Chapter 3: The Price of Blood

The last ruthless figure in Maple Heights is an old man. His hair is white, his steps unsteady, like a stiff wind could blow him over.

He wears a faded Army jacket and battered boots, the kind you see on old-timers who haunt the VFW hall. A faded 101st Airborne patch still clings to the sleeve, threadbare but proud. A couple of local teens once tried to mess with him behind the grocery store—never again.

But anyone fooled by his looks is in for a world of hurt.

Those who know his reputation steer clear. If you’ve survived as long as him, there’s a reason. Some folks say he could kill with a pen as easily as a pistol.

This old man is a top assassin from the Seven Stars Society. Seven Stars is the most mysterious outfit in the underworld these days. They keep all kinds of killers. If you’re on their list, it’s like getting a letter from the Grim Reaper—no matter how you try to hide, you’re dead.

Rumor has it their clubhouse is somewhere in the Appalachian foothills, where moonshine stills hide more than just whiskey. Nobody knows their true numbers. What folks do know is if you make their hit list, you might as well start planning your own funeral.

This old man has no name, just the nickname Sirius. They say he’s been with Seven Stars since the beginning, and his price is the highest—three hundred grand for a single job.

Legend has it, Sirius once flipped a coin to decide the fate of a mayor, and the whole city held its breath till it landed. The only thing heavier than his knife is the price on his head.

It’s not overpriced. The head of the Blue Ridge Crew, said to be able to split a river with his shotgun, once scarred a senator’s son in a duel. In a rage, the senator hired Seven Stars. The Blue Ridge Crew heard about it and locked down their compound day and night, sent guards to patrol. Not even a squirrel could sneak in.

For weeks, their compound was a fortress—CCTV, barbed wire, and half the county’s gun stores emptied. Still, the head honcho was found dead, a single knife wound, his own shotgun propped against the door.

But somehow, their boss still died—killed by Sirius’s blade.

The story was all over the local radio the next day—how a man could walk into hell and walk out clean. To this day, nobody’s figured out how he did it.

And it wasn’t a sneak attack, but a fair fight. Sirius’s knife work is said to be among the best in the country.

The legend goes that the two men squared off under a full moon, knives glinting in the dark. Only one walked away, and that was Sirius, whistling an old Appalachian tune.

The last ruthless figure Derek Lane has to bring in is this very killer.

It’s the case nobody on the force wanted. But Derek Lane isn’t like other cops. He checks his weapon, squares his shoulders, and heads out to the edge of town.

Right now, he finds Sirius in a hidden roadside motel. The TV in the corner flickered with an old Braves game, volume turned down low. Before Derek can say a word, Sirius does something no one expects.

2

The old man’s hand is steady. The coffee pot’s stream is thin, stopping just as the mug fills to the brim.

The motel is the kind you find off old Route 17—flickering neon, faded wallpaper, and the constant drone of bugs outside. Sirius moves with eerie precision, every motion measured and sure, as if the world could be balanced on the edge of his blade.

One drop more, it’d spill. One less, it’d look empty.

That kind of control makes Derek’s skin prickle. You don’t live this long in Sirius’s business without nerves of steel.

Such steady hands—how much more terrifying would they be when killing?

The thought runs through Derek’s mind as he sets his badge on the table, coffee steaming between them. The air is thick with anticipation.

Derek sits across from the old man, unfazed. He picks up the mug, downs it in one gulp, then slaps the warrant on the table, eyes sharp as bullets locked on the old man.

He lets the silence linger, coffee burning his throat. The motel clock ticks, echoing louder than it should.

“You Derek Lane or Caleb Lane?” the old man asks, voice low and gravelly. He pours Derek another cup.

His words drag like heavy stones, but there’s no tremor in them. Only the faintest glint of curiosity.

“Caleb’s my older brother.”

Derek’s lips twist in a wry smile. Family comes up often in this line of work—sometimes it’s a shield, sometimes a target.

“Caleb’s the smart one, Derek’s the tough one. This job should’ve gone to Caleb,” the old man sighs.

There’s a wistfulness in his voice. Sirius runs a thumb along a scar on his hand—a souvenir from some old job gone sideways.

“My brother’s out on a case. When he gets back, I’ll let you two meet—in jail,” Derek says, grinning as he takes another sip.

