Chapter 14 Julian #2
"That’s because you’ve never had good sex, clearly," I say.
He winks. "Let’s haul him out."
The man is dead weight, but between the two of us, we get him down the stairs. The carpet stains as we go—blood from his wrists, from his bitten arm, from the lump rising on his skull.
We drag him through the garage and out to the curb, where the driver has already rolled up in the van, engine idling.
Opening the back, we load Ellis in, drop him next to Harrington, whose sack is now smeared with vomit and snot. Ellis gurgles a curse, but we don't answer as we close the door.
Bam looks at me, hands on hips, breath still coming in hard. There is a cut on his cheekbone, bleeding in a perfect bead.
"You good?" I ask.
"Never better. You?"
I touch my own face, the throb of the punch still ringing in my jaw. "Better than him."
Bam laughs, claps me on the shoulder, and we hop into the car.
There’s no time to savor it. We have more to do.
More to take.
I look at Bam. "Next target?"
He pulls the list from his pocket. The ink is smeared, but the name is clear.
"That’s it. The rest should have gotten their targets and now we head back.”
The Hunt grounds are empty of mercy. The clearing is a circle, ringed by old-growth pines and a perimeter of floodlights on portable rigs.
The driver parks the vehicle as close as he can get to the pathway, next to a row of parked trucks. The engine dies, and the night returns in full force, thick and humid and vibrating with insect noise. I step out, stretch my arms, and flex my hands, shaking out the ache of impact from earlier.
In the center of the clearing, eight wooden posts are driven into the earth, spaced at perfect intervals, the ground between them trampled to mud. At three of the posts, the Board members stand, backs straight, heads hooded, arms tied around their post with zip ties and tape.
Slade stretches, then walks over and checks the bindings. He grunts his approval, then lights a cigarette, cupping the flame with his palm. The ember glows in the dark.
He helps us unload our targets and we tie them just like the others.
There is a crunch of boots on gravel. I look up.
Caius emerges from the path, with Colt beside him. There’s blood spattered on his cuffs, but it looks deliberate, like a pocket square. He checks his watch, then sweeps the scene with a slow, satisfied gaze.
He looks at me. "Three left," he says.
I nod. "Marcus, Steele and my dad?"
"Already in motion. Rest of the Board has been dispatched where they slept," he says, like it’s obvious.
Slade flicks his cigarette butt into the mud, then cracks his knuckles. He seems almost bored, but I know better. He’s a man with the stench of death following his every move. He’s the cleanup crew, the failsafe. The atom bomb in case diplomacy fails.
Colt produces a thermos of coffee, unscrews the cap, and offers me a drink. I take it, the metal hot against my numb fingers.
For a while, we say nothing. We just watch the captives struggle with their bonds, the air filling with the whimpers and curses of the powerless.
When the coffee is gone, Caius checks his watch again. "It’s almost time.”
In the distance, an owl hoots. Somewhere nearer, a branch snaps.
There will be more soon—Dean Marcus, dragged in disgrace; Steele, sullen and brutal; my father, a despicable man from the moment he drew breath, the final three lambs for the slaughter.
But my mind is not on them.
“I’m going to get Amara, the girls are going to be here soon and I don’t want her left out.”
Cai nods and looks down the path just as the girls start arriving, all dressed in white. “Here.” He says, as he heads to the back of his truck and pulls out a white dress before stuffing it inside a backpack. “So she matches the others. Issy said it should fit.”
I nod, taking the offering.
Taking off towards the Academy, I head inside. The lobby is empty. I take the stairs two at a time, walking as fast as I can without looking suspicious until I hit her wing and down the hall to her door.
I knock three times. Not loud, not soft.
The door opens on the second try.
She stands there in sweats and an oversized hoodie, eyes rimmed with the red of someone who hasn't slept but refuses to admit it. Her hair is down, wild, like she just woke from a fever dream. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Her eyes track the bruises on my knuckles, the swelling at my cheek, the smear of blood just below my left ear. She doesn’t flinch.
For a heartbeat, I think she’ll slam the door and let me rot in the hallway.
Instead, she sighs and I tell her what I need from her, surprised that she doesn’t argue. I push past her and she takes the dress and disappears into the bathroom.
I wait, arms folded, letting the finality of it all bleed into me. My mind wanders to the clearing, to the posts, to the faces of the men who thought they were above the game. I imagine Amara at my side, her hair tangled, her eyes full of hunger.
Will she kill her own father? My heart races at the thought of seeing her drive a knife into his heart, freeing herself of obligations to a dictator who never gave a shit about her.
She returns five minutes later, dress pulled over the hoodie, sneakers still on. The effect is messy, but that’s the point. She looks like a bride at her own execution.
"You know what happens next?" I ask.
"No," she says. "And I don’t care."
I chuckle. "That’s my girl. We’ve got a surprise for you."
She rolls her eyes pulling on her runners and steps into the hall, closing the door behind her. We walk in silence, the echo of our steps loud in the emptiness. Outside, mist spreads slowly over the quad.
At the tree line, she stops.
"You sure about this?" her eyes are wide as she sees trucks lining the path, as if she suddenly realizes what is going on.
I take her hand, fingers cold, and squeeze.
"It’s the only way it ever ends."