43. Checkmate
~ELLIOTT~
"S top the fucking car!" I slam my palm against the partition separating me from the driver's seat, voice raw with panic I can't fully suppress. "Right here! NOW!"
The luxury sedan lurches to an abrupt halt, tires screeching against asphalt as the driver complies with more urgency than finesse. I'm already clawing at the door handle before we've fully stopped, throwing myself onto the sidewalk with zero regard for appearances or dignity.
"Hey!" the driver shouts, rolling down her window, mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—flashing with indignation. "You didn't pay, Alpha jerk!"
I don't bother responding, already sprinting down the nearest side street, heart hammering against my ribs with such force it feels like it might crack bone. My designer shoes—Italian leather, handcrafted, obscenely expensive—slip against damp pavement as I round the corner, sacrificing stability for speed with each desperate stride.
"Fucking weird," I mutter between gasping breaths, the image of that driver's unusual eyes lingering despite more pressing concerns demanding attention. "An Omega driver with heterochromia? What are the fucking odds?"
The coincidence registers as vaguely unsettling, but I can't spare mental resources to examine it further—not when Caldwell's blood-soaked form remains seared into my retinas, not when those horrific images are still playing across that massive screen for the entire fucking community to witness, not when the systematic destruction of everything we've built unfolds in real-time while I run for my life.
Because I am running for my life. No question about it.
The bullet that struck Caldwell wasn't random violence or generic political terrorism—it was targeted elimination, the first move in what is clearly a coordinated attack against specific individuals. And if they've started with a fucking State Senator, with his security detail and public visibility, then I'm undoubtedly next on whatever hit list they're working through.
I check my phone as I run, fingers slipping against the screen with sweat despite the evening chill. The device displays multiple missed calls from my father, from our security team, from business associates who've witnessed Caldwell's downfall and correctly assessed its implications for anyone connected to him.
No time for conversations. No time for explanations or reassurances or arrangements for extraction by official channels. Whoever orchestrated this has resources, has planning capacity, has fucking reach that makes standard security protocols as effective as tissue paper against a tsunami.
My only chance lies in the shadows—in the connections I've cultivated beneath my father's awareness, in the underworld operators who function outside official structures, who provide services unavailable through legitimate channels regardless of wealth or influence.
Venom.
The name materializes from memory with perfect clarity despite the chaos of my current circumstances. The mysterious enforcer whose reputation in Dead Knot transcends ordinary violence to approach something like mythology. The shadowy figure who accepts any job, completes any task, eliminates any target—for the right price, with the right incentives.
I alter my course, feet carrying me toward the territory most would avoid at all costs—especially privileged Alphas like myself, who represent perfect targets for the particular blend of resentment and opportunism that defines Dead Knot's operational philosophy. Under normal circumstances, entering this area without protection, without escorts familiar with local power structures, would constitute suicide by stupidity.
But these aren't normal circumstances. And desperate times demand desperate measures, regardless of associated risks.
Besides, I have something most entitled Alphas don't—actual connection to Dead Knot's most effective operator, established through careful cultivation over months of increasingly lucrative assignments. The last job I'd arranged had been substantial enough to warrant direct contact rather than using intermediaries, creating communication channel I'd planned to leverage for future operations but now might represent my only chance at survival.
My lungs burn as I push deeper into hostile territory, each step carrying me further from safety and closer to my only potential salvation. The streets grow narrower, buildings more dilapidated, lighting less reliable as maintained infrastructure gives way to the particular aesthetic of calculated neglect that characterizes Dead Knot's central neighborhoods.
Eyes track my progress from darkened doorways, from alley entrances, from behind windows covered with security mesh more effective at containing occupants than preventing intrusion. I feel the weight of their assessment—calculation of potential value versus risk, of whether this obviously out-of-place Alpha represents opportunity worth pursuing or danger best avoided.
Under different circumstances, I'd be fair game—wealthy target without appropriate protection, without demonstrated connection to local power structures that might discourage opportunistic predation. But something in my expression, in my posture, in the particular quality of desperation propelling me forward seems to communicate warning sufficient to prevent immediate intervention.
I check the message again, received weeks ago through encrypted channel established specifically for communicating with Venom. The directions are specific, the location precisely indicated despite being difficult to identify without prior knowledge of Dead Knot's unconventional geography.
