Chapter 12: Blood Sport
The week passed in a blur of preparation.
Cole spent his days maintaining the cover identity—following Mr. Whitmore's potential business partner, documenting meetings, building a timeline of legitimate activity. The work was tedious but useful, providing both income and the appearance of normalcy.
His nights belonged to the hunt.
The warehouse's exterior told him little he didn't already know. Security was tight, surveillance was professional, and any direct approach would end in disaster. But every system had weaknesses. He just had to find them.
October 18th. Cole sat in a coffee shop across the street from a storage facility in Gresham, watching a delivery truck back into a loading bay. The facility was owned by the same shell company that controlled the fighting warehouse. According to property records, it held "sporting equipment and event supplies."
Cole suspected it held something else entirely.
The slaves have to come from somewhere. They have to be kept somewhere.
He waited until the truck left, then drove to the facility entrance. The gate was unmanned—just a keypad requiring a code. He parked nearby and watched for two hours, memorizing the comings and goings of three different vehicles, all with the same mud patterns suggesting regular trips to the same locations.
That night, he followed one of the vehicles to a motel in outer Southeast Portland. The driver—a wiry man with prison tattoos and nervous energy—went inside for ten minutes, then emerged with a woman who walked like her legs had been chained for too long. He loaded her into the back and drove toward the industrial district.
They're keeping them scattered. Multiple locations. Harder to find, harder to raid.
Cole added the motel to his list.
October 20th. Training with Decker in the Southeast gym.
"You're still thinking too much," the big Samoan said, catching Cole's arm and twisting him into an uncomfortable hold. "When someone attacks, your body should move before your brain catches up. Right now, you're analyzing everything like it's a legal brief."
"Old habits."
"New habits." Decker released him and stepped back. "Again. This time, I want you to imagine I killed your dog. Pure reaction. No planning."
Cole imagined the Fuchs in the pit, collar around his neck, fighting to survive.
He moved.
Decker blocked the first strike—barely—and caught the second on his forearm. The third caught him in the ribs before he could compensate.
"Better," he grunted, rubbing the impact point. "Much better. Where did that come from?"
"Somewhere dark."
Decker studied him for a long moment. "I've trained a lot of men, Ashford. Fighters, bouncers, guys who needed to hurt people for money. You're not like them. You've got something else going on."
"Does it matter?"
"Depends. You planning to hurt someone who deserves it?"
Cole met his eyes. "Yes."
The big man nodded slowly. "Then no. It doesn't matter. Let's go again."
October 22nd. Cole found a way in.
The fighting warehouse received regular deliveries through a side entrance—supplies for the events, food and drink for the staff, equipment that arrived in unmarked boxes. The delivery drivers were civilians, hired from a local logistics company with no idea what they were transporting.
But the security guards who accepted deliveries were the same ones who worked the events.
Cole identified one: a man named Terry Banks, according to the background check Cole ran through legitimate channels. Banks was forty-two, divorced, with a gambling problem that had cost him two previous security jobs. He supplemented his income by working for Volk, probably telling himself it was just another gig.
He drank at a bar on 82nd Avenue every Tuesday and Thursday.
Cole found him there on Thursday evening, nursing bourbon and watching a basketball game with the defeated expression of someone who'd lost money on the outcome. He took the stool next to him and ordered the same.
"Rough night?"
Banks glanced over with the suspicious eyes of a man who'd been burned before. "Do I know you?"
"Probably not. But I recognize the look. You had the Blazers?"
"By seven." Banks shook his head. "Fucking turnovers."
"Every time." Cole raised his glass in commiseration. "I'm Cole, by the way. Just moved to Portland a few weeks ago."
"Terry."
They talked basketball for twenty minutes. Cole bought a round. Then another. By the third drink, Banks had loosened up enough to mention his "security consulting" work without specifics.
"Money's good," he said. "Better than the legitimate gigs, anyway. But the hours are shit, and some of the things they have me watch..." He trailed off, bourbon making him sloppy.
"Sounds complicated."
"You have no idea." Banks stared into his glass. "I've done stuff I'm not proud of, you know? We all have. But some of it... some of it stays with you."
Cole thought about the Fuchs in the pit. "Yeah. I know what you mean."
They parted as something like drinking buddies. Cole had planted the first seed—a connection that might prove useful when the time came.
Everyone has a price. Everyone has a breaking point. Terry Banks is close to his.
October 23rd. The event.
Cole paid his five hundred dollars, submitted to the blindfold, and found himself back in the warehouse. Same crowd, same bleachers, same blood-stained pit. But tonight felt different—charged with an energy that hadn't been present before.
The Grimm weapon auction.
He found a seat in the back row this time, near one of the secondary exits. The view wasn't as good, but the position gave him options if things went sideways. He'd also hidden a knife in his boot—against the rules, but the pat-down at entry had been cursory at best.
The first two fights were animals again. Cole watched with detached attention, filing away details about guard rotations and crowd behavior. The security team seemed competent but bored—they'd done this enough times that complacency had set in.
That's something to exploit.
Volk appeared during the intermission, working the crowd like a politician at a fundraiser. He shook hands, accepted compliments, made promises about future entertainment that turned Cole's stomach. Up close, he was even more intimidating—the kind of predator who'd learned to smile while calculating how easily he could kill everyone in the room.
