The church sits in the field like cancer.
I’ve been documenting everything—patrol patterns, entry points, structural weaknesses, the way shadows fall across the building. My mental notebook fills with observations I developed during surveillance training: sight lines, approach angles, contingency routes.
No visible security cameras, which either means they’re very well hidden or these people are more confident than they should be.
I’ve counted six individuals moving around the perimeter throughout the day, but their patterns aren’t random. They’re ritualistic, purposeful, like dancers who’ve rehearsed the same choreography until it became instinctive. Something’s happening tonight.
I think about Dalia, somewhere inside that building, and my chest tightens with a mixture of rage and fear that threatens to compromise my tactical judgment. I force it down, compartmentalize it the way they taught us in the academy. Emotion gets you killed. Training keeps you alive.
I slide backward from my observation post, low-crawling through the grass until I’m far enough from the tree line to stand without being silhouetted. Time to gear up.
A tactical knife strapped to my thigh. Primary weapon is Dalia’s old service Glock—seventeen rounds of nine-millimeter, plus two spare magazines. Backup is my pistol, loaded and ready. Forty-nine rounds total. A bulletproof vest.
I check my watch: 11:47 PM. The movement around the building has intensified, figures in pale clothing flowing toward the church like moths drawn to flame. Whatever ritual they’re planning, it’s starting soon.
I adjust my vest, confirm my weapons are secure, and start moving toward the entrance I identified earlier.
The approach is two hundred meters of open ground with minimal cover. I use the military low-crawl I learned in tactical training—elbows and knees, weapon cradled across my forearms, moving in short bursts. The grass is damp with dew that soaks through my clothes, and the earth beneath smells of decay and old rain.
Every twenty meters, I pause to listen and observe. A twig snaps somewhere to my left—I freeze, heart hammering, scanning the darkness for movement. Nothing. But my nerves are singing like live wires now. No guards on this side of the building, which either means they’re overconfident or they’re expecting me. Either way, I’m committed now.
The basement entrance is exactly where I thought it would be—a set of concrete steps leading down to a steel door that’s seen better decades.
Standard residential deadbolt, not electronic. These people may be sophisticated in their psychological manipulation, but their physical security is surprisingly amateur. I pull out my lock picks—a skill I acquired during an undercover operation before I even met Dalia.
The first pin sticks. I apply pressure, feel it give with a soft click that seems to echo like a gunshot in the stillness. I freeze, listening for any sign I’ve been detected. Footsteps above? Or just my imagination? Thirty seconds later, the lock finally yields with a sound that makes me wince.
I draw Dalia's service weapon, thumb the safety off, and ease the door open just enough to peer through the gap. My breathing sounds too loud in my own ears. Darkness beyond, thick as velvet. No visible light sources, no immediate threats. But something about the shadows feels wrong, like they’re watching me back. The air that flows out carries the scent of old stone and candle wax and something else—something organic and unpleasant that makes my gut clench with warning.
I slip inside, pulling the door closed behind me. Need to maintain an exit route. The hinges protest with a soft groan that makes me flinch.
The basement is carved from the earth beneath the church. My tactical flashlight reveals rough-hewn walls, wooden support beams blackened with age, and a stone staircase leading upward toward the main floor. Everything down here feels old, predatory, like I’ve entered the digestive system of something vast and patient.
Voices drift down from above—multiple speakers, words I can’t make out but the cadence sounds ritualistic. Chanting, maybe. Or prayer. Hard to tell the difference when the god being worshipped is hungry.
I move toward the stairs, weapon ready, every sense hyper-tuned for threats. Police training emphasized the danger of enclosed spaces—limited sight lines, multiple angles of attack, nowhere to run if things go bad. But Dalia is somewhere here, and the alternative to risk is abandoning her to whatever these monsters have planned.
The stone steps don’t creak, which is fortunate because stealth is the only advantage I have. I count thirteen steps, but on the eighth one, my boot catches a loose piece of rock that skitters down behind me. I freeze, heart in my throat, waiting for shouts of alarm. Nothing. Just my own ragged breathing and the continued chanting above.
I reach a wooden door that’s slightly ajar, candlelight flickering through the gap like a wound that won’t stop bleeding. Someone’s moving on the other side, close enough to touch if not for the wood between us.
I peer through the opening into what was once the main sanctuary of the church.
The sight makes my blood turn to ice.