Third alley past the burned-out convenience store, right turn at the graffiti displaying two intertwined snakes, continue to dead end. Speak the code word three times. Wait for response. If none within sixty seconds, press concealed button on right wall approximately four feet from ground level.
Simple enough under normal conditions. Considerably more challenging when pursued by unknown assassins with demonstrated ability to neutralize targets despite substantial security measures. I glance behind me, paranoia transforming ordinary shadows into potential threats, ambient sounds into pursuers closing distance.
The burned-out convenience store appears ahead—its blackened shell immediately recognizable despite never having visited this specific location before. I count alleyways as I pass, breath coming in ragged gasps that have as much to do with fear as physical exertion.
One. Two. Three.
I turn sharply, nearly losing footing on rain-slick pavement as momentum carries me further than intended. The narrow passage between buildings appears exactly as described—confined space barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, walls covered with layers of graffiti representing various territorial claims and artistic expressions characteristic of Dead Knot's particular aesthetic.
The intertwined snakes are immediately apparent—vivid crimson and black against concrete canvas, rendered with surprising artistic skill given the presumably limited resources available to whoever created them. I turn right as instructed, proceeding deeper into what clearly terminates in dead end rather than providing passage to adjacent street.
Anxiety spikes as I approach the alley's conclusion, enclosed space triggering instinctive claustrophobia despite logical understanding that this represents potential safety rather than entrapment. I force myself to breathe, to focus on immediate next steps rather than spiraling through increasingly catastrophic possibilities.
"Venom," I call out, voice pitched low enough to avoid carrying beyond immediate vicinity yet loud enough to be heard by anyone positioned behind the seemingly solid wall ahead. "Venom. Venom."
Nothing.
No response, no movement, no indication that anyone has registered my presence or recognized the code word established for precisely this type of emergency contact. I wait, counting seconds in my head while scanning the surrounding area for pursuit that feels increasingly inevitable despite no concrete evidence supporting such paranoia.
Thirty seconds. Forty-five. Sixty.
Still nothing.
Panic threatens to overwhelm rational thought as I frantically examine the wall for the concealed button mentioned in contingency instructions. Right side, approximately four feet from ground level. My hands trace the rough concrete surface, fingers searching for anything that might represent deliberately disguised mechanism rather than ordinary architectural feature.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—probably my father's security team calling again, demanding update on my location, promising extraction they can't actually provide given how thoroughly our carefully constructed systems have been compromised. I pull it out, intending to silence it without answering, when I notice text message notification from unknown number.
Press the button on the side when you're here.
The instruction makes no sense initially—what button? What side? Then understanding dawns with humiliating clarity. Not a button in the wall as I'd incorrectly assumed, but a button on the side of the alley. I spin around, desperately scanning both walls until I spot it—what appears to be ordinary doorbell positioned at exactly the height specified in original instructions.
"Fuck," I hiss, lunging toward it with such urgency I nearly trip over my own feet. The button depresses with satisfying solidity beneath my trembling finger, mechanism clearly functional despite its weathered appearance and unlikely location.
For several heartbeats, nothing happens. Then metal grinding against metal echoes through the confined space—sound emerging from behind rather than ahead where I'd been focusing all attention. I spin around to witness extraordinary transformation—what appeared to be ordinary gutter at the alley's entrance rising upward with mechanical precision, solid steel barrier emerging from concealed housing beneath the street.
The barrier continues rising, creating impenetrable wall between myself and whatever pursuit might be organizing beyond the alley's confines. Relief floods through me with such intensity my knees nearly buckle beneath its weight. Safety. Security. Protection from whatever force orchestrated Caldwell's public destruction.
I laugh—sound emerging high and slightly manic despite efforts to maintain composure befitting someone of my position. The barrier continues extending upward, clearly designed to completely seal the alleyway from both access and observation. Whoever built this system understood security requirements beyond ordinary parameters, created solution addressing both physical penetration and surveillance concerns regardless of technological sophistication potentially employed against it.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I watch with growing satisfaction as the barrier reaches maximum extension, sealing me within protective enclosure that—while temporarily restrictive—represents salvation rather than confinement. My breathing gradually steadies, heart rate decreasing from panicked gallop to merely elevated as immediate danger appears neutralized.