Their eyes met briefly as Volk passed. Cole kept his expression neutral, just another customer. Volk's gaze moved on without recognition.
The third fight brought the main event.
Two Wesen were led into the pit: a Hundjäger—dog-like, muscular, clearly trained for combat—and something Cole didn't recognize. The second creature was smaller, covered in what looked like porcupine quills, moving with the frantic energy of prey that knew it was outmatched.
"Tonight's special demonstration," Volk announced from his VIP booth. "We'll be testing our auction item on the victor. A genuine Grimm blade, authenticated by sources I trust with my life. What better way to prove its worth than putting it through a Wesen?"
The crowd murmured approval. Cole's hands curled into fists beneath his jacket.
They're going to kill the winner. Make it a spectacle.
The fight was brutal and short. The Hundjäger's training showed immediately—precise strikes, calculated movements, the efficiency of someone who'd done this many times before. The quilled Wesen tried to use its natural defenses, but the Hundjäger simply avoided the spines and went for the throat.
Ninety seconds. The quilled Wesen was dead.
Guards entered the pit and attached a fresh collar to the Hundjäger's neck—even the winner wasn't trusted. Volk descended from his booth, carrying something wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it with theatrical flourish.
A knife. Simple design, straight blade, wooden handle. Nothing special to look at.
But when Volk brought it near the woged Hundjäger, the Wesen screamed.
The sound cut through the warehouse—pure terror, animal panic, the recognition of something that existed specifically to end beings like him. The Hundjäger threw himself against the pit walls, trying to escape, but the collar's shock kept him contained.
Volk smiled. "As you can see, the blade recognizes its prey. The Grimm weapons were designed to hunt Wesen, and this one has been used successfully against three different species. Starting bid is fifty thousand dollars."
The auction began. Cole watched with cold fury as wealthy monsters bid on a tool for killing Wesen, treating genocide like a collector's hobby. The final price was $127,000, paid by a man in a silk suit who looked like he'd never worked a day in his life.
But that wasn't the end.
Volk turned back to the pit, where the Hundjäger was still shaking, collar keeping him immobile. "And now, the demonstration."
He stepped into the pit.
Cole's enhanced hearing caught the Hundjäger's whispered pleas—begging for mercy in a voice that had probably done terrible things but didn't deserve this. Volk ignored them. He approached with the blade raised, theatrical and cruel, drawing out the moment for the crowd's entertainment.
The Hundjäger's death took thirty seconds. Cole memorized every one.
I'm going to kill you. Not quickly. Not cleanly. I'm going to make it hurt.
The thought should have disturbed him. It didn't.
Cole left early, claiming nausea to one of the guards. They let him go without argument—probably figured he was just another weak stomach who couldn't handle the real entertainment.
He sat in his car for ten minutes, breathing through the rage, forcing himself to plan instead of act. The operation was eight days away. He had most of the pieces in place. All he needed was the final element—a way into that VIP room when Volk was alone.
Terry Banks. The guard with the gambling problem and the guilty conscience.
Cole drove to 82nd Avenue.
Banks was at his usual bar, already three drinks in despite it being barely 11 PM on a Tuesday. Cole took the stool next to him without asking.
"Rough week?"
Banks looked up, recognized him, and something like relief crossed his face. "You have no idea. I fucking hate Thursdays now."
"Work stuff?"
"Work stuff." Banks drained his glass and signaled for another. "You ever do something you know is wrong, but you keep doing it because the money's too good to walk away from?"
"Everyone has."
"Yeah, but not like this." Banks lowered his voice. "The things I've seen, Cole. The things they make me watch. It's not—it's not human. None of it is human."
Cole let the silence stretch. Banks was close to breaking. One more push.
"What if I told you there was a way to make it stop?"
Banks froze, glass halfway to his lips. "What are you talking about?"
"I know what happens in that warehouse. I've been there. Twice." Cole met his eyes. "And I know that some of the people who work there aren't proud of what they do. Some of them want out."
"You're a cop."
"I'm not a cop."
"Then what are you?"
Cole considered the question. What was he? A transmigrated soul in a dead man's body. A predator who fed on other predators. A monster who'd decided to hunt worse monsters.
"I'm someone who can end this," he said finally. "But I need help. From someone on the inside."
Banks stared at him for a long moment. Cole could see the calculation happening—the fear of Volk's retribution warring against the exhaustion of participating in something evil.
"What would I have to do?"
"Leave a door unlocked. Walk away at the right time. Nothing that puts you in direct danger."
"And the others? The guards, the—the things in the pit?"
"The slaves get freed. The operation gets destroyed. The people responsible get what they deserve." Cole's voice hardened. "I'm not asking you to fight. I'm asking you to look the other way for five minutes. Can you do that?"
Banks finished his drink in one long swallow.
"Thursday," he said. "The VIP door. After the third fight, when everyone's focused on the auction. I can unlock it and step out for a smoke."
"That's all I need."
"And after? When Volk finds out someone helped you?"
Cole placed a hand on Banks's shoulder—not threatening, just firm. "After Thursday, Marcus Volk won't be finding out anything. I promise you that."
Banks nodded slowly. The weight of his guilt was already lifting, replaced by something that looked almost like hope.
Cole left cash for both their drinks and walked out into the Portland night.
Eight days. He had everything he needed.
The hunt was almost ready to begin.
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