42. Vengeance At Last
42
VENGEANCE AT LAST
~JESSICA~
I 've been in position for seventy-three minutes.
The rooftop offers perfect sightlines to the festival stage, my body stretched prone across rough concrete still warm from the day's sunshine despite the evening chill settling over the crowd below. Through my scope, I can see everything—every nervous adjustment of the announcer's tie, every impatient shift from attendees packed into the viewing area, every security guard scanning the perimeter with increasing tension as the delay stretches beyond acceptable limits.
My rifle—a custom Remington 700 with modifications Knox spent three days perfecting—feels like an extension of my body rather than separate hardware. The weight against my shoulder is comforting, familiar despite this particular weapon being new to my arsenal. The bipod keeps the barrel steady as I breathe in measured counts, maintaining the perfect stillness required for what comes next.
Inhale four. Hold four. Exhale four. Hold four.
The rhythm keeps my heart rate controlled, my mind clear despite the uncomfortable heat building within my core. The suppressants aren't working as well anymore, my body's biology rebelling against chemical intervention after weeks of proximity to four compatible Alphas. Pre-heat symptoms have been intensifying despite my best efforts—increased temperature, heightened sensitivity, the particular quality of restlessness that makes remaining motionless on this rooftop an exercise in pure willpower.
I'd almost been barred from participating in tonight's operation. Marcus had taken one look at me this morning—flushed, slightly disoriented from interrupted sleep, scent unmistakably shifting toward impending fertility—and immediately declared me "compromised for tactical engagement."
The resulting argument had been spectacular, drawing all four Alphas into what started as strategic assessment and quickly devolved into a clash between their protective instincts and my absolute refusal to be sidelined from the culmination of seven years' planning.
"I've been waiting for this moment since I woke up in that hospital," I'd insisted, voice steady despite the fever I couldn't quite suppress. "I've earned the right to see it through. To pull the trigger myself."
"Your physical state compromises operational parameters," Marcus had countered, voice carrying that particular quality of Alpha command he rarely directed at me. "This isn't about rights or deserving. It's about success probability and acceptable risk thresholds."
Knox had sided with me—partially—his analytical mind calculating variables with characteristic precision. "She's still above 87% optimal functionality," he'd observed, mismatched eyes assessing me with clinical detachment despite the concern evident beneath his scientific approach. "Reduced but within acceptable tactical parameters for the sniper position, which requires minimal movement and maximal patience."
Bastian and Rook had exchanged glances, that silent communication they'd perfected over years of working together in life-threatening situations. "If she stays on overwatch," Bastian had finally said, voice carrying the weight of reluctant concession, "with emergency extraction protocols in place and direct communication maintained throughout..."
Rook had completed the thought, mask firmly in place despite having abandoned it in private moments since our tattooing session. "We can accommodate the current biological variables while maintaining mission integrity."
The compromise hadn't been perfect for anyone—I wanted more active involvement, they wanted me safely contained at the lake house—but it had been sufficient to bring me here, to this rooftop, to this perfect vantage point overlooking what would soon become Senator Caldwell's very public downfall.
The communication device in my ear crackles softly, Knox's voice carrying through with perfect clarity despite the festival noise below.
"Status check, all positions."
"Shadow in position," Bastian responds first, codename matching his usual tactical role providing perimeter security and identifying potential threats before they materialize.
"Midnight at the southeast entrance," Rook confirms, voice carrying that particular flatness that emerges when he's fully in operational mode rather than personal interaction. "Target pathway secured for phase two extraction."
"Silver at primary control point," Marcus adds, his cultured accent slightly more pronounced under the pressure of imminent action. "All systems prepared for execution on command."
"Oracle confirms backup systems ready," comes Sera's distinctive voice, the addition of Knox's sister to our operational team still surprising despite the weeks of preparation we've shared. "Primary and secondary information packages prepped for release."
"Wraith standing by," Kai adds, his military precision evident even in the brief confirmation that he's ready to facilitate extraction once the public confrontation concludes.
"Archangel in position," Emilia confirms last, using the codename she'd insisted upon despite Knox's complaints about "unnecessary dramatic flair in tactical designations." "Media channels aligned and receptive."
My turn. "Venom has visual on stage," I respond, the name both familiar and increasingly distant as my identity continues shifting from isolated hunter to pack member. "Scope clear, trigger ready."
"Final confirmation, Phoenix?" Knox directs this to Violet Martinez, the unexpected ally whose dance class had revealed connections to anti-trafficking organizations specifically targeting prominent figures who preyed on Omegas.
