Chapter 83 Antonio
The world has shrunk to the space between my sights and the next man who stands between me and her. Every shot is a punctuation mark in a sentence of pure, unadulterated rage. I don’t feel the recoil anymore; it’s just a vibration that travels up my arm and feeds the beast gnawing at my insides.
Konstantine is dead. I did what Esau wanted, I played the good little soldier. And for what? The hollow victory curdles in my stomach; a worthless token exchanged for a chance. A chance to get to Grace.
That’s all that’s left. The deal is done, the debt is paid, but none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the singular, desperate pull towards the heart of this concrete hell, towards where they are keeping my wife.
My men move around me, they clear corners, laying down suppressing fire.
Their movements are precise and professional.
I am none of those things. I am a blunt instrument, a wrecking ball.
I don’t wait for clearance. I see a shape, I fire.
I hear a sound from a doorway; I empty the clip into the wood.
They are all ghosts, all faceless obstacles to be obliterated.
We breach a stairwell, descending into the bowels of the building. The air grows colder, smelling of damp concrete and rust. This is where they stash things they want to forget. This is where they have put her.
“Clear,” one of my men barks, his voice echoing in the confined space.
I don’t acknowledge him. I’m already moving down the next flight, my boots hitting the metal steps with a clang that sounds like a death knell. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, a counter-rhythm to the sporadic gunfire.
Grace. Grace. Grace.
We hit a landing, a long corridor stretching into darkness, lit only by flickering fluorescent tubes. And there, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting for a bus, is Lucas Asher.
He’s grinning. A wide, manic slash of white in the semi-gloom. The sight of it, the sheer arrogance, is a spark on a gasoline trail. My men fan out, weapons raised but I raise a hand, a silent command to hold. This one is mine.
“Antonio,” Lucas says, his voice a mocking drawl. “Look at you. The prodigal son returns, all guns blazing. I must admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
My finger tightens on the trigger. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“You are,” he chuckles, pushing himself off the wall. He’s taller than me, lankier, but I know the kind of wiry strength that hides in a frame like that. “All this… effort. This grand, bloody gesture. It’s a little late for theatrics, don’t you think?”
Rage, cold and sharp, pushes out everything else. There are no more words. I pull the trigger.
Click.
The sound is tiny, insignificant, but it echoes in the sudden silence. I pull again. Click. Empty. I’ve lost count of the clips I’ve burned through.
Lucas’s grin widens. “Oh, out of presents for me? What a shame.”
He moves.
He’s fast, almost inhumanly so. A kick connects with my wrist, and the useless pistol clatters to the floor. I don’t have time to think, only react. I lunge forward, ducking under a wild swing and driving my shoulder into his gut. We crash against the wall, a tangle of limbs and pure fucking fury.
This isn’t the controlled violence I was trained in.
This is a street brawl, primal and messy.
We trade blows, grunts and the sickening thud of flesh impacting flesh filling the corridor.
He lands a punch to my kidney that sends a flash of white-hot pain through my side.
I respond by driving my knee into his thigh, feeling the muscle give.
He’s stronger than I anticipated. He gets an arm around my neck, squeezing, cutting off the air as black spots dance at the edge of my vision. Grace’s face flashes behind my eyes; not as she was, but as I fear she is now. Broken. Afraid. Ruined.
No.
A surge of adrenaline, raw and vicious, floods my system. I throw my weight backward, slamming us both into the opposite wall. His grip loosens for a fraction of a second. It’s all I need. I drive my elbow back into his ribs, hearing a satisfying crack. He grunts, and his arm falls away.
I spin around, gasping for air. He’s already coming at me again, but he’s slowed. As I see the opening, I put my entire body into it. Every ounce of fear, every shred of rage, every second of guilt since the moment she was taken. My fist connects with his jaw in a perfect, brutal uppercut.
The crack is louder this time. His head snaps back and he stumbles, dazed, into the centre of the corridor. There is no pause, no mercy. I am on him before he can fall. I don’t see a man anymore, I see a symbol of every horror she has endured.
I slam my fists into him. Again and again.
There is no technique, only impact. The wet, dull sounds are a symphony of my ruin.
I punch until my knuckles are raw and slick, until my arms ache with a fatigue that goes deeper than bone.
It’s only when one of my men grabs my shoulder, pulling me back, that I stop.
“Boss… he’s gone. Antonio, he’s gone.”
I look down. Lucas’s face is a pulped, unrecognizable mess. The grinning bastard is gone. I shove the man’s hand away, my chest heaving.