He adds a wink for good measure, but his eyes never leave Sirius’s face. In the dance between cop and killer, trust is always a loaded word.

Just then, footsteps sound at the door. The old man rises to open it. Derek narrows his eyes. If the old man’s called for backup, he’s about to be disappointed in Seven Stars’ reputation.

Derek’s hand drops instinctively to his sidearm. He’s ready for a fight, but nothing in his training prepared him for what happens next.

But the two people who enter leave him speechless.

The air in the room shifts. Derek’s shoulders tense. He’s seen horrors in this job, but never anything like this.

The one standing is a woman, not old, but her hair is already white. Grief has blinded one of her eyes, and she can’t cry anymore.

Her dress is plain, her hands trembling as she supports the limp form beside her. The grief in her face is deeper than any wound.

The one lying down is a girl, maybe sixteen, her face covered in knife scars. Worse, every bone in her body has been broken. The girl is still alive, but every breath is agony.

She’s bundled in an old patchwork quilt, her body limp, eyes glassy with pain. The scars on her face glisten red and raw beneath the harsh motel light. Her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t cry—she can’t.

“Who did this?” Derek stands up, blood boiling.

The room goes dead silent. Derek’s fists clench. His badge feels heavy, his oath suddenly burning in his chest.

Three days ago, this girl went to the farmer’s market with a friend and met a handsome young man. The young man was in the middle of a knife fight. His moves were good, but his opponent was better. The young man’s knife flew out of his hand, landing at the girl’s feet. She was sixteen, just at that age where crushes come easy, so she blushed and handed the knife back to him. The young man smiled, thanked her, and asked, “What do you think of my moves?”

The sweet tang of ripe peaches and the chatter of old-timers filled the air. The market was bustling—vendors calling out, kids chasing each other between crates of peaches and sweet corn. The young man’s grin was all charm, but his eyes flashed something colder.

The farm girl was shy, eyes down, not sure what to say.

Her friend nudged her, giggling, but she couldn’t look up. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

The young man didn’t mind, nodding at the guy in black across from him. “Who do you think’s better, me or him?”

The question hung between them. The crowd had thinned, leaving only spilled fruit and muddy footprints. The girl’s hands trembled around the knife.

The girl bit her lip and whispered, “I don’t know.”

Her voice was barely a breath. Her cheeks burned, and she stared at her scuffed sneakers, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

The young man grinned, his handsome face sly. “If you thought I was better, you’d say so. You say you don’t know, which means you think he’s a little stronger, right?”

His tone was teasing, but there was something sharp under it. A few older men in the crowd edged away, sensing trouble.

The girl looked down again, but her mom had always told her to be honest, so she nodded a little.

Her honesty caught the young man off guard—he paused, then let out a low chuckle. For a split second, his smile almost seemed genuine.

The young man laughed, took the girl’s hand, and said, “You’re honest. I like that. You’re right—he is better than me. I learned my knife work from him.”

He squeezed her fingers, and the girl felt a strange thrill despite her nerves. Her friend shot her a look—equal parts warning and envy.

The girl’s cheeks burned. She wanted to pull her hand back, but for some reason, she didn’t.

Something in his grip was magnetic. She felt herself being drawn in, the noise of the market fading to a dull hum.

Just as the girl was caught up in the moment, the young man suddenly stabbed the man in black in the chest. Blood gushed out, hot and thick. The girl gagged at the smell.

Everything slowed—the knife, the arc of blood, the dead man’s gasp. The girl’s heart dropped into her stomach.

The man in black knelt on the ground, face ghostly pale, pupils wide, staring at the girl.

He seemed to want to say something, but only blood bubbled on his lips. The girl’s knees buckled.

Her first time seeing death made the girl scream. She tried to yank her hand away, but the young man shoved her to the ground, her face nearly touching the dead man’s chin.

The scent of blood, coppery and raw, filled her nose. She whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut, praying for her mom, for anyone, for this to be just a nightmare.

The young man was still smiling, like this was all a game. His voice trembled with excitement: “His knife work’s better than mine, but if I want him dead, he dies. Now, who do you think’s stronger, me or him?”

The words rattled in her head. She felt sick, her mind whirling between terror and disbelief.

The girl shook all over, teeth chattering in terror. She wanted to beg for mercy, but couldn’t get the words out. Her friend, terrified, ran off. As night fell, all she wanted was to go home to her warm little farmhouse.