"Phase one prepared for activation on your command," she confirms, her voice carrying the particular cadence of someone for whom English is a second language despite her perfect pronunciation. "Projection systems have been successfully isolated from external override attempts."
The pieces are all in place. The trap set. The outcome—barring unforeseen complications—as certain as anything can be in operations of this complexity.
I adjust my position slightly, the movement minute enough to maintain stability while relieving pressure building in muscles held static for too long. Below, the crowd's restlessness has become visible even without magnification—people checking watches, children growing cranky as the festival entertainment concluded twenty minutes ago with promises of "special announcements momentarily."
Through my scope, I can see the nervous festival coordinator pacing at the edge of the stage, repeatedly checking his phone before glancing toward the VIP entrance where Caldwell should have appeared long ago. The delay isn't part of our plan—whatever's holding up the Senator's appearance is occurring independently of our carefully orchestrated scenario.
"Phoenix, any intel on the delay?" Knox's voice carries the particular tension that emerges when variables shift unexpectedly despite extensive contingency planning.
"Negative," Violet responds after a brief pause. "My contact reports the Senator is on-site but engaged in unscheduled conversation with someone backstage."
An unexpected variable. Potentially problematic depending on who's delayed him and why. My finger rests alongside the trigger guard rather than on the trigger itself—proper protocol despite the distance from imminence still separating us.
"Midnight, visual confirmation?" Marcus requests, his tone suggesting he's already calculating how this deviation might impact our planned sequence.
"Negative," Rook responds, frustration barely perceptible beneath his professional demeanor. "Position doesn't allow backstage visibility without compromising cover."
"Oracle accessing security feeds," Sera chimes in, the rapid clicking of keys audible beneath her voice. "Attempting to establish visual."
My focus remains locked on the stage, scope sweeping methodically across the area where Caldwell will eventually appear. The frustration building within me has nothing to do with the delay itself—tactical operations frequently involve waiting for optimal conditions—and everything to do with the increasing discomfort radiating from my core.
The heat beneath my skin has intensified over the past hour, sweat gathering at my hairline despite the cooling evening air. Each movement, no matter how minimal, sends unexpected sensitivity radiating through nerve endings that seem determined to betray my professional focus. The symptoms aren't severe enough to compromise the mission, but they're definitely progressing faster than I'd calculated.
I've been in worse conditions. Maintained focus through bullet wounds and broken bones, through sleep deprivation and environmental extremes that would incapacitate most operators regardless of designation. This biological inconvenience won't stop me from completing what I've spent seven years working toward.
"Oracle has visual," Sera announces suddenly, triumph evident in her tone. "Senator is in conversation with Elliott Prescott. Appears to be heated disagreement rather than casual delay."
The information sends a fresh jolt of alertness through my system, temporarily overriding the discomfort of pre-heat symptoms. Elliott wasn't scheduled to appear until after Caldwell's announcement, his role in the festival supposedly limited to introducing special guests rather than participating in the political portion of the program.
"Audio?" Marcus inquires, the single word carrying volumes regarding tactical implications.
"Negative," Sera responds, frustration evident. "Visual only, no microphones in range."
Through my scope, I notice movement at the side of the stage—the festival coordinator receiving information through his earpiece, relief washing over his features as he hurries toward the podium. Finally.
"Movement on stage," I report, adjusting my position with microscopic precision to ensure optimal sightlines regardless of where on the platform Caldwell eventually stands. "Coordinator appears to be receiving confirmation of imminent appearance."
"All positions prepare for phase one initiation," Knox commands, his usual manic energy channeled into the particular focus that makes him so effective in coordinating complex operations. "Timeline accelerates by twenty-seven seconds from announcement for maximum psychological impact."
The coordinator reaches the podium, tapping the microphone twice to ensure functionality before leaning closer to address the increasingly restless crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, voice carrying artificial enthusiasm that fails to disguise his obvious relief at finally moving forward. "We appreciate your patience this evening as we prepare for this momentous announcement."
The crowd's attention shifts immediately, collective focus drawn to the stage with almost palpable intensity. Through my scope, I can see expressions changing from irritation to anticipation, the delay already forgiven in expectation of what's to come.
"Without further ado," the coordinator continues, gesturing toward the side of the stage, "please join me in welcoming our newly appointed State Senator, the Honorable Richard Caldwell!"
Applause erupts, varying in enthusiasm but widespread enough to create a wave of sound that carries even to my elevated position. I make minute adjustments to my scope as Caldwell emerges from the wings, his expression composed into the particular smile politicians perfect early in their careers—confident without appearing arrogant, approachable without sacrificing authority, carefully calibrated to convey trustworthiness regardless of actual character.
