Chapter 42: Place Your Bet

Wheels and Sal tore out of Lucky's pub, their minds reeling from the information they'd just uncovered. Sal's fists were still clenched, the urge to plant one right in Lucky's face barely contained. It had taken all of Wheels' calm reasoning to hold him back.

"Deep breaths, man," Wheels muttered as they jogged down the street. "Lucky's just the messenger. We've got bigger fish to fry."

Sal grunted in response, his anger giving way to a gnawing worry. "How could Bishop and Rocco be so careless?" he growled, more to himself than to Wheels. "After everything we've been through, you'd think they'd know better than to fall for some shady scheme."

Memories flashed through Sal's mind – close calls, narrow escapes, the constant dance with danger that had been their life for so long. They'd finally tasted freedom, a chance at a decent life away from the vultures who'd seen them as nothing more than disposable pawns. And now this.

Wheels' voice cut through Sal's brooding. "No time for what-ifs, pal. We need to catch up with the boss. Something tells me he's going to need all the backup he can get."

Sal nodded briskly, his face set with determination. "Right. Fire off a message to Slick. He needs to know what we've uncovered so he can brief the boss."

As Wheels tapped out a quick text, Sal's eyes darted around the street, finally landing on Lucky's gleaming new car. A plan formed in his mind.

"Lucky!" Sal called out, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're borrowing your ride. This is an emergency."

Lucky's face fell as he glanced between Sal and his prized vehicle. "But I just got her detailed—"

"Look," Sal cut him off, his patience wearing thin. "Two of our guys might be in serious trouble, and you played a part in getting them there. The least you can do is lend us your wheels."

Lucky hesitated for a moment, weighing the potential fate of his car against the gravity of the situation. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he tossed the keys to Sal.

"Just... try not to wreck it, okay?" Lucky pleaded as Sal and Wheels piled into the car.

Sal's only response was the screech of tires as they peeled away from the curb. The streets blurred past them as they raced towards Razorwood.

"Hang on, guys," Wheels muttered, gripping the dashboard as Sal took a corner at breakneck speed. "We're coming."

Suddenly, a sheriff's vehicle materialized out of nowhere, cutting across their path. Sal's heart leapt into his throat as he slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched against asphalt, and for one heart-stopping moment, it seemed like a collision was inevitable.

At the last possible second, the car skidded to a halt, mere inches from the sheriff's cruiser.

"What in the—" Sal's curse was cut short as a stern-faced officer emerged from the police vehicle, hand resting ominously on his holster.

"Step away from the vehicle," the officer barked, his voice carrying the full weight of authority. "I'm Deputy Sheriff Jenkins from the Willowbrook Sheriff's Department. You're both under arrest for physical assault."

Sal and Wheels exchanged bewildered glances as Jenkins recited their Miranda rights. Physical assault? What was he talking about?

Sal's heart raced as he stared at the officer in disbelief. "Physical assault? Who did we supposedly attack?" This couldn't be happening—not now. They were supposed to be on their way to Razorwoods to meet the boss. If what they'd uncovered was true, Bishop and Rocco might already be closing in on the organization.

Wheels stepped forward, his voice steady despite the tension. "Can we see the warrant?"

A gruff voice cut through the air, and Sheriff Davis emerged from behind his deputies. His imposing figure loomed over them as he growled, "Warrant? If I say you're under arrest, you're under arrest."

Sal felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. He knew they were running out of time. "Sheriff, please," he pleaded, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "This really isn't a good time. We're in a hurry—someone could be in serious danger."

Sheriff Davis's eyes narrowed, his voice cold as steel. "The only one in danger here is you if you keep this up. Now, be a good boy and do as I say." He turned to his deputy. "Jenkins, take their car to the station."

As they were herded into the patrol car, Sal and Wheels exchanged worried glances. The entire ride to the sheriff's office, they pleaded their case, insisting they hadn't done anything illegal recently. Could this be about something from their past? Who would've filed a complaint against them? In their neighborhood, complaints and lawsuits were luxuries no one could afford.

