Chapter 9 Sterling #2
I strike the match. Let it fall. Flames roar to life, ravenous and bright. Screams echo behind me as I turn my back on them, locking them in. Heat licks at my spine. I don’t move a muscle.
I watch it all while the fire feeds on every lie they manufactured in this sterile hell. Clo should feel the heat, even all the way from here.
Staying still, I wait for a while. After seeing the flames spread, hearing the broken cries that quiet when too much smoke’s filled their lungs, and feeling the sweat bead all over my body, that’s when I decide to make my exit, moving into the street, as noxious clouds of gray go upward like a warning to the sky.
The lab was one square. One corner. A sacrifice. But the queen’s the problem, bleeding power into everything she touches. I want her off the goddamn board.
Clo’s still sequestered in that house, where Elle walks through shadows, forgetting her name a little more each day. And forgetting me, because of Stanley’s hand on her, Clo’s voice in her ear. The tea. The lies. The mirrors.
My hands clench into tight fists, stretching my gloves. My breath rattles behind my mask, but it’s the only thing filtering the hot air I breathe. It’s nothing compared to the fire in my chest.
All I can think of is how Elle’s still there, in the nightmare I dared to call home when I was nothing but a scared kid. And every hour that ticks by feels like more fuel to the fire, burning right through my ribs.
I grind my teeth, the taste of smoke biting bitter at the back of my throat, clinging to the inside of my mask. There’s too much of it to filter now. It’s my sign to retreat, so I move, slowly stepping back.
Sirens begin to wail in the distance, drawing closer, but not close enough. By the time they’ll arrive at the scene, there’ll be no one left to rescue.
I walk through the night with fire in my chest and her name pounding in my skull.
Elle’s still out there, locked in that cursed estate with Stanley playing the charming prince, Clo playing the doting matriarch, and everyone else too blind to see what’s happening to her.
But I see it. And I’ll tear it all down, piece by fucking piece, until Elle remembers the truth.
Until she remembers me. Until she’s back in my arms again.
***
There’s no sleep for me. Elle’s in that house swallowing poison disguised as tea, each drop dragging her further from me.
I pace between bloodstains and broken locks in the dead hours, eyes burning from hours spent dissecting more of Clo’s paper trail.
She’s smart, enough to keep names and addresses out of the files.
The drugs move without serial numbers, her men rendered to codenames, and Kys slithers through ghost corporations, right up to the gates of that mansion.
But every transaction is wrapped in shadow. And shadows are where I live.
Past midnight, I find a dockworker, whose identity took too long to find in Clo’s files.
The greedy bastard’s my next kill, careless with his paperwork and worse with his mouth.
He tries to talk his way out of it when my wire’s already coiled around his neck like a noose made just for him.
I told myself I wouldn’t pull until I get something useful.
But I can’t wait. The snap’s instant, tearing the wire with the way I’m seething as his body collapses, lifeless. It should be satisfying. Except it isn’t. Because the idiot didn’t know enough. Because Elle’s still in that fucking house.
So I keep going. The warehouse takes all night to find.
It’s hidden in the back of the industrial district, a gray building among many lined like tombstones.
The shipments must come through here. Before I move in, I trigger an EMP that hits the local grid with a pulse of silence.
Everything in that doomed warehouse goes quietly dark.
I enter silently at night, sneaking into a back corner door. The first man I see is supposed to be guarding it. He doesn’t scream when my blade catches him under the jaw, a whisper of red slices across his throat.
The next one is standing by a locked room. He’s larger, a mountain of a man. But with his size, his movements are slow. He swings first. I duck low, twist into his center, and jam my knife straight into his side. He stiffens, garbling a curse. I let him drop at my feet.
I sneak deeper into the building. That terrible smell of chemicals lingers in the chilly air. I follow it, every step dragging me closer to the source.
Another man stumbles into view, phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t even get a word out before I silence him with a quick strike to the throat and a sharp, hard twist of his neck. He collapses, his body twitching as it hits concrete. That’s three.
I ghost through the aisles of crates, floor slick under my shoes, steel shelving stacked with shrink-wrapped Kys. The drug dulling Elle’s mind, stripping her voice, making her docile. Far too trusting.
The thought of it—of her sipping that poison with her wonderful smile—floods my vision red. I want them all dead.
But then I hear a sharp, heavy click to my side, where my head snaps, showing my mask. “Hands where I can see ‘em,” a voice in the dark rasps, his gun pointed at me.