He looks exactly as I remember him, yet completely different. The core features remain unchanged—the strong jaw, the precisely styled dark hair with touches of distinguished silver at the temples, the blue eyes that project sincerity while revealing nothing of the cruelty I know lurks beneath the surface.
But the context has transformed—no longer an Alpha college student exploiting power dynamics for sadistic pleasure, but a respected politician on the verge of national prominence. The transformation should perhaps disgust me more than it does, but seven years pursuing vengeance has taught me that monsters frequently thrive within systems designed to reward rather than punish their particular brand of predation.
"My fellow citizens," Caldwell begins, voice carrying that particular cadence that suggests extensive training in public speaking. "I stand before you tonight humbled by the trust placed in me through this appointment."
Through my scope, I can see the subtle tells of his genuine emotion beneath the practiced delivery—the slight flush of pleasure, the brightness in eyes that enjoy power and adulation in equal measure, the barely perceptible straightening of posture as he absorbs the crowd's positive response.
He's enjoying this. Reveling in it. Believing himself untouchable despite the trail of destroyed lives left in his wake.
"Oracle, initiate countdown," Knox commands through our communication channel, voice carrying the particular intensity that emerges when long-planned operations transition from preparation to execution.
"Initiating," Sera confirms, the clicking of keys audible beneath her voice. "System access confirmed. Projection override in five... four... three..."
Caldwell continues his speech, unaware of what's about to unfold. "My commitment to this community has always been absolute," he declares, hands gesturing emphatically to emphasize his supposed dedication. "The values we share—family, tradition, protection of our most vulnerable—these are not just campaign promises but personal convictions that will guide every decision I make in office."
"Two... one... execution," Sera concludes, the particular satisfaction in her tone suggesting successful implementation despite the complex technical requirements involved.
For a moment, nothing seems to change. Caldwell continues speaking, the crowd continues listening, the festival proceeds exactly as expected. Then I notice the massive projection screen behind the Senator beginning to lower into position—earlier than scheduled in the official program, an unexpected deviation that immediately captures attention.
Caldwell notices the movement, glancing back with momentary confusion before smoothly incorporating it into his presentation. "Ah, it seems we're ready to share some of the initiatives already in development," he improvises, professional enough to maintain continuity despite the apparent timing error. "Perfect timing, as I was just about to outline our comprehensive approach to community safety."
The screen illuminates, initially displaying only the official festival logo—a stylized representation of the community with Knot Academy's distinctive architecture prominently featured. Caldwell turns back to the audience, clearly expecting to control the transition between his speech and whatever visual presentation was scheduled to accompany it.
"Before we preview these exciting new programs," he continues, voice carrying practiced modulation designed to build anticipation, "I want to emphasize that my administrative approach will always prioritize traditional values and protections for those who most need our support—particularly our cherished Omega population, whose unique contributions to society must be both celebrated and carefully safeguarded."
The hypocrisy is breathtaking—this man who participated in my rape, who held my hair while encouraging his friends to increase their violence, who told me to "cry prettier" while filming my degradation—now positioning himself as protector of Omegas. The audacity should perhaps surprise me, but seven years hunting men like him has taught me that predators frequently disguise themselves as shepherds, finding in apparent protection the perfect cover for continued predation.
"System control confirmed," Sera announces through our communication channel, the satisfaction in her voice carrying particular edge that suggests personal as well as professional investment in what follows. "Phase one transition in three... two... one..."
The festival logo on the screen behind Caldwell flickers, momentarily distorting before being replaced by what appears at first glance to be simple black background. The unexpected change draws confused murmurs from the crowd, Caldwell turning with similar bewilderment to witness the technical malfunction occurring during his moment of triumph.
Then my voice—digitally modified but still recognizably feminine—emerges from the festival's speaker system with perfect clarity:
" Cry prettier for the camera, Omega. "
The words hang in the air, the exact phrase Caldwell whispered to me seven years ago while his friends took turns violating me, while he filmed the assault for later entertainment. The color drains from his face, recognition immediate despite the years separated from that night, despite the digital manipulation disguising my natural speaking voice.
Before he can respond, before he can attempt to regain control of the situation, the black screen behind him illuminates with imagery that sends audible gasps rippling through the assembled crowd. Photographs begin appearing in rapid succession—each showing an Omega in various states of distress, bruises visible on exposed skin, terror or resignation or broken emptiness evident in their expressions.
These aren't random images but carefully collected evidence—each victim connected directly to Caldwell or Elliott, each assault documented either by the perpetrators themselves or by subsequent medical examination. Faces are digitally obscured to protect identities, but the damage inflicted remains starkly visible, undeniable in its brutality.
