Chapter 35 Dredyn
THIRTY-FIVE
DREDYN
My father and I circle each other like boxers between rounds. Both looking for the weapon. Both knowing whoever reaches it first wins.
“Well, this is unfortunate,” he says.
“Unfortunate?” I keep my eyes on him, searching my peripheral vision for the gun. “That’s what you’re calling this?”
“I’d prefer ‘unnecessary.’ You could have walked away, Dredyn—taken the deal. You, your friends, the girl—all alive, all safe. But you had to push.” He feints left, but I don’t take the bait. “Had to be dramatic about it.”
“You killed Evangeline.”
“I made a decision. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I spot the gun—ten feet away, near the overturned chair. “You decided she had to die. You ordered it and Chase followed your orders. She ended up dead. That’s not a decision, that’s murder.”
He sees where I’m looking, sees the gun. We’re equidistant from it. “She was going to destroy everything. Decades of careful construction, generations of legacy, gone because one idealistic girl thought she could change the world.”
“She was twenty-three years old.”
“She was a threat.”
“She was a person!”
“She was both.” James moves slightly, angling toward the gun while keeping me in sight. “And when you have to choose between one person and an entire organization—between one life and the stability that protects thousands—you make the hard call.”
“You make the evil call.”
“I make the necessary call.” Another step. “That’s what leadership is, Dredyn. Making choices no one else wants to make. Living with consequences no one else could bear. I thought I’d taught you that.”
“You didn’t teach me shit.”
“No? I taught you to fight, to think tactically, to plan three moves ahead. I taught you that sentiment is weakness and power is survival. I taught you everything you used tonight to kill those guards and break into this room.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what happened. You used my training, my lessons. You became what I made you… You think you’re different from me? You’re not. You’re just younger, still pretending there’s a difference between necessary violence and evil. Give it time. You’ll learn.”
“I’ll never be like you.”
“You already are.” He gestures at the blood on my clothes, the tactical gear, the knife at my belt.
“You walked into this building tonight planning to commit murder. You’re standing here, covered in blood, arguing semantics about whether killing your father counts as patricide or justice. How is that different from what I do?”
“Intent. Motive. The why behind it.”
“The ‘why’ doesn’t matter to the men bleeding outside that door.
Dead is dead, regardless of justification.
” He takes another step toward the gun. So do I.
We’re closer now. “You keep telling yourself you’re righteous.
That this is about saving people, stopping evil, protecting the innocent.
But really? This is about a girl. About Mara Black.
You’re doing all of this—risking everything, destroying everything—for one person.
That’s not heroism, son. That’s obsession. ”
“It’s love.”
“It’s weakness, and it’s going to get you killed—get all of you killed. Because the Syndicate doesn’t forgive this kind of betrayal. Even if you kill me—especially if you kill me—they’ll hunt you. Forever. Is she worth that? Is one girl worth spending the rest of your life running?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of my answer seems to surprise him. He actually stops moving.
“Then you’re a fool. A romantic, sentimental fool. And I’m disappointed. I raised you to be stronger than this.”
“You didn’t raise me at all. You trained me, molded me, shaped me into what you needed me to be. But you never raised me. Never cared about what I wanted or needed or felt. I was just another asset to you. Another piece on your board.”
“That’s not true—”
“Isn’t it? Name one thing about me that doesn’t relate to the Syndicate or OCK or your plans for succession. One thing you know about who I actually am.”
Silence.
He can’t do it. Can’t name a single personal detail about his own damn son.
“That’s what I thought,” I say quietly.
“I gave you everything I could. I gave you the only things I know how to give. Power. Position. Security. I don’t know how to give the other things… the soft things. But I gave you what I had.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“No. I suppose it wasn’t… So this is how it ends—you and me. Always knew it would come to this eventually, just thought I’d have more time to prepare you.”
“Prepare me for what?”
“To take my place.” He lunges for the gun.
I move at the same time. We collide mid-reach, hands grasping for the weapon. He’s faster—gets his hand on the grip first. I grab his wrist, keeping the barrel pointed away from me.
We struggle. He’s strong, but I’m younger, fueled by rage and desperation. I twist his wrist and he drives his knee into my stomach. Air whooshes out of my lungs but I hold on. I can’t let him get control of the weapon.
“Let go,” he grunts. “Let go before—”
I don’t let go. I torque his wrist harder, forcing his hand back. His finger’s on the trigger. If either of us pulls—
The gun fires.
The shot is deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet goes wide, punching into the wall, but the recoil breaks his grip and the weapon goes flying, skittering across the floor, away from both of us.
We break apart, both scrambling for it. Racing across concrete on hands and knees like animals.
James gets there first.
He rolls, coming up with the gun aimed at my chest. His hand is steady, his eyes are cold.
“Stand up,” he orders.
I comply slowly, hands visible, watching for an opening, any opening.
“This is over, Dredyn. Your friends are gone—probably dead in those tunnels—the guards outside are dead, and in a moment, you’ll be dead too. I’m sorry it came to this, I really am. But you left me no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“No. Not always. Sometimes the choice is made for you by circumstances, by other people’s decisions.
” His finger tightens on the trigger. “You decided to come here. You decided to threaten me. You decided this ends only one way. So I’m making that ending quick, painless. That’s the last gift I can give you.”
“Wait—”
“Goodbye, Dredyn.”
I see his finger start to squeeze, see the moment of commitment. See my death in his eyes.
Then, something changes in his expression.
He looks down.
There’s a knife protruding from his shoulder—my knife, the one from my belt. The one I pulled during our struggle and buried in him while we fought for the gun.
I didn’t even realize I’d done it.
His hand wavers and the gun dips just a little.
I move, closing the distance in three strides. I grab his gun hand, forcing it up and away. My other hand rips the knife out of his shoulder. He screams and I grab the gun as it falls from his weakening grip.
Now I’m the one holding the weapon.
Now I’m the one with my father at my mercy.
He drops to his knees, hand clutching his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers.
“Do it. Finish it,” he rasps.
I point the gun at him.
My hand is shaking.
He looks up at me. “You can’t, can you? Even now, even knowing what I’ve done, you can’t kill your own father.”
“You’re not my father. A father protects, a father cares. You’re just a man who shares my DNA. That’s all you’ve ever been.”
“Then pull the trigger. Prove you’re stronger than me. Prove you can make the hard choice.” His eyes are dimming now, the shoulder wound worse than I thought.
“This isn’t hard, this is easy. You’re a monster. You killed Evangeline, you traffic girls, you destroy lives. The world is better without you in it.”
“Then. Do. It.”
I press the gun against his forehead.
“This is for Evangeline, for Mara, for every girl you trafficked. For every life you destroyed, for everything you took from people who couldn’t fight back.”
“Do it and become exactly what I made you.”
“I’m not doing this because you made me this way. I’m doing this because of what you chose to be—what you chose to do. This is on you.”
I pull the trigger.
He jerks once, then goes still. Eyes open.
I killed my father.
The thought tries to penetrate, tries to make itself real, but I can’t process it. Can’t fit that reality into my head.
I killed him.
And I don’t regret it.
Doesn’t that make me exactly what he said? Exactly what he made me?
“Dredyn.”
It’s Jasper’s voice, from the doorway. I turn, gun still in hand.
He’s standing there, covered in blood and soot, breathing hard. His eyes go to James’s body, then back to me.
“He’s dead,” I hear myself say.
“I know, but Edmund and Marcus got away. Talon went after them. We need to move.”