Distant booming sound draws my attention upward, momentary confusion clearing as I recognize thunder rather than explosion or gunfire. I hadn't realized storm was approaching, hadn't noticed atmospheric conditions while focused on more immediate survival concerns. The weather seems appropriate somehow—dramatic backdrop for equally dramatic circumstances currently unfolding.
My self-congratulatory relief shatters as water suddenly cascades from above—not gradual rainfall but immediate deluge as if someone had upended massive container directly over my position. I stagger backward, disorientation momentarily overwhelming coherent thought as I'm drenched within seconds.
"What the fuck?" I sputter, wiping water from my eyes while attempting to locate source of this unexpected development. The water continues pouring down, focused specifically on my location rather than distributed throughout the enclosed space. Targeted rather than environmental. Deliberate rather than coincidental.
Understanding dawns with horrifying clarity just as sensation begins fading from my extremities. Not water—or not just water. Something else. Something designed to affect nervous system, to compromise motor function without immediately rendering victim unconscious.
I fumble for my phone, desperate to call for help despite rational understanding that no assistance can reach me through the barrier I so recently celebrated. The device slips from my increasingly numb fingers, clattering against ground with impact that sends water splashing upward.
"No," I gasp, voice already slurring as whatever chemical agent contained within the liquid continues affecting speech centers alongside motor control. I drop to my knees, muscles no longer responding to conscious commands with appropriate vigor or precision.
Through water streaming down my face, through increasingly compromised vision, I finally see the figure standing at the alley's opposite end—the entrance now mysteriously accessible despite barrier that should have prevented any access whatsoever. My brain struggles to process this impossibility, to understand how anyone could penetrate security measure specifically designed to prevent such infiltration.
The figure approaches slowly, deliberate pace suggesting complete confidence rather than cautious assessment. As they draw closer, features resolve with sufficient clarity to permit recognition despite my deteriorating visual processing.
Female. Average height accentuated by high-heeled boots that click against wet pavement with hypnotic rhythm. Fitness evident beneath fashionable clothing that balances practical functionality with aesthetic appeal. Most distinctive—hair cascading past shoulders in waves that transition from deepest crimson at roots through vibrant orange to golden tips, creating impression of living flame despite the water saturating everything within this enclosed space.
The Omega.
Recognition hits with devastating force, memories connecting with current reality to create understanding that arrives too late to provide any tactical advantage. The Omega from Dead Knot whom I'd confronted weeks earlier. The one who triggered that strange protective response from the masked Alpha. The one whose scent had stirred uncomfortable recognition I couldn't quite place at the time.
The one who should have died in that alley seven years ago, left broken and bleeding after we'd finished teaching her appropriate place in natural hierarchy.
She's supposed to be dead . Victor Calavera's daughter is supposed to be dead .
The thought surfaces with particular desperation, as if correcting this narrative discrepancy might somehow alter current circumstances. As if proper adherence to established timeline might disintegrate the woman now standing before me with expression containing neither rage nor triumph but something more devastating in its calculated neutrality.
I try to speak—to threaten, to bargain, to beg if necessary—but my tongue feels swollen within my mouth, vocal cords responding with garbled approximation of language rather than coherent communication. My body continues its systematic shutdown, extremities now completely numb while core functions remain operational—allowing continued consciousness without possibility of resistance or escape.
The perfect balance for what comes next. For what I recognize with sudden, devastating clarity will be neither quick nor merciful.
"Shhhh," she murmurs, pressing single finger against my lips with gentle pressure that carries more menace than violent force could possibly convey. "You'll need your voice for when the screaming begins."
Her smile contains nothing of genuine pleasure—merely acknowledgment of inevitable progression, of scenario unfolding exactly as planned despite its apparent complexity and numerous potential failure points.
"How does it feel?" she asks, voice carrying conversational lightness completely at odds with circumstance. "To be trapped? A bird in a metal cage? Brilliant, isn't it?"
I manage to move my eyes—apparently the only voluntary motor function remaining available—looking past her to witness additional figures entering the sealed alleyway. Four of them, all male, all carrying themselves with the particular confidence of Alphas accustomed to dominance without requiring its constant demonstration.
Each wears different mask—variation on similar theme that suggests coordinated identity rather than individual concealment. Each carries different implement—distinctive tools clearly selected for specific application rather than general intimidation. Each watches me with the particular focus of predator assessing prey already secured but not yet processed.