Among them, appearing briefly before transitioning to the next victim, is a silhouette that represents me—my identity protected even in this moment of public reckoning, my specific case incorporated without exposing me to unwanted attention or potential retaliation from others who might have participated beyond the six I've identified and tracked.
Caldwell stares at the screen in evident horror, frozen momentarily by shock before training reasserts itself. He turns back to the microphone, expression shifting into practiced outrage.
"This is—this is outrageous!" he declares, voice pitched to convey righteous indignation rather than panic. "Some sort of sick prank or political attack. I demand this be stopped immediately!"
But his protest is overwhelmed by what happens next. The rapid progression of still images ceases, replaced by video footage that fills the massive screen with devastating clarity. Caldwell himself appears, unmistakable despite being younger, dressed in the distinctive jacket of the fraternity he belonged to during his university years.
In the footage, he's kneeling beside a female figure curled into protective position against concrete ground, her face not visible to the camera though the platinum blonde hair identifies her as Omega even without designation identifiers. His hand grips her hair, yanking her head up as he speaks directly to the camera with evident enjoyment rather than shame or concern.
" Now, pretty Omegas don't cry, " his recorded voice emerges from the festival speakers, the quality grainy but entirely intelligible. " But if they do, I enjoy every moment of seeing your misery. "
He turns the captured Omega's face toward the camera, her features automatically blurred by the same technology protecting all victims in this presentation, but the terror and pain in her eyes remains visible despite digital obscuration.
" Omegas deserve to bleed, " the younger Caldwell continues, voice carrying educational tone as if explaining something obvious to a confused child. " To be discarded like the trash you are. And nothing's going to change when I'm in power. Absolutely nothing. "
The crowd's reaction is immediate and visceral—horrified exclamations, audible disgust, phones raising to capture both the damning footage and Caldwell's real-time reaction to its unexpected public screening. News cameras that had been positioned to record his triumphant acceptance speech now document his unraveling instead, his carefully constructed public persona dissolving under irrefutable evidence of his true character.
"This is—this is doctored footage!" Caldwell protests, desperation evident beneath attempted authority. "Artificial intelligence can create convincing fakes! This is clearly a politically motivated attack using sophisticated technology to undermine a legitimate appointment!"
But even as he protests, more videos begin playing—multiple screens appearing simultaneously, showing different assaults, different victims, different locations but the same perpetrator. Caldwell appears in varying stages of his career—from college student to recent footage showing him in his current senatorial attire, the progression removing any possibility that these represent isolated youthful indiscretions rather than ongoing predatory behavior.
Through my scope, I can see panic replacing calculated outrage as Caldwell realizes the extent of evidence being presented. His hand rises to his ear, pressing against the communication device connecting him to his security team.
"Cut the projector!" he hisses, voice caught by the podium microphone he's forgotten remains active. "Get me out of here now! Secure a vehicle for immediate departure!"
I smile, shifting my position minutely to maintain perfect sightlines as he begins moving toward stage left, abandoning pretense of technological malfunction in favor of self-preservation. In the distance, sirens become audible—law enforcement responding to anonymous tips regarding criminal evidence being presented at the community festival.
"I can hear you, Senator," I whisper, my voice traveling through his earpiece rather than the festival sound system, the connection established by Knox's technological expertise hours before Caldwell's arrival. "And I won't be doing that."
He freezes mid-step, recognition flashing across his features despite never having heard my adult voice before this moment. Something primal transcends the years between assault and retribution—predator sensing prey transformed into hunter, instinct warning of imminent danger from unexpected direction.
"Who—" he begins, confusion evident as he scans the crowd, searching for the source of voice now speaking directly into his ear.
"Look up," I instruct, voice carrying quiet satisfaction as seven years of planning culminate in this perfect moment of realization.
His gaze lifts, scanning surrounding buildings, finally settling on the rooftop where I've maintained position for nearly ninety minutes now. The distance makes detailed visual identification impossible with normal vision, but something—perhaps Alpha instinct, perhaps guilty conscience suddenly activated by undeniable evidence—allows him to locate me with unsettling precision.
Our eyes meet despite the distance, scope bringing his expression into perfect focus while he squints toward my position with growing horror. The moment stretches, connection established across space that separates us physically while collapsing the years between assault and retribution into single perfect point of convergence.
"You look so handsome when your life is over," I whisper, finger finally moving from alongside the trigger guard to the trigger itself.
I exhale completely, that perfect stillness settling through my body as I prepare for the shot that will conclude seven years of pursuit. The world narrows to target acquisition, to minute adjustments compensating for distance and environmental factors, to the practiced precision developed through countless hours training for this exact scenario.