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for her mom, for anyone, for this to be just a nightmare.

She reached out, grasping at memories of safety—a porch swing, her mom’s laughter—but all she found was pain.

The young man grabbed her hair, ignored her cries, dragged her to a black SUV, and ordered the men in black, “Take her back to the house.”

3

“From now on, no matter what happens, you have to smile. If you stop smiling, I’ll break one of your bones.”

The house was big and cold—marble floors, fancy furniture, and a wall of security screens. The young man, in a designer suit, sprawled across a leather recliner, popping imported chocolates into his mouth.

The young man in a designer suit lounged sideways in a big leather chair, eating imported chocolate, watching like he was at a show.

His eyes never left the girl. He smiled as if he’d paid for premium entertainment and wanted his money’s worth.

A guard stepped forward and yanked off the farm girl’s belt.

He did it without hesitation, eyes as cold as ice. The girl shrieked, clutching at her clothes, but there was nowhere to run.

The girl screamed and stumbled back, face twisted in terror.

Her voice echoed off the marble. Somewhere, a maid peeked around a corner, then quickly disappeared.

“No smile.” The young man’s face darkened. The burly, bearded guy behind him lunged forward, pinning the girl’s shaking body.

The bearded man was a mountain—his grip like iron. The girl struggled, but there was no escape. The others in the room looked away, pretending not to see.

His right hand pressed down on her shoulder, and a sickening crack sounded. The girl shrieked and collapsed in agony.

The sound was unnatural, like a branch snapping in winter. The girl bit her lip until blood ran down her chin.

“Still no smile.” The young man’s words were like a demon’s curse.

He tapped his gold watch, impatient. The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

The girl quickly forced a smile, half her face twitching in pain, tears of humiliation streaming down her cheeks.

It was a grotesque, trembling grin. Her tears left streaks on her cheeks, but she dared not let the smile slip.

The twisted smile pleased the young man even more. He clapped his hands, signaling for the game to continue.

His laughter was cold, echoing through the big empty room. The guards grinned, their eyes dead.

The guard started undressing the girl again. She struggled in terror, and her kneecap, wrist, shoulder blade were crushed in turn... The torment of body and soul shattered all her dignity and will to live. She kept forcing a smile, begging for mercy, but all she heard was the young man’s laughter.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain coming in hot waves. Her vision blurred, but the young man’s face stayed sharp, burned into her memory.

After being violated by three guards, all her bones were broken. Blood and tears covered her young face. She was barely alive, glaring at the high and mighty young man with hatred.

Her breath rattled, shallow and broken. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, and the world kept turning.

The room reeked of sweat, blood, and expensive cologne. The guards finished, the girl lay limp, every breath a struggle. Her hate burned brighter than the pain.

“You hate me?” The young man jumped down from the chair and squatted before her.

He leaned in close, studying her ruined face like an artist sizing up a canvas. His lips curled, eyes gleaming with twisted pride.

The girl could no longer speak, but she had nothing left to fear. She stared at his face, burning it into her memory. If there was a hell, she would curse him forever.

If willpower alone could kill, the young man would’ve died then and there. But he only smirked, unafraid.

The young man lowered his head, his expression briefly downcast: “Why do you hate me? I just thought your smile was cute and wanted to see it more.”

His voice was oddly gentle, like he truly believed what he said. It made the horror worse, somehow.

“Sir, it’s getting late. Time to see your mother. What about her?” The bearded man bowed behind him.

The butler’s voice quivered, but he knew better than to show fear. The clock on the mantle chimed seven. Shadows stretched across the floor.

“Idiot!” The young man turned and slapped the man’s face. “Do I look like a monster to you?”

The slap echoed like a gunshot. The bearded man winced but stayed silent, head bowed low. In this house, the rules belonged to the one with the cruelest smile.

The bearded man, clearly a top fighter, let the young man slap him, bowing low.

He took it without a word, hands clasped at his waist. No one dared move.

“Heal her. Poison her so she can’t talk.” The young man paced, finally stopping before the girl’s hateful stare. “Since the toy’s broken, might as well break it all the way.”

He said it like he was ordering a pizza. A doctor appeared—white coat, dead eyes, carrying a black bag.

He pulled out a gold-plated knife and carved line after line into her skin, each cut deliberate, like he was signing his name.

