Chapter 19
Nineteen
The older-model white Ford SUV ticked quietly its engine cooled, its faint metallic clicks swallowed by the sweeping stillness of the woods. Eric opened the driver’s door and stepped out, his polished shoes sinking half an inch into damp sand that made up the narrow parking area.
A light north wind rolled down from the mountains, teasing the hem of his wool overcoat and carrying with it the scents of cold water and cedar bark.
He inhaled deeply.
Silence. Real silence—no machines humming, no monitors blinking, no muffled voices in the next room. It pressed against his skin like a living entity.
He walked toward the lake, each step sending small crunches through the deserted cove. The air tasted sweet, clean, as if unaware of the danger that was about to disturb the fragile peace.
The lake stretched before him, still and black as obsidian, polished to impossible perfection. The late fall sun and the shadows of skeletal trees bent toward the water’s edge.
Across the lake, barely visible between towering pines, lay the cabin.
Angel Vaziri’s fortress. Nikos Aeto’s sanctuary.
Kiki’s refuge.
And if fortune was on his side, the beginning of the end for the Founders.
A faint, sardonic smile curved Eric’s lips.
Of course, Benoit would come here. The man’s need for control was a sickness, a gnawing hunger that refused to be satisfied. To Benoit, Kiki wasn’t a person—she was a resource who had slipped out of his grasp. And resources had to be recovered or annihilated.
If Benoit succeeded today, Eric knew exactly what awaited him.
Chains disguised as purpose.
Obedience disguised as loyalty.
A lifetime of captivity disguised as a mission.
Or worse… death.
In many ways, death would be kinder.
He slipped one hand from his pocket, his fingers brushing the bandage at his neck. The cut throbbed sharply where he’d removed the explosive capsule. His fingertips came away streaked with red.
He studied the blood.
Worth it.
If he died today, he would do so untethered. Not as a dog responding to commands, but as a man—flawed, scarred, dangerous—choosing his own end.
The wind shifted.
Something in the air changed—pressure, intent, the subtle tightening of space behind him.
A ripple crawled over his senses.
Someone was watching him.
His spine straightened, but he didn’t reach for a weapon. He closed his eyes for the briefest heartbeat, letting instinct sharpen.
Footsteps.
Light. Trained. Purposeful. Over-confident.
A predator who didn’t bother hiding because he thought he’d already won.
Eric opened his eyes and lifted his head, his expression cooling like a blade dipped in ice water.
Lyle.
He turned slowly, almost lazily, as if granting an annoyance the courtesy of acknowledgment.
Lyle stepped from the tree line, the pistol in his hand raised, the muzzle an unblinking black eye aimed at Eric’s heart. Dirt scuffed his boots. His breath curled in white plumes. His brown eyes gleamed with an ugly satisfaction—an animal’s version of triumph.
The forest behind him stretched in a bramble of dark green and shadow. Wind rustled the branches overhead, sending dead leaves spiraling through the air like burnt paper.
“Looks like it’s just you and me now, Freak,” Lyle growled, settling his stance.
Eric stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then he exhaled softly—almost amused.
His internal thoughts flickered like a second heartbeat:
Poor, stupid man.
You think you’re the hunter.
You never saw the real predators walking beside you.
He shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth.
“You have no idea who you’re messing with, Lyle,” he said quietly, his voice carrying easily across the still air. “You never did.”
Lyle’s jaw twitched. The pistol rose a fraction.
Eric stepped forward once, his expression sharpening—no fear, no hesitation. Just inevitability.
“I warned you,” he murmured. “You should have listened while you had the chance.”
His eyes glinted, dark and fathomless, as the quiet lake behind him reflected their standoff like a scene in a nightmare too calm to be real.
“Let me ask you something, Lyle. Do you believe in monsters?”
The wind stirred the pine needles as Benoit Jeffries stood motionless at the edge of the perimeter, one gloved hand raised in the still air. His eyes were half-closed, his breath slow, deliberate. It was an effort to keep the searing pain behind his eyes from dropping him to his knees.
Flashes assaulted his vision.
Blinding. Disjointed.
Images fractured like glass under pressure: trees, stone, water, a figure running, a sudden flare of light, then nothing.
He gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw until his molars ached.
The experiments had worked, yes. But they hadn’t made him one of them. They hadn’t given him the raw, seething potential of those born touched by the anomaly. No matter how many neural rewrites or sensory amplifiers they injected into his bloodstream, he was still… less.
A defective copy.
