Chapter 9 The portrait

Chapter 9:

Raven's POV

The contract landed in my encrypted inbox at 2:17 a.m.

three days after I walked out of Darkar with Oscar's grin still crawling under my skin and his last words ringing like a death knell: "I kept a surprise for you."

Target: a woman.

Age: 68.

Location: private residence, Southampton, Hamptons.

Payment: $750,000 on confirmation.

Notes: advanced dementia, make it clean, no witnesses, no trace.

A photo of a woman was sent, a basic floor plan, security rotation, and a single line: "She's kept on the second floor, east wing, white room."

I didn't hesitate.

Another message popped up my phone, another photo Oscar sent me, i opened it and it was an image of Lila asleep in her bed, taken from outside her window. A reminder, one wrong move and my daughter becomes payment.

The house was a fortress pretending to be a beachside estate. White stone, manicured lawns rolling down to the Atlantic, windows that caught moonlight like knives.

Perimeter cameras every twenty feet, motion sensors buried in the grass, eight armed guards on rotation, two Rottweilers patrolling the grounds.

I spent two nights in the dunes with binoculars and patience, memorizing patterns.

The woman never left the second floor, curtains always drawn, no visitors, only a maid who brought trays and left with them untouched.

I took the maid on the third night.

She was leaving through the service gate at 11:43 p.m., trash bag in one hand, phone in the other. I came up behind her in the shadows of the hedge, arm around her throat, blade to her kidney. "Scream and I open you from the back," I whispered.

She froze, muffling down a scream down her throat, trembling like a leaf.

I dragged her into the dunes, zip-tied her wrists, taped her mouth, pressed the blade against her throat until she nodded frantically.

"Where is she kept?" I asked, pulling the tape down just enough.

Tears streamed. "Second floor... east wing... blue room... please... I have kids..."

"Code to the service door?"

"7-4-9-2."

"Guards on that floor?"

"Two. One outside the room. One in the hallway."

I taped her mouth again, zip-tied her ankles, left her bound behind a dune. She'd be found in the morning, alive, i don't kill innocents unless I have to.

The service door code worked, i slipped inside, kitchen dark, stainless steel gleaming under moonlight through the window.

I moved up the back stairs, avoiding cameras, sticking to shadows. Second floor hallway marble, crystal chandelier, oil paintings worth more than my life.

One guard at the far end, back to me. I came up behind him, arm around his throat, knocking him out blade pressed to his kidney.

He dropped without a sound. I dragged him into a linen closet, zip-tied him, gagged him with a towel.

The white room door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The woman was in a wheelchair by the window, facing a small portrait on the nightstand.

Thin white hair, frail shoulders under a pale blue robe, hands folded in her lap like she was praying.

An elderly?

The room smelled of lavender, old paper, huge bed in the corner, IV stand empty, She didn't turn when I entered. Just stared at the portrait, a soft, vacant smile on her lips.

I stepped closer, knife low, one cut, quick, clean, that's all it would take.

As i got closer and took a proper look at her, She looked... harmless. Plain, lost, dementia, the brief said.

She didn't even know I was there. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a portrait, a boy maybe eight years old, dark hair, serious eyes, storm-gray gaze staring straight at the camera.

My breath caught.

The eyes.

Lila's eyes.

The same shape, same intensity, same impossible gray. But a younger male.

The woman whispered something soft, broken words I couldn't catch. She stroked the frame like it was alive. Eyes glistering with unshed tears. "My boy... my sweet boy..."

I looked around the room. No other photos.

Just this one boy. And a single silver frame on the dresser, the name "Eleanor Blackwood." Inscripted on the frame.

the elderly woman but, younger, smiling, arm around a man who looked like an older version of the boy in the portrait. The man's face was scratched out, deliberately, viciously.

The realization hit like a blade between my ribs.

Eleanor Blackwood.

Damien Blackwood.

The uncanny resemblance between the young boy in the portrait and my daughter Lila.

She was Damien's mother.

The contract was to kill Damien's mother.

I stood there, knife in hand, staring at the woman who had no idea who i was or what i was about to do.

Lila's life was along the line, and i can't let anything happen to my daughter!

*******************************************

DAMIEN'S POV

I woke up with a sharp pang of pain on my entire body.

Blood had soaked through my shirt, drying in stiff patches that pulled every time I breathed. My wrists were tied behind an iron chair, cold metal biting into skin.

The room was concrete bare bulb overhead, no windows, smell of rust and damp and old blood. A basement, or a warehouse.

I tested the ties, too tight, my gun was gone, phone gone, jacket gone, shirt torn open, wound exposed.

bullet entry, no exit. Through-and-through. Bleeding had slowed, but infection would start soon if it hadn't already.

I felt my head banging terribly, like I fell into a ditch head down.

I heard Footsteps approaching, faintly at first but it grew louder with each steps and within seconds, the door flew opened.

Two men stepped in, masks pulled down around their necks. One tall, lean, scar across his cheek. The other shorter, heavier, knuckles scarred. They carried batons and knives.

"Ohhh, the prince of Manhattan is awake," the taller one said, grinning. "Look at him. All tied up like a present."

The short one laughed. "Pretty boy thought he owned the city."

I didn't answer. Just watched them, calculating how i would gut them if i ever broke free. The door was steel, bolted from outside. One way out.

Tall one walked closer. Baton tapping his palm. "Boss says you're valuable. But not so valuable you can't bleed a little."

He swung. Baton cracked across my ribs.

Air exploded from my lungs. Pain flared white-hot. I bit down on a grunt.

Short one grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. "You like pain, rich boy?" he asked.

Another swing. This one to the thigh, my muscle cramped, and i tasted blood as i bit my tongue.

Tall one leaned in. Breath hot. "You fucked with the wrong people. Now you pay."

He drove a fist into my wounded shoulder. I roared couldn't stop it. Vision tunneled. Blood seeped fresh.

Short one laughed. "Look at him. Bleeding like a stuck pig."

They took turns. Baton to the kidneys. Knife tip dragged across my chest, shallow cuts, just enough to sting. Fists to the face. Blood in my mouth. Vision blurring.

I kept my mind sharp, counted blows, waited for an opportunity.

When they stepped back, breathing hard, I lifted my head. Met their eyes.

"You're dead," I said quietly, spitting out blood.

They laughed hard.

I opened my mouth to speak again, then the door flung open.

Gunshots, sharp, fast. Tall one dropped first, head snapping back. Short one spun, reaching for his gun, but he was too slow.

Two more shots and he fell, dead.

Silence.

A figure stepped in, dark silhouette, gun raised.

I squinted through blood and sweat.

A woman's voice "you belong to me." She said.

Darkness rushed in again.

I lost consciousness.