The blade was sharp, the cuts precise. Each line was a signature of pain, a mark that would never fade. The young man hummed to himself as he worked.

After the last cut, the girl was a bloody mess, passing out from the pain. The young man’s cruel laughter echoed down the hall.

The laughter lingered long after the lights dimmed, crawling down the empty corridors of the house. A maid hurried past, eyes averted, praying she’d never see that room again.

“Who is he?” Derek’s eyes blazed at Sirius.

His fists were balled so tight his knuckles turned white. The rage inside him threatened to break through.

“The one you don’t dare arrest.” Sirius’s hand was still steady as he poured himself another cup of coffee, not spilling a drop.

He said it without malice—just a quiet certainty. The kind that comes from knowing the game is rigged.

Derek’s heart hammered, but his face stayed stone. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.

“Doesn’t matter if he’s the president’s kid—I’m bringing him in. That’s a promise.” Derek’s voice was tight with rage.

Derek stood tall, shoulders squared, as if he could fight the whole world. In Maple Heights, courage like that is rare as blue diamonds.

“Good.” Sirius set down the cup. “You get him behind bars, and I’ll owe you more than my life.”

He looked Derek straight in the eye, and for a moment, there was nothing of the killer left—just a father’s desperate hope.

Seven Stars Society has three rules:

Once a contract’s taken, the target never escapes, no matter how far they run.

Without a contract, assassins don’t kill, even with a gun to their head. Otherwise, every Seven Stars killer will hunt them down.

Half the money up front, half after the job’s done.

The rules are gospel among those who live in the shadows. Even cops in Maple Heights whisper about them—there’s honor among killers, sometimes more than among men of the law.

The candle on the table flickered in the draft. The blade flashed, and Sirius’s left hand was sliced clean off. He gritted his teeth, picked up the severed hand with his right, and set it on the table.

The motel air turned sharp with the smell of blood. Derek swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look away.

“This is the deposit.”

There was a finality in his tone, a weight heavier than the hand itself. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.

Such speed, such an angle, such ruthless resolve.

The move was so fast Derek almost doubted it happened. But the blood pooling on the cheap motel table was real enough.

If that blade had been aimed at him, could he have dodged? Derek wondered, but found no answer.

He flexed his fingers under the table, imagining the cold steel, the bite of the blade. For the first time in years, he felt something close to fear.

“That man is the son of Senator Deacon’s family. The senator has power everywhere. Even if the cops know, they’ll cover it up. That’s why I came to you. Word is there are only two real men left on the force: Caleb Lane with the badge, Derek Lane with the gun. I believe it.”

The Deacons had their hands in every pie—county contracts, church boards, even the local Little League. The senator’s name was poison in this county—crooked deals, backroom threats, a smile for the cameras and a fist behind the scenes. Derek remembered stories his father used to tell about how deep the Deacons’ roots went.

The woman tending the girl tore the bedsheet into strips and handed them to Sirius. As he spoke, he wrapped his wound—so smoothly, like pouring coffee.

She worked quickly, her hands practiced, her lips pressed in a thin line. Derek watched as Sirius tied off the bleeding, barely wincing. Not even the best ER doctor in Maple Heights would’ve worked faster.

For an assassin, injury was nothing. Bandaging was as natural as breathing.

He flexed the fingers on his right hand, testing the grip. Derek saw respect in the old man’s eyes—cold and clear, like mountain water.

“One last thing. Seven Stars killers are known for being cold. Why get involved in this?”

Derek asked it softly, almost gently. He knew the answer, but he needed to hear it said out loud.

Sirius’s eyes went dark. He gently stroked the ruined face of the girl. “This isn’t meddling. She’s my daughter. My only child.”

His voice broke just a little at the word daughter. In that moment, the killer vanished, leaving only a father with nothing left to lose.

“Alright.” Derek pushed open the door. The wind whipped his hair into a mess. “I’m going to arrest him. I’ll get you justice.”

He paused on the threshold, heart pounding. Outside, the neon buzzed, and the night air tasted of rain and old sorrow. But for the first time in a long while, Derek felt hope—a dangerous, stubborn hope—that maybe, just maybe, justice wasn’t dead in Maple Heights after all.

Derek stepped into the rain, badge heavy in his hand. Some storms, you run from. This one, he’d walk straight through.