In Cold Blood Movie Novels & Stories

Santiago and a dozen of our best men follow in the cars behind us, a convoy of death and destruction. We speed through the country roads and city streets, the tension in the car building. Rick’s knuckles bulge on the steering wheel, Frank’s hand never leaving the gun on his lap. Good men. Loyal men. I know they’d follow me into the deepest pits of hell if I asked them to. As we approach the safe house, I feel a sense of cold, ruthless calm settle over me. This is what I was made for, what I was born to do. Blood for blood. Life for life.

Turning on a faucet, cool water runs over my skin, and I watch as the blood swirls down the drain. My mind begins to race, and I’m bombarded with gruesome images. Jessica being shot in the neck. The blood squirting from her. Her lifeless eyes. The gunshots. Being hunted. The terror. The hopelessness when I realized I might die. Mr. Vitale killing all those men. The bodies. The blood. My shoulders shudder, and a silent cry is torn from my chest. Mr. Vitale places a hand on my shoulder, and before I know what I’m doing, I move closer and bury my face against his chest.

❝Deals made over wine always end in blood.❞—Sh. Rivera. The last thing I heard when Zayen stood, drawing his gun back into his pocket, was the sound of a body heating the ground and a sick, warm feeling of something cold against my hands—Blood. Zayen sat back down with eerie calm, adjusted his tie like he hadn’t just executed someone in cold blood, “Shall we continue now?” No one needed another warning. They all retracted their guns, slowly nodded, then took their seats.

Three of the smaller guys break and run—they didn't sign up for a horror movie. I take them out one by one. Methodical. Brutal. Then the big guy charges, swinging a lead pipe that could shatter a car frame. He’s massive, but he’s slow. I dive beneath the swing, my combat knife coming out in a silver blur. I gut him from hip to rib. He collapses, clutching his insides, the snow turning a dark, steaming crimson. the survivors see the blood-drenched shadow standing over their leader and they don't wait for an invite. They bolt. I let out a jagged, triumphant howl into the night air, then I turn and sprint back toward the car.

With Bobby cornered against the cinder block dormitory walls, Cybill leaped across the bed, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Bobby tried to cry out for help, but was too weak from the blood loss. The cat and mouse game had whipped Cybill into a frenzy that she was unable to come down from. She devoured Bobby, tearing him limb from limb until she extracted every last drop of blood from his corpse. When she was done, the only thing that remained of her date were tiny shriveled shreds of a life that was once known as Bobby Welburg. Cybill gathered up the pieces, taking them to the dump to be unceremoniously disposed of. Her cold heart felt no remorse, for her mission now was singular. Blood

I watched him as he walked out of my penthouse with determination and urgency in his steps and knew that he was going to make everything go smoothly as he usually does. I rest back against the couch I was seated on, closed my eyes, and smiled. If she thinks that she could just escape my clutches like that, then she’s got to think twice about that. But then the next minute, a frown replaced the smile on my face, as my thought drifted to the dangers that she was about to face soon. From past histories, the previous Blue Bloods weren’t able to overcome all the challenges they faced from the moment they were discovered before they were eventually killed.

But how could I let him die so easily? After what he did to Bran, choking him to death here would be too merciful. Then Celina shrieked from behind, “Help! He’s killing Mr. Hyde! Shoot the madman!” As if on cue, the door of the lead vehicle swung open. A tall man in uniform stepped quickly to my side and said calmly, “Commander, I’m Captain Pierce Poldark, head of your security detail.”

Without warning, without hesitation, Alexei pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening. The man's head snapped back. Blood exploded from the wound, splattering across my face. It was warm and sticky. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud. I stood frozen, trembling as blood dripped down my cheek. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. Alexei had just killed a man right in front of me. Again. And this time his blood was on my face. "He is not one of my men," Alexei muttered under his breath. He stepped over the body and looked at me. His green eyes were cold.

It felt more like opening a window in the middle of a blizzard—the cold drove straight through to the bone, you shook, and you understood there was nothing left to do but accept the pain. The night of the massacre fifteen years ago—the first night his hands had been soaked in the blood of his own kin—that was the moment the bridge behind him collapsed. Like leaping from a cliff, only realizing mid-fall that you had no wings, while the surface of the sea below rose to meet you at a lethal speed.

Clinton. His face is streaked with blood. Not just a little. Blood covers him from his jaw down to his clothes, dark and wet under the flashing lights around us. There's a cut above his eyebrow still dripping down the side of his face, and his breathing comes rough enough that I can hear it over the screaming around us. I finally look past him. And my entire body goes numb. Bodies. They’re everywhere. Men and women scattered across the ground, some unmoving, others crying out weakly while blood spreads beneath them. Smoke burns my eyes almost immediately, thick and bitter in the air, while somewhere ahead wolves howl over human screams so loudly the sound vibrates through my chest.