They’ve transformed the space into something from a fever dream. The altar has been replaced with a massive stone slab that’s stained dark with substances I don’t want to identify. Candles burn in iron sconces along the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows that make the gothic windows look like portals to hell. Symbols are carved into every available surface—spirals and eyes and geometric patterns.
Two figures in white robes move around the altar with practiced efficiency, arranging objects I can’t identify from this angle. Their faces are hidden by hoods, but their movements suggest familiarity with whatever ritual they’re preparing. One of them turns in my direction, and I duck back, pulse spiking.
Did they see me?
The chanting continues uninterrupted, but my hands are shaking now. No sign of Dalia. No sign of Vale. Just these two acolytes setting the stage for whatever horror is about to unfold.
I ease the door open wider, the old hinges protesting with a whisper I pray they don’t hear. Every step feels like it echoes despite my efforts at silence. I move along the wall, using the shadows between candles for concealment, closing the distance to the two figures at the altar.
Twenty feet.
One of them pauses in their work, head tilted like they’re listening.
Fifteen.
They return to their preparations, but something about their posture suggests alertness.
Ten.
I step out of the shadows with my weapon raised, voice pitched low and authoritative. “Police. Don’t move.”
Both figures freeze, but not with surprise. I can see their hands now—empty, no immediate weapons. But their stillness feels wrong, practiced, like they’ve been expecting this moment.
“Hands where I can see them. Turn around slowly.”
When they turn, I see faces that could belong to suburban soccer parents—middle-aged, unremarkable, eyes bright with the particular fever that comes from absolute certainty.
“You’re right on time,” one of the woman says, and her voice carries no surprise at all.
The words chill me. This is a trap. They were waiting for me. But before I can process the implications, I hear the footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate, professional.
“Lower your weapon,” a voice says, cultured and calm. Male. “Or I’ll scatter your brains across my altar.”
Jonas Vale. And the distinctive sound of a hammer being cocked on what’s probably a revolver pressed against the base of my skull. I didn’t hear him approach. Professional movement, military maybe. This man is more dangerous than I anticipated.
Every tactical manual I’ve ever read screams the same thing: never surrender your weapon. Armed suspects are always more dangerous than unarmed ones, and giving up your primary means of defense is tantamount to suicide. But with a gun pressed against my head, my options are severely limited. The metal is cold, the pressure steady but not aggressive. He’s confident.
“I said lower it,” Vale repeats, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “We have so much to discuss.”
I let the service weapon drop. If I get half a chance… “Where is she?”
“You should be honored. You’ll witness the birth of something divine.” Vale’s voice carries evangelical fervour. Excitement. Anticipation.
The two robed figures have moved to flank me, not threatening but positioning themselves to cut off potential escape routes.
“Move toward the altar,” Vale instructs. “Slowly. And keep your hands visible.”
This is the moment every law enforcement officer dreads—captured, outgunned, no backup in range. But academy training covered this scenario, drilled responses until they became muscle memory.
I just need to wait for the right moment, the right distraction.
I take one step forward, feeling the gun barrel follow my movement. The pressure stays constant. Vale is experienced enough not to let the weapon drift. Another step. I’m listening for any change in his breathing, his posture, anything that might give me an opening.
On the second step, my boot catches on an uneven stone. I stumble slightly—just enough to break the perfect alignment of the gun against my skull. This is it.
I stop abruptly and pivot left while dropping into a crouch. The sudden movement pulls Vale’s gun off target for just long enough—I grab his wrist with both hands, using leverage to force the weapon away from my head while driving my shoulder into his midsection.
Vale is stronger than I expected, and he recovers faster than anticipated. We struggle for control of the weapon, grunting with effort. The revolver wavers between us, sometimes pointing at the ceiling, sometimes at the floor, sometimes at one of us.
The gun discharges—deafeningly loud in the stone sanctuary. The bullet ricochets off the altar with a shower of sparks. Ringing and the screams of the other two acolytes fill my ears.
I twist Vale’s wrist until the bones grind together and the gun drops from nerveless fingers, but he drives an elbow into my ribs that sends lightning through my chest. I respond with a knee into his stomach that doubles him over, gasping for air.
The two cultists are moving now—not fleeing, but reaching for something behind the altar. I retrieve my service weapon, vision swimming from the elbow strike, and cover them while pulling flex-cuffs from my belt with my off hand.
“On the ground, now!” My voice echoes off the stone walls, but it sounds thin, breathless. “Hands behind your backs!”