I comply partially. One hand lifts. The other clutches my knife. He thinks I’m surrendering. He’s wrong. Dead fucking wrong. The second his weight shifts, with the smallest hesitation in his stance, I strike forward and close the gap.
The gun fires, but I lift his arm away from me.
Still, the damage is done. There was a deafening roar, a warning signal.
But it’s too late for him or anyone else he’s warned.
I’m already below the shot, already moving.
My blade slides beneath his ribs, the resistance fleeting before muscle gives way. His gun clatters to the ground.
That’s four. But the shot draws the rest of them. Frantic voices yell. Heavy footsteps thunder. Towards me. I stand there, waiting. I want them to see me. To see my mask.
“Shit! It’s the goblin!”
Good. I want them afraid. It makes them careless in their desperate act to survive. But they won’t survive me.
From my belt, I unclip a pair of smoke grenades. Then toss one left, one right. They clatter and hiss to life, spreading out thick smoke. Visibility drops. Panic spikes. Footsteps scatter in the haze, breaking formation. Perfect. I move.
One rounds the corner through the smoke, weapon raised but aimed at nowhere near me.
My mask lets me breathe through the smoke, and my eyes are trained to see through it.
I’m already in motion, ducking and weaving, the blade flashing.
It buries into his throat with a wet crack. He gurgles and drops.
Another charges me from the side, sloppy and too loud. I grab his arm mid-lunge, wrench it sideways with a satisfying pop, and slam my blade up under his ribcage. He collapses against me. I let him slide down like a bag of meat.
Five. Six. The warehouse erupts in screams, gunfire, and chaos. I’ve always been more of the stealthy type. But the fire in my veins wants out.
A spray of bullets peppers the steel shelves behind me. I roll behind cover, a breath from death, fingers scraping the concrete for the discarded weapon.
My eyes scan for it, and as soon as I find it, I reach for it. The flailing gunman runs out of ammo by the time he reaches me. So all it takes is a quick raise, aim, and fire, clean and straight through the bastard’s left eye.
Seven. Panic floods the room, much worse than the lab’s bastards. These warehouse men are messy, coming at me blind and dumb. And they’re delusional, if they think they can take me down. They yell over each other, firing into the shadows.
I’m tired of the mess, so I throw them off my scent as the smoke clears. I shut the lights out. Force them to either run afraid like cowards, or try to find me in the dark.
From the shadows, I stalk them like prey. My mask grins through the dying smoke, glinting in demonic red. Through more and more pathetic attempts from these blundering men, my blade cuts and my gun pops. More bodies fall.
When I spot a few cowering in a corner, I aim for them. But I must’ve lost count, because when I pull the trigger, there’s only an empty click. I drop the gun, drawing my blade again.
Another turns to run. Too late. I’m already behind him, slicing across his hamstring, then up, fast and cruel, opening him like cloth.
The rest crumble easily from my blade, and from my faster fists and swifter feet. Bodies thud in the ominous noise. They should’ve known they never stood a chance. Not when I’m this enraged, fueled by Elle, who’s still waiting for me.
When the last broken scream dies out, the warehouse is still.
My breath steadies. My soles crunch over scattered casings and blood.
I step toward the table at the center of it all.
When my eyes land on it, it’s clear it’s the throneroom to Clo’s empire.
There’s hundreds of packets. No doubt full of Kys, stacked and labeled with more codenames.
After all the fighting and the takedowns—with no sleep and only rage—I can’t breathe anymore.
I’m shaking. My hands are trembling. The blade slips from my hand.
My eyes keep scanning the piles of Kys. This time, it feels frantic.
So does my heartbeat. Because Elle drinks this. She trusts wrong because of this.
I let out uneven, bitter breaths. Reach into my pocket. Pull the lighter free. And throw it into the stacked packets. The flame flares to life. Small at first, then steady and merciless.
As I watch the fire grow, I remember her.
Elle’s eyes catching mine through the mask.
So this fire—all of these kills, all of this destruction—is for Elle.
For the girl who still doesn’t know what’s been stolen from her.
Because of me and my fucking mistakes, stacking up like a wall between us.
She’s stuck on the other side, paying for my dumb fumbles.
Fire races across the piles of drugs. It devours paper, plastic, and flesh, as the flames spread. Heat sears my mask. But I don’t move. Just like the lab, I want to witness the first few moments.
Soon, I’ll take Elle back, then there’ll be nothing left for Clo to cling to. When I’ve seen enough, I walk through the smoke, each step echoing the promise I made in the dark. Elle is mine to protect. I’m going to get her.