Chapter 34
34
MARCUS
I stood in the marsh, Claire’s recorder in my fist, blood dripping from my knuckles onto the dirt. The Bugatti sat useless behind me, tires shredded, glass glinting in the sun like broken teeth. Ryker and Atlas flanked me, their silence a weight I didn’t need but couldn’t shake. The van was gone, swallowed by the marsh, and with it, her—my Claire. Every second she was out there, with them, carved a fresh wound I couldn’t bleed out.
Ryker’s truck idled. Atlas tapped his phone, drones humming overhead, their feeds streaming to his screen. “Tracks head east,” he said, voice sharp, no bullshit. “Toward the docks. Cooper River, maybe.”
“Then we move,” I growled, shoving the recorder into my pocket. My boots crunched glass as I stalked to the truck, sliding into the back. Ryker took the wheel, Atlas up front, and we peeled out, gravel spitting like shrapnel. The engine roared, a match to the fire in my chest, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be until I had her back—until I had their blood on my hands.
I stared out the window, the humid air thick with salt and rot. Her scream echoed in my skull, that last desperate thrash before they’d hooded her, drugged her, taken her from me. I’d been close—thirty yards, gun raised, ready to end it—and still too fucking late.
Jason’s laugh hit me then, unbidden, a ghost from the sand. Iraq, years back. “Keep your head, pretty boy,” he’d said, grinning as we loaded up. Then the blast, the crater, his blood on my clothes. Too late then, too.
And Dad’s shadow loomed darker, a specter I couldn’t outrun. I’d been sixteen, sneaking a beer on the porch when I’d heard him—low, tense, on the phone in his study. “They’re closing in,” he’d muttered. “We can’t stop it.” No names, just dread, a warning I’d ignored until he was gone, secrets buried with him. Hart’s taunt on that burner—“Ask your father how this ends”—twisted the knife. Whatever he’d tangled with, it was here now, and Claire was in its jaws.
I slammed my fist into the seat, leather creaking. “Faster,” I snapped.
Ryker didn’t flinch, just pushed the truck harder, the speedometer climbing. “Drones are locking in,” Atlas said, eyes on his screen. “Got a hit—black van, parked at an old warehouse, waterfront. Five minutes out.”
Five minutes. Too long. I pictured her—gray eyes fierce, fighting even now, refusing to break. I’d find her. I’d rip through every bastard in my way, paint the docks red with their guts. Hart, Department 77, whoever—they’d learn what happened when you touched what was mine.
We hit the industrial stretch, the river’s stink seeping through the windows—oil, rust, and decay. The warehouse loomed ahead, a rotting hulk of concrete and steel, windows smashed, walls streaked with grime. The van sat out front, black and silent, a taunt. Ten guys milled around it—dark gear, rifles slung, moving like they’d done this before. Mercenaries. Hart’s dogs.
Ryker killed the engine a hundred yards out, parking in the shadows. “Ten on three,” he said, voice flat, like it was nothing.
“Good odds,” Atlas muttered, checking his weapon.
I didn’t smile. Didn’t care.
“They’re dead already.” I drew my pistol, checked the magazine—full, ready—and grabbed a knife from the truck’s kit, its weight cold in my hand. “No mercy. We cut through, get her. Hart’s mine.”
Ryker nodded, dark eyes unreadable. Atlas cracked his neck, a predator waking up. We moved, silent, shadows on the crumbling pavement, the river lapping at the docks behind us. No words, just instinct—years of war, blood, and brotherhood honed to a blade.
The first two went down easy. I came in low, knife slashing across the back of one’s knee, tendons snapping like twine. He went to scream and I drove the blade up through his throat, blood gushing hot over my hand. Ryker took the other—a single shot, silenced, skull exploding in a red mist. They hit the ground before the others turned.
Then it was chaos.
A shout went up, rifles swinging our way. I dove behind the van as bullets chewed the concrete, sparks flying. Atlas rolled right, popping up to drop a guy with chest shots—clean, brutal, the body crumpling like a rag doll. Ryker charged left, a fucking tank, slamming one into the warehouse wall, his knife sinking into the guy’s gut. He twisted it, yanked it free, blood sluicing down the steel.
I didn’t wait. I vaulted the van’s hood, landing on a bastard mid-reload. My fist smashed his nose, cartilage crunching, then my knife found his ribs—once, twice, a wet pop as it punched through. He gurgled, eyes wide, and I shoved him off, blood pooling under my feet. Five down.
The rest came hard. A big fucker swung a rifle butt at my head—I ducked, grabbed his arm, snapped it at the elbow. Bone cracked loud, his scream louder, cut short when I pressed my pistol into his temple and pulled the trigger, brains splattering the wall. Ryker took two more—one with a throat shot, arterial spray painting the air, the other with a knee-cap blast, finished with a curb stomp that left his face a ruin.
Atlas danced through them, precise, lethal—a headshot here, a knife to the spine there, bodies piling up like cordwood. Nine down. One left. He bolted for the warehouse door, panic in his steps. I caught him, tackled him into the gravel, my knee pinning his chest. He clawed at me, desperate, so I drove my knife through his eye, deep, twisting until he went still. Blood ran thick, soaking my sleeve.