The bullet leaves the barrel with minimal sound thanks to Knox's specialized suppressor, traveling the calculated distance with unerring accuracy despite variables that would compromise less perfectly executed shot. Through my scope, I witness impact—center mass rather than headshot, the choice deliberate rather than compromised.
Dead men tell no tales, but wounded ones can face justice beyond simple elimination. The non-lethal shot will ensure Caldwell survives to witness the complete destruction of everything he's built—his reputation, his freedom, his future eradicated not through merciful death but through prolonged exposure to consequences he believed himself immune from.
The impact drives him backward, blood blossoming across his crisp white shirt as he crumples to his knees. Chaos erupts immediately—screams from the crowd, security personnel rushing toward their fallen principal, medical professionals in attendance responding to evident emergency despite not yet understanding its deliberate nature.
"Target neutralized," I report through our communication channel, professional detachment returning as emotional satisfaction recedes beneath tactical requirements. "Phase one complete, transitioning to extraction."
The others respond with similar professional acknowledgments, the operation proceeding exactly as planned despite Caldwell's initial delay. I begin disassembling my weapon with practiced efficiency, each component secured in specialized carrying case designed to appear as ordinary musical equipment rather than tactical hardware.
As I prepare for extraction, my gaze returns briefly to the festival grounds below. Emergency services have reached Caldwell, medical personnel working to stabilize his condition while law enforcement secures the perimeter. The massive screen continues displaying evidence of his crimes, documentation too extensive to be dismissed as fabrication or political attack despite his earlier attempts.
And standing at the edge of the stage, face pale with shock as he witnesses his colleague's downfall, is Elliott Prescott Junior. The final name on my list. The orchestrator of the assault that transformed me from ordinary student to vengeful hunter. The last target remaining before my seven-year mission reaches completion.
He stares at Caldwell's bleeding form, at the damning evidence still projecting behind the chaotic scene, at the crowd's reaction transitioning from horror to anger as understanding dawns regarding what they've witnessed. His expression contains something beyond mere shock or concern for his injured ally—a dawning recognition that the retribution befalling Caldwell won't stop there, that connections between them are too numerous to avoid similar exposure, that whatever force orchestrated this public downfall has additional targets already identified.
Fear. Pure, undiluted fear transforms his features as self-preservation overwhelms loyalty to his fallen colleague. Without waiting for security personnel to establish order, without offering assistance to the man bleeding on stage, Elliott turns and runs—shoving past event staff and disappearing into the backstage area with the particular desperation of someone who recognizes impending doom but believes escape remains possible.
I smile as I secure the final components of my disassembled rifle. His flight is expected, his path already mapped, his destination predetermined through careful manipulation of available options. He believes himself running toward safety when in reality each step brings him closer to the specific location where final confrontation awaits.
The alleyway where Rook and I first met. The dead-end corridor where our complicated journey began. The perfect setting for concluding this chapter of my existence and beginning whatever comes next.
"Phase two initiated," Rook's voice confirms through my communication device, the particular satisfaction in his tone suggesting he's already identified Elliott's flight path corresponding exactly with our predictions. "Primary target moving as anticipated toward extraction point."
"Acknowledged," I respond, slinging the equipment case over my shoulder as I move toward the rooftop access door. "Venom proceeding to secondary position."
My body moves with practiced efficiency despite the increasing heat building beneath my skin, the approaching biological imperative temporarily suppressed beneath mission requirements. There will be time for surrender to designation demands once justice is complete, once both remaining names have been crossed from my list, once vengeance concludes and whatever exists beyond it can finally begin.
As I descend from my elevated position, I feel certainty settling through me with comforting weight. Seven years pursuing justice for what was taken from me in that rain-soaked alley. Seven years existing as weapon rather than woman, as hunter rather than simply survivor. Seven years allowing rage and retribution to define my existence at exclusion of all else.
The end of that singular focus approaches—not through abandonment of purpose but through its completion, through justice finally delivered to those who believed themselves beyond reach of consequences. What exists beyond vengeance remains uncertain, undefined, but for the first time since awakening in that hospital bed believing myself completely alone in the world, I face that uncertainty without dread.
Not alone anymore. Not weapon without wielder, not hunter without home. Whatever comes after this night—after Elliott joins Caldwell in facing consequences for actions he believed consequence-free—I will face it surrounded by connections I never expected to form, by the strange family assembled from unlikely components, by the pack that found me despite my determined isolation.
But first, one final confrontation. One last name to cross from my list.
Elliott Prescott Junior.
The architect of my destruction, soon to face the instrument of his own.