I don’t feel triumph.
I feel nothing.
A vast, hollow nothing.
I stagger to my feet, wiping my bloody hands on my pants. I retrieve my discarded gun, eject the empty clip, and slam a fresh one home with a click that feels final.
I don’t look back. I head for the staircase at the end of the corridor, descending once more. It’s colder here. The air is thick with the scent of neglect and something else… the distinct smell of human waste.
This level is quieter, almost silent. My men follow, their footsteps cautious now. The corridor is narrower, with heavy metal doors on either side.
A man is slumped against a door at the very end, clutching his stomach. He’s been shot, probably by one of my men during the initial breach, but he’s still alive. As I approach he looks up, and a low, gurgling laugh escapes his blood-flecked lips.
I raise my gun, aiming for his head. A quick, clean end. He’s not worth a second more of my time.
“She was… sweet,” he rasps, his eyes glazed with pain and something else - malice. “Real sweet. I left her a little gift, though.”
The world tilts. The hollow inside me fills with ice. I take a step closer, the barrel of my gun now inches from his forehead. “What did you do?”
He smiles, a ghastly expression. “Gave her a choice. Told her she could wait for you… or she could choose her own way out. I wonder which path the little bitch picked...”
A single, solitary gunshot rings out, cutting his words off.
It’s not loud. It’s muffled, coming from behind the very door he’s guarding. But in the profound silence of this tomb, it’s as explosive as a bomb.
The sound rips through me, shredding the last of my control. The man sees the realization dawn on my face, and his smile widens in triumph.
I pull the trigger, and his head snaps back against the metal door. He slumps to the floor, finally silent.
But I’m already screaming, a raw, animal sound that tears from my throat. “GRACE.”
I kick the door. Once. Twice. The lock gives way on the third kick, and the door swings open, crashing against the inside wall.
The room is small, windowless, and there, on the floor in a pool of dark, spreading crimson, is my wife.
She’s on her side, curled around herself.
A pistol lies near her outstretched hand.
The side of her face… God, the side of her face is a ruin of blood and tissue.
She tried… she tried to put the barrel in her mouth, but she must have jerked, or her hand was shaking because the angle is wrong.
It’s a catastrophic wound, but not immediately fatal.
The world stops.
The rage, the violence, the cold purpose - it all evaporates, leaving behind a void of such profound horror that I can’t fucking breathe.
I stagger towards her, my legs buckling, and I drop to my knees beside her.
“No… no, no, no, Grace. No.”
My voice is a broken whisper. I gather her into my arms, pulling her limp, cooling body against my chest. The blood soaks into my shirt, warm and sticky. Her head lolls against my arm, and a low, wet, gurgling sound comes from the ruin of her jaw.
She’s still breathing. She’s alive.
But the sight of the damage… the sheer, brutal extent of it… it’s a vision of a despair so deep I cannot fathom it. This is what they drove her to. This is what I drove her to.
“Help me.” I scream over my shoulder, my voice cracking. “SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME.”
I press my hand against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s everywhere. There’s too much. Her life is literally seeping through my fingers. Her one good eye is open, but it’s unseeing, glazed with shock and agony.
“Look at me, Grace. Look at me,” I beg, cradling her face, avoiding the horrific damage. Tears stream down my face, mingling with the blood on her cheek. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me. I’m here, I’m here now. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”
I rock her gently, a useless, frantic motion.
“Do you hear me, Dumpling? I won’t let you go. I won’t let you die, I won’t let you leave me.”
I stand with her held in my arms, her body unnaturally light, my own body trembling with the effort. With the grief, with the sheer, blinding terror.
“Move.” I roar at my men who are gathered at the door, their faces pale and shocked. “Get a car. Now. Clear a path.”
I race out of that cursed room, holding the shattered remains of my world against my chest. I run back down the corridor, up the stairs, past the bodies of the men I killed, past Lucas’s corpse.
None of it matters. The rampage is over. The monster is gone.
All that is left is a desperate, broken man begging a God he doesn’t believe in anymore.
I clutch her tighter, feeling the faint, shallow rise and fall of her chest. Each step is a prayer. Each breath she takes is a miracle.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper into her hair, my voice thick with tears. “You have to be okay. I won’t let you die. I won’t, I won’t.”
But the words feel like ashes in my mouth.
The blood continues to flow, a dark river staining us both and all I can do is run, hoping that I’m not already carrying her corpse in my arms.