Ten dead. Ten fucking corpses littering the ground, and I didn’t feel a damn thing but the need to get inside. Ryker wiped his blade on a body’s jacket, calm as ever. Atlas checked his pistol, breathing steady. “Clear,” he said.
I didn’t answer. Just kicked the warehouse door in, wood splintering, and stormed inside. The air hit me—damp, sour with mildew and oil, the river’s rot seeping through the walls. Dim fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows. And then I heard it—a scream, raw, hers, cutting through the dark like a blade to my gut.
My voice almost tore out. I ran, pistol up, Ryker and Atlas on my heels. The sound came again—weaker, pained, but alive. I rounded a stack of crates, and there she was.
Tied to a chair, zip ties cutting into her wrists and ankles, blood streaking her swollen face. Her blonde hair was matted with it, her ribs heaving under a torn shirt—probably broken, I could tell by the way she hunched, gasping. The mercenary loomed over her, fist raised, grinning like a sick fuck enjoying his work. Hart stood behind him, pristine in her gray coat, watching like it was a goddamn show.
I didn’t think. Just fired. The shot took the bastard in the shoulder, spinning him, blood spraying. He snarled, reaching for his gun, but I was on him—pistol-whipped his face, teeth flying, then drove my knee into his gut. He doubled over, and I grabbed his head, slamming it into the concrete floor—once, twice, three times—until his skull cracked open, brains oozing out like spilled jelly.
Hart shrieked, bolting for a side door, but Atlas was faster—cut her off, gun to her temple, forcing her to her knees. Ryker secured the room, checking corners, but I didn’t care. I dropped to Claire, knife out, cutting her ties. Her wrists were raw, bloody, her hands trembling as the zip ties fell away. She slumped forward, and I caught her, her blood smearing my shirt, my hands, my fucking soul.
“Claire,” I rasped, voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”
Her face was a mess—swollen, bruised, one eye half-shut—but those gray eyes locked onto mine, fierce, unbroken. She coughed, wincing, a hand clutching her ribs, and I knew they were shattered. I’d kill them all again for that, slower, make them feel every second.
Then she moved. Slow, shaky, she reached for a pistol on the floor—one of the mercenary’s, dropped in the carnage. Her fingers closed around it, and she pushed herself up, stumbling toward Hart.
“Stay back,” she croaked, waving me off, Ryker, too. Her grip was unsteady, but her intent was steel. She’d kill. I had no doubt.
Hart knelt there, Atlas’s gun still on her, but her eyes were on Claire—wide, panicked, the mask gone. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, voice trembling. “We can talk?—”
“Shut up,” Claire spat, blood on her lips, the gun shaking but aimed true. “You took Diego. You took everything.”
Hart’s mouth opened, a plea forming, but Claire cut her off. “You thought you could break me? You thought I’d just roll over?” Her voice cracked, raw with pain, rage. “I exposed you. I ruined you. And now you’re nothing.”
The air thickened, time slowing. Claire’s finger tightened on the trigger, her swollen face a mask of fury. I watched, heart pounding, torn. Should I stop her? Pull her back from the edge, keep her hands clean? She’d live with it—killing Hart—and I’d carry that weight for her if I could. But this was her fight, her justice, and I’d be damned if I took it away.
Then she stopped. Cocked her head, a dark glint in her eye. “You know what?” she asked, her voice low and lethal. “I’d rather see what my boyfriend’s gonna do with you.”
She lowered the gun, swaying, and I caught her as her legs buckled, pulling her against me. Her breath hitched, a sob breaking through, but she held on, fierce even now. I looked at Hart, kneeling there, pale and trembling, and felt nothing but cold, endless hate.
“Get her up,” I told Atlas, voice ice. He hauled Hart to her feet, zip-tying her wrists, her coat smudged with warehouse grime. She’d live—for now. Long enough to spill everything about Department 77, about Dad, about this war she’d started. I’d make her beg for death before I gave it.
Ryker stepped closer, eyeing Claire. “We need to move. Drones picked up chatter—more coming.”
I nodded, lifting Claire gently, her weight light but solid in my arms. She winced, clutching her ribs, but her hand gripped my shirt, anchoring herself. “Marcus,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “I?—”
“Later,” I said, soft but firm. “You’re safe. That’s all.”
But her eyes held mine, and I heard it anyway—the “I love you” she didn’t say. It hit me harder than any bullet, a truth I’d known since the pier, since she’d dared me to stop her. I’d burn the world for her, and she knew it.
A radio crackled on the mercenary’s corpse, cutting through: “Status requested.”
Ryker’s jaw tightened. Atlas cursed low. Department 77 wasn’t done—Hart was just the start.
I picked up the radio, keyed the mic and said, “Game over, motherfuckers.” And then I dropped it to the ground and stomped it to pieces.
I held Claire closer, her blood on my hands, and met my brothers’ gazes. “They want war,” I said, voice a promise. “We’ll give it to them.”
The warehouse swallowed our steps as we moved out, Claire in my arms, Hart bound and dragged behind. The world was alive with threat, but I’d bury it all—every last one of them—before I let her go again.