"I always wondered," the Omega— Jessica Vesper Calavera —continues, circling me with measured steps that create ripples in the water still pooling around my immobilized form, "if anyone would die for me at Knot Academy."
She pauses directly before me, crouching slightly to bring her face level with mine despite my collapsed posture. Her eyes contain none of the fear that characterized our last encounter years ago, none of the desperation I remember with such particular satisfaction.
"I finally found a pack that would," she states, satisfaction evident beneath clinical delivery. "But you know what's better?"
She leans closer, lips nearly brushing my ear as she whispers, "Having a pack that would kill for you."
Terror transcends physical limitation, adrenaline flooding system with such intensity I manage small movement despite chemical paralysis—pathetic twitching rather than meaningful resistance, serving only to demonstrate complete vulnerability rather than offering any possibility of escape.
Jessica straightens, turning away with casual dismissal that somehow cuts deeper than active cruelty might have. She walks toward what I now notice has been positioned at the alley's center—simple chair placed with deliberate precision to provide optimal viewing perspective for whatever comes next.
She spins the chair around, settling into it with characteristic grace that belies the violence she's clearly orchestrating. One leg crosses over the other, posture relaxed yet attentive as she observes my continued deterioration with clinical interest rather than emotional investment.
"I figured I'd want to mimic how the day was when you and your Alphas raped me," she explains, gesturing toward the water still cascading from concealed mechanism above. "But since it wasn't going to rain until later, we had to improvise."
Her smile returns—sharp-edged, dangerous, completely devoid of mercy or uncertainty.
"Don't worry, though. By the time my Alphas are done with you, the rain can wash all the blood away so you don't leave a permanent mark on my Alpha's place of work." She adjusts her position slightly, ensuring optimal comfort for extended observation. "It's rude to leave messes, you know."
The casual statement carries such bizarre normalcy within context of imminent torture that hysterical laughter bubbles in my chest, emerging as pathetic gurgle rather than actual sound. She's concerned about cleanliness. About proper etiquette. About respecting workspace while orchestrating my systematic destruction.
Jessica snaps her fingers, the sharp sound cutting through ambient noise of artificial rainfall with unexpected clarity.
"Take your time, my pack," she instructs, settling further into her chair with the particular satisfaction of someone prepared to enjoy extended performance. "I want him to enjoy every minute of torture."
Her gaze moves between the four masked figures now positioning themselves around my immobilized form, something softening in her expression as she observes their coordinated movements.
"Don't worry," she adds, voice warming with genuine emotion for first time since her appearance. "By the time we're done here, we can enjoy my Heat as a victory lap."
The four Alphas respond with sounds of approval—not the typical aggressive posturing such statement might normally trigger when multiple Alphas share proximity to Omega approaching fertility, but harmonized acknowledgment suggesting established pack dynamics rather than competitive claiming.
The largest among them approaches first, massive frame moving with surprising grace despite obvious physical power contained within his intimidating physique. In his hands, he carries what appears at first glance to be medieval weapon—spiked ball attached to handle by chain of indeterminate composition, each protrusion gleaming with metallic perfection suggesting recent sharpening rather than decorative blunting.
He crouches before me, mask revealing only his eyes—dark pools containing neither sadistic pleasure nor professional detachment, but something more complex that might almost resemble compassion if not for current context.
His head tilts slightly, studying me with the particular focus of craftsman assessing materials before beginning project requiring specific technical application rather than general force.
"Why don't we begin," he suggests, voice carrying surprising gentleness despite obvious intent. "Playing a game of chess."
The weapon rises slowly, deliberately, positioned for maximum visibility rather than immediate application. I watch with singular focus, eyes being the only part of my body still responding to voluntary commands.
Panic solidifies into something beyond terror—understanding that transcends emotional response to enter territory of pure, existential recognition.
This is happening. This is real. This is inevitable.
"Checkmate," he whispers, the weapon beginning its controlled descent toward first point of impact he's selected with surgical precision.
And I can't do a single thing.
F.I.N.
As one chapter closes, a new one unveils…
Are you ready to dive into Sera’s world of ruthless madness?
RUTHLESS KNOT
Book 3 in FORGOTTEN OMEGAS: INITIATION