Less than Kiki. Less than Eric. Less than what he should have been.
The fire of frustration burned under his skin. He forced it down, breathing through it with icy precision.
Emotion was weakness. And he had no use for weakness.
Footsteps approached. Controlled. Hesitant.
Benoit lowered his hand and opened his eyes.
Andre.
The younger man halted a few feet away, shifting under Benoit’s stare like a dog waiting to be kicked. His gaze flicked up, then away again.
“Report,” Benoit said.
Andre cleared his throat. “I… I can’t find Lyle.”
Benoit tilted his head slightly. “Of course you can’t.”
Andre blinked. “Sir?”
“Lyle’s dead.”
The flat certainty in his tone made Andre flinch.
“But—”
“He disobeyed orders,” Benoit said coldly. “He engaged without permission. Whatever fate found him, he earned it.”
Andre’s face paled, and he took a cautious step back.
Benoit turned his gaze toward the tree line. Beyond the rising slope and dense foliage, hidden by elevation and security tech, sat Angel Vaziri’s fortress of a cabin. Somewhere inside, the Aeto brothers waited.
And Kiki.
His prize. His creation. His anomaly. She belonged to them. To him.
Not to Nikos Aeto. Not to fate. Not to herself.
A ripple of anticipation slid through him.
“Report on the defenses,” Benoit ordered.
Andre quickly regrouped. “The property’s saturated with long-range thermal sensors, motion-activated cameras, and trip wires disguised as brush markers. Vaziri’s ex-special ops. It’s a perimeter built for war, sir. Even approaching with stealth, they’ll see us coming.”
Benoit cupped his hands behind his back and surveyed the quiet woods. It didn’t matter. Subtlety had its place. This wasn’t it.
He glanced toward the mercenaries waiting along the narrow dirt road. Dozens of them in staggered clusters, checking gear, testing comms, adjusting weapons. Former military, former black ops, former assassins. Now his. Bought and paid for. Loyal to coin, not cause.
Expendable, but ultimately useless despite their numbers.
Benoit’s lips curled at the corners as he remembered the fragmented images he had seen minutes before. Perhaps brute force wasn’t the answer.
“If they expect us,” he murmured, “then we won’t disappoint them.”
He lifted his hand, signaling.
From the edge of the formation, a tall woman stepped forward. Her blond hair was braided tight against her skull. Her cold blue eyes locked on him as she approached. The rifle slung across her back and the twin pistols at her waist didn’t seem like decorations.
Olga Morozova’s reputation proceeded her. He had chosen her with care. She had run multiple successful missions for him in Africa.
“Are your teams in position?” he asked.
She inclined her head. “Yes, sir.”
Benoit gestured toward Andre. “Explain what you found.” He turned to the woman. “Adjust your infiltration pattern accordingly. Divide into three groups. Pressure all fronts. Minimal subtlety. Maximum pressure. Do not engage until I give the order.”
Olga gave a crisp nod. “Understood.”
Andre quickly ran through security surrounding the cabin and forests. Olga listened carefully, asking few questions before she pivoted and strode away, calling out commands in Russian-accented English as her boots crunched over dead leaves and gravel.
Andre shifted nervously again. “Sir, what about me?”
Benoit looked at him. Really looked at him.
And smiled.
“You’re driving.”
Andre blinked with surprise. “Driving… where?”
“Me… to the front door.”
Benoit’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s time I introduced myself to the Aeto brothers. Let’s see what makes them so special.”
The air tightened as Benoit stepped past him toward the waiting convoy. Behind him, the woods seemed to hold their breath.
He had worked too hard, for too long, to let his prized pupil slip through his fingers again. He still had an ace up his sleeve.
Nikos stood on the wide wooden porch, the sun-warmed planks beneath his boots at odds with the chill skimming the late afternoon air.
His fingers curled around the mug of cooling coffee, but his focus was on the two towering figures stationed at the edge of the forest—muscular, armored, and speaking in a guttural language that sounded like steel grinding over stone.
They didn’t belong in this world.
They looked like they’d stepped out of a sci-fi movie—long, black hair pulled back at the nape, eyes glowing silver in the shadows beneath their intense brows, black leather stretched taut across bodies built for war.
Nikos didn’t like unknown variables. And aliens? Those were right up there with Bigfoot. If he hadn’t been so worried about Kiki’s safety—and known that he was already dealing with the unimaginable—he probably would have been screaming like a banshee in terror.
Instead, he leaned slightly toward Cosmos, his voice pitched low. “You sure about these guys?”