closer to the main door.
Ethan shifted to the side, avoiding the doorway. If someone fired suddenly, a shotgun blast wouldn't hit him.
Click.
The lock disengaged and the door swung open. A blonde woman in a white dress appeared before him, offering an unusually sweet smile, her teeth flawless and white.
—Hello —the woman said softly—. I'm Kim Newton. How can I help you?
Kim Newton wore a long white dress, her blonde hair gently waving around her shoulders. Her sweet smile made her look completely harmless.
It was obvious she had dressed in a hurry—she had simply thrown on a thin dress and run upstairs. Sunlight poured over her, revealing her figure, and her nipples showed faintly through the fabric.
She was clearly nervous, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her apron as she gestured for him to come inside.
—Hello, Miss Newton —Ethan said, noticing the trace of tension on her face—. May we come in and talk for a moment?
—Of course —she replied quickly, forcing a smile as she stepped aside.
Ethan closed the door behind him and walked in, noticing how the sunset filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. On the sofa, a man sat flipping through a newspaper.
—This is my boyfriend, Jack —Kim said, trying to sound casual as she gestured toward the man—. What's your name, officer?
—Call me Ethan, but I'm not an officer —he replied calmly, stepping forward and extending his hand.
—Nice to meet you, Jack.
Jack set the newspaper aside and shook Ethan's hand with a shy smile.
—Would you like some iced tea? —he offered, trying to ease the tension.
—Thanks —Ethan said, accepting the drink while his eyes scanned the room carefully.
He observed the apartment closely, taking in every detail—well-kept furniture, warm lighting, and personal items suggesting an ordinary, quiet life. He tightened his grip on Jack's hand, gauging his reactions.
They all smiled, trying to maintain the facade of calm, but Ethan couldn't afford to relax. Suddenly, his expression hardened—something about Jack seemed off.
Without hesitation, he moved swiftly, stepping beside him and applying a controlled chokehold to his neck—firm, precise, enough to neutralize the threat.
Jack's breathing grew ragged; he struggled for a few seconds, trying to break free, but the pressure and position drained his strength. His eyelids fluttered, movements sluggish, and within a heartbeat, his body went limp, collapsing unconscious onto the carpet.
—Stop! —Kim Newton screamed, her voice breaking as the tray slipped from her hands, cups shattering against the floor.
Ethan turned sharply, pressing his palm to her throat, cutting off any chance of a scream or sudden move.
—If you scream, I'll kill you. Do you understand? —he said coldly; his tone left no room for doubt. She saw in his eyes that he wasn't bluffing.
Kim struggled for a second, terrified, but Ethan kept the pressure steady—not to hurt, only to control. She inhaled shakily, then stopped resisting. He loosened his grip just enough for her to breathe, without removing his hand.
—Now —he continued, weighing each word—, I need answers.
Kim stared at him, eyes red, trying to steady her voice.
—Where is the woman? Where is Agent Phillips?
She froze for a moment; then a shadow crossed her face, replaced by a cold, almost sadistic expression. It was hard to believe those once-sweet eyes could turn so cruel.
Ethan drew his pistol from his waistband with his free hand and pressed it against her head.
—I'll ask you again: where's my friend? —Ethan said, his voice sharp as steel.
Kim blinked, the drug still clouding her mind. Her mask cracked—for the first time, he saw real fear in her. Her body trembled, breath uneven, lips quivering.
Ethan loosened his hand just enough for her to speak without being able to scream. She whimpered, twisting under his grip.
—In the basement —she said in a broken voice.
—How many are down there? —Ethan pressed, each word deliberate.
—Three in the basement —Kim replied, her voice firmer now—. I'll tell you everything if you promise not to hurt me.
Ethan lifted her quickly, holding her by the shoulders. He knew there were more people below—she thought she could trick him.
—One wrong move and I'll blow your head off. Understand? —he said quietly.
After the struggle, Kim's clothes were disheveled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and followed close behind, using her as cover.
Meanwhile, he scanned the corners of the house to make sure there were no other surveillance cameras—but there were none. He guessed the exterior was more heavily monitored, so he avoided using heavy weapons; too much noise would draw attention.
Turning two corners, Kim led him into a study. She approached a bookshelf and pressed a button on the side of the shelf.
The bookcase slid open, revealing a descending passageway. From below, faint country music and cheerful laughter drifted upward. It sounded more like a country club than a study.