They comply. The restraints ratchet tight around Vale’s wrists, but he’s looking at me with something that might be pity.
The other two follow without resistance, like sheep accepting slaughter, but their eyes never leave mine, and I can see they’re waiting for something. Within ninety seconds, all three are secured and sitting against the wall where I can watch them, but I don’t feel like I’ve won. I feel like I’ve walked deeper into a trap I don’t understand yet.
“Where is Dalia?” I ask, standing over Vale with my weapon trained on center mass. My hands are shaking slightly from adrenaline.
He looks up at me with the serene smile of someone who thinks he’s already won. “You’re too late.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.” The word hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. “Transformed. Transcended. Cut into beautiful pieces and distributed among the faithful.”
My vision tunnels, everything except Vale’s face fading to gray static. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His smile widens, and there’s genuine pleasure in his eyes. “Did you really think we’d wait for your dramatic rescue? Did you think love conquers all, Detective? How wonderfully naive.”
“She’s not dead.” But even as I say it, doubt creeps in like poison. I’ve been planning this infiltration for hours. They’ve had her for days. Plenty of time to do whatever they wanted before I arrived.
The altar is stained.
“There’s nothing left to save,” Vale continues, his voice gentle as a funeral director discussing arrangements. “She served her purpose beautifully. Willingly, in the end. She embraced the transformation.”
Something fractures inside my chest. The professional detachment I’ve maintained throughout this operation crumbles like a dam under pressure. Rage floods in to fill the space where logic used to live, but it’s mixed with something worse—the terrible possibility that he’s telling the truth.
I look around the sanctuary, seeing it clearly for the first time. The stained altar. The ritualistic symbols. The careful preparation for horrors I can’t bring myself to imagine.
My gaze falls on an iron candelabra near the altar—heavy, medieval-looking, designed to hold a dozen thick candles. The kind of object that could do serious damage in the right hands. My vision is starting to narrow, focus pulling down to a tunnel that contains only Vale and the tools of his destruction.
I holster my weapon and walk toward it with deliberate steps that echo off stone like a countdown timer. My breathing is too loud, too fast. The rage is taking over, and some distant part of my mind knows this is exactly what Vale wants.
“What are you doing?” Vale calls after me, and for the first time, his voice carries a note of uncertainty. But underneath it, I hear something else.
Satisfaction.
I lift the candelabra, feeling its weight. Twenty pounds of wrought iron shaped into something beautiful and terrible. Candles scatter across the floor, wax splattering like blood.
My hands are steady now. Purpose has replaced confusion.
“You killed her,” I say, turning back toward Vale. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—measured, empty of everything except purpose.
“I elevated her,” he corrects with a smile. “She became part of something eternal.”
I’m sick of their bullshit.
I take a step toward him, then another. The candelabra feels perfectly balanced in my hands, like it was designed for this moment. But Vale isn’t cowering anymore. He’s watching me with the fascination of a scientist observing a chemical reaction.
“Where are the pieces?” I ask, and the question comes out as flat as a death certificate.
Vale’s smile falters, but only slightly. “Detective, you’re not thinking clearly. Your emotional attachment is compromising your judgment.”
“Where. Are. The. Pieces.”
The other two cultists press themselves against the wall like they’re trying to disappear into the stone. Their eyes are bright with fear. Vale himself has gone very still, finally understanding that the dynamic in this room has shifted in ways his psychological training never prepared him for. Or maybe understanding exactly what he hoped would happen.
I raise the candelabra, iron catching the candlelight like a weapon forged in hell itself. My muscles coil with the effort of holding back, waiting for the right moment.
“Wait,” Vale says a little breathless, and now his voice carries genuine fear. “You’re a police officer. You have protocols to follow. Legal procedures.”
“Protocol didn’t save her.” I take another step closer, and the weight of the iron above my head is becoming a living thing, demanding release. “Legal procedures didn’t stop you from cutting her apart.”
“Detective, please—”
The sound of his voice—the same voice that ordered Dalia’s transformation, that spoke of her death with clinical detachment—finally breaks what’s left of my professional restraint. Some part of me wonders if this is exactly what he planned. If destroying me was always part of the sick ritual.
I feel the fury of six years of partnership lost, days of desperate searching, and the absolute certainty that some crimes deserve punishment beyond what any courtroom can provide.
Then the iron whistles through the air like judgment day.
ns216.73.216.148da2
