Collateral Blood

7

The safehouse was a stark contrast to the luxurious world that Sloan had known. Hidden away on the outskirts of the city, it was a nondescript building that blended seamlessly into its surroundings. From the outside, it appeared as a simple, weathered two-story house, its once-white facade now faded and mottled by years of exposure. A high fence encircled the property, topped with barbed wire, and the surrounding area was overgrown with weeds and tangled bushes. It seemed to exist in a state of permanent twilight, its isolation amplifying the sense of foreboding.

Inside, the house was functional but far from welcoming. The walls were bare, save for the occasional faded poster or peeling wallpaper. The air was musty, filled with the scent of old wood and damp. The furniture was sparse and utilitarian—a few grimy couches, a chipped dining table, and a solitary television perched in one corner. The overall atmosphere was one of bleak efficiency, designed for practicality rather than comfort.

Sloan's room was situated on the second floor. It was small and stark, with a single metal-framed bed pushed against one wall. The sheets were plain, and the thin blanket looked as though it had seen better days. A small, barred window allowed in a sliver of light, but offered no view of the outside world—only the iron bars and a view of the house's roof. There was a wooden chair in the corner and a bare, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was devoid of personal touches, a cold reminder of the reality of her situation.

Downstairs, Harry Styles and Tom were engaged in a tense discussion about the aftermath of the kidnapping. The air between them was thick with the weight of their actions and the looming uncertainty of their next steps.

Harry, his face a mask of hardened resolve, leaned against the battered kitchen counter. His expression was unreadable as he reviewed the logistics of their operation. "We've made our move," he said, his voice cold and detached. "Sloan is secure in the safehouse. The next step is to ensure that we keep this operation contained and controlled."

Tom, who was pacing the room with a furrowed brow, nodded. "Lucas will come after us with everything he has. We need to be ready. The smoke grenade diversion worked, but we can't count on luck forever. What's our plan if he comes for us tonight?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "We need to make sure that Sloan remains isolated. If she's in contact with anyone, it could jeopardize our entire operation. And as for Lucas—he's not the only one we need to worry about. There's a lot riding on this. We've got to keep our heads and stay ahead of him."

Tom looked out of the window, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on him. "And what about Sloan? We can't keep her in the dark forever. She'll need to understand why she's here, even if it's not all the details. At some point, she'll start questioning things."

Harry's lips curled into a smirk, though there was no warmth in it. "She'll find out soon enough. For now, we keep her under control and maintain our stance. This isn't just about keeping her quiet; it's about maintaining our leverage and making sure Lucas knows the consequences of crossing us."

Meanwhile, Sloan sat on the edge of the bed, her heart racing as she tried to come to terms with her new reality. The cold, sterile environment of the room only heightened her sense of isolation and fear. The muffled sounds of footsteps and the low murmur of voices downstairs were the only indicators of activity, and they did little to ease her anxiety.

The door to her room creaked open, and Harry stepped in. His presence was commanding, his eyes cold and calculating. He surveyed the room with a detached air before turning his gaze on Sloan.

"Well, look at you," he said, his tone dripping with a mix of amusement and malice. "Comfortable, I hope?"

Sloan's eyes flashed with a mixture of defiance and fear. "Why am I here? What do you want from me?"

Harry's smirk widened slightly, though there was no warmth in his expression. "You're here because of a mistake your father made. As for what I want from you—well, that's a question you'll have to ponder for yourself. I'm not here to explain our every move."

Sloan's frustration bubbled over. "My father... he's a good man. You don't know him. Why are you doing this?"

Harry leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. "Oh, I'm not lying. Your father's world is far darker than you've ever imagined. But don't take my word for it. Maybe when you're out of here, you'll see for yourself."

Sloan's eyes filled with tears, but she fought to keep her composure. "What do you want from me? How long will I be here?"

Harry straightened, his gaze hardening. "You'll be here until we're done with our business. As for what we want—let's just say it's not your cooperation we're after. It's a message to your father."

With that, Harry turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Sloan was left alone with her thoughts, the chilling implications of Harry's words echoing in her mind. The reality of her situation was sinking in, and with it came a growing dread of the unknown.

As the night wore on, the safehouse remained a silent witness to the unfolding drama. Sloan's isolation and Harry's cold demeanour were a constant reminder of the perilous game being played—a game where trust was scarce, and every action was laden with consequences.