Sal's mind raced. He knew they were entitled to one phone call, but as soon as they arrived at the station, that right seemed to evaporate. Before he could protest, he was shoved into a holding cell while Wheels was dragged off to interrogation.

From her office, Sheriff Davis allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She had them right where she wanted them. The fact that this arrest was completely illegal didn't faze her one bit. All that mattered was making progress on her case.

…

In a shadowy corner of the Killing Theater, a man crouched, his bare feet cold against the floor. He couldn't remember where he'd lost his shoes—or if he'd even been wearing any when he entered this place. Not that it mattered now. His mission was long forgotten; all he wanted was for this nightmare to end.

The image of John's brutal murder played on repeat in his mind. He'd watched, helpless and horrified, as the killer had swung that steel bar again and again. The sickening crunch of metal on bone still echoed in his ears.

Now, huddled inside a locker, the man fought to control his trembling. Darkness pressed in on all sides, the air thick and stifling. But he didn't dare move. The alternative was unthinkable.

He couldn't shake the memory of the killer's eyes—that look of twisted pleasure as he'd continued to batter John's lifeless body. It was inhuman. Monstrous.

Sweat trickled down his back as he weighed his options. The smart move was to stay hidden, to wait it out. But how long could he last here? And what if the killer decided to check the lockers?

His heart pounded so loudly he was sure it would give him away. But the thought of facing that madman kept him rooted in place. No matter how uncomfortable things got in here, it was infinitely better than what waited outside.

Back in the shadowy control room of the Killing Theater, Red stood before a wall of monitors, his voice dripping with mock sympathy as he addressed the unseen audience of wealthy degenerates.

"Oh, what a shame!" he crooned, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like Player One, our top contender, just got flattened. My condolences to all you high rollers who bet on our pancaked friend."

Red paused, bowing his head in an exaggerated moment of silence that lasted all of two seconds before he snapped back to attention, eyes glittering with barely contained glee.

"But the show must go on! Let's see how our surviving contestants are faring, shall we?"

With a theatrical flourish, he gestured to the main screen. The image flickered, then split to show two feeds side by side. On one side, the dingy confines of the projection room. On the other, the vast expanse of the movie screen itself, now serving a far more sinister purpose than its designers ever intended.

The camera zoomed in on the projection room, revealing a man with a determined set to his jaw.

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet Rocco Dante," Red purred. "He thought he was so clever, infiltrating our little operation. Slipped right in with the new recruits, didn't you, Rocco?" He chuckled, a sound devoid of any real humor. "Such bravery deserves recognition. If you think our intrepid investigator has what it takes to survive, now's the time to put your money where your mouth is."

With a dramatic wave of his hand, Red directed attention to the projection screen. The image shifted, focusing on a young woman with haunted eyes.

"And here we have Elysia Rivers," he continued, his voice taking on a mock-sympathetic tone. "Poor thing. Abandoned by dear old dad, desperate to pay off his debts." Red's lips curled into a cruel smile. "What Elysia doesn't know is that we're the ones holding those IOUs. We... shall we say, engineered her circumstances to ensure her participation in our little game."

Red leaned closer to the camera, his eyes glittering with malice. "So, my esteemed patrons, which of our players will outlast the other? The determined detective or the desperate daughter? Place your bets."

Rocco prowled the cramped confines of the projection room, his senses on high alert. Years of training from Third Street had honed his instincts, but even they couldn't prepare him for the surreal nature of this "game." He scanned the antiquated equipment, looking for anything that might give him an edge.

Meanwhile, on the vast expanse of the projection screen, Elysia picked her way through a landscape that seemed to shift and warp with each step. The familiar contours of the movie theater had been twisted into something alien and threatening. She hugged herself, trying to quell the trembling in her limbs.

What neither of them realized was that they weren't alone. In the shadows of the projection room, something stirred, inching closer to the oblivious Rocco. And on the screen, a dark shape began to materialize behind Elysia, its outline sharpening with each passing moment.

The real game was about to begin, and the stakes were higher than either of them could imagine.

The hunter had found its prey.