55. PRICE
alistair
One second, he’s standing there, the next, his fist crashes across my jaw. “You motherfucking son of a bastard.”
The impact is violent enough to send my head snapping sideways that I stagger back.
Thankfully, the iPad is still clutched in my hand. But the voice-distortion mask tears free and skids across the stone floor.
Pain explodes across my face.
Then Asher’s eyes meet mine. “That felt unexpectedly too good,” he smirks before it falls. “Alistair?”
With that, every trace of uncertainty disappears.
Saw that coming.
I throw up my hands with a smile. “Well,” blood gathers along the inside of my lip. “That could’ve gone worse,” and spit out the blood aside.
“You think this is funny?”
He’s already moving before I fully recover, but I manage to catch his fist inches away from my face.
For half a second, we remain locked there.
Strength against strength.
Neither giving an inch.
That only seems to piss him off more.
His free hand disappears beneath his jacket.
Metal flashes. Then the suppressor is suddenly pressed against my forehead. The safety is already off.
His finger brushes against the trigger with alarming familiarity.
“Was expecting the gun before the punch.”
Something dangerous flickers across his face that isn’t directed at Triarch Dominion, or Project Garden—the Synthètes, or even the information now carelessly left aside.
It’s directed at me.
“Fuck your Triarch Dominion. You’ve been using Ariella this entire time,” he growls. “You hacked into her phone and fed us lies while she was fighting for her life,” he states his point and fires a warning shot.
The bullet blows right past my ear. A drop of warm liquid slides down the shell of my ear, but I don’t react. The minor cut is nothing compared to what I need him to do.
“Never did,” the answer comes immediately.
He scoffs in disdain. “Stop denying,” and presses the sizzling barrel on my forehead.
“Do you really think I’d be standing here if Ariella was nothing more than expendable to me?”
“Say that again, and I swear to fucking god I’m blowing your brains this time.”
“If she was, you won’t even be getting this second chance to point that gun at me because none of this conversation would be happening,” I say, calmer now.
“The only reason you’re holding that information at all,” my gaze flicks at the now abandoned iPad between us, “is because I want her to stay just as she is.”
Uncertainty flickers behind his anger only for a moment. Then it’s gone. That’s the first crack.
“I never wanted her involved. But wanting something and preventing it aren’t always the same thing,” the admission leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“You’re going to explain that very carefully,” the barrel remains fixed between my brows.
The dawn light continues to creep across the ruined hall, glinting off the gun.
I don’t look away. “Ariella was supposed to be a variable. She was supposed to be temporary.”
“That’s not helping your case,” he presses the cold tip against my skin.
I continue nonetheless. “But if I intended to use her, I would’ve delivered her to them months ago, and you know it wouldn’t be difficult for me to do so,” his nostrils flare as I continue.
“Instead, I’m standing here trying to burn the entire system down, putting me at risk before they get their hands on her.”
He hesitates, and I take the chance.
“You’re a man who built an empire, Asher,” I nod toward the tablet again. “You know exactly what sits in that device. Information like that isn’t shared. Not unless you’re desperate or willing to lose everything for someone.”
The gun remains fixed on me. But the certainty behind it wavers.
His gaze flicks toward the tablet in my hand, then back to my eyes.
As though he’s trying to reconcile the man standing in front of him with the information sitting at his feet.
“Fucking hell,” his other hand runs over his face.
“So this is the part where I discover the mysterious stranger feeding me information is confessing his unbound love for my sister.”
I scoff in disdain upon hearing the use of the very specific word—love.
He pokes my forehead with the pistol. “What game are you playing now, Alistair?”
I look at him without flinching. “If shooting me helps, feel free to do so. But first, do something useful.”
The insult catches him off guard, but still, he’s on full alert, ready to tackle me if I do something out of the blue.
“I beg your finest pardon?”
“I mean, you can have your turn pointing that gun at me if it helps. One bullet. Five bullets. Empty the magazine if it makes you feel better. But not before you do what I brought you here for.”
A short, humorless breath leaves him. “You think I can just—what—erase something like this overnight?”
“I believe you can act before it stabilizes further,” I correct him. “At most, we have today. Maybe twelve hours if we’re lucky. Maybe none if we’re not,” and glance toward the brightening horizon.
That finally earns a shift.
Something close to genuine emotion, unfortunately, stirs beneath my composure. “If this were only my problem, I would’ve buried it myself,” I say quietly.
Organizations like Triarch Dominion survive because people assume someone else will stop them. Someone else will expose them. Someone else will intervene with all the risk. And in the end, none does.
I spent years believing I could dismantle it from within. All I accomplished was learning how much bigger it is than the picture.
The dawn continues brightening around us. Time keeps moving. Far too quickly.
“I don’t need you because I can’t pull the trigger, Keinston,” my gaze locks onto his. “I need you because if I disappear today, someone else still has to be their rival.”
Understanding slowly settles over his features.
“If these files vanish with me, Triarch Dominion survives.” I glance toward the tablet again. “If they reach CynoTech, the media, your contacts, your security divisions, your investigators…” my eyes return to his. “then suddenly the organization has thousands of enemies instead of one.”
The pistol lowers. It means he’s no longer deciding whether to shoot me. He’s deciding whether to believe me.
Strangely enough, that’s the more dangerous choice.
“Mind telling me where this shit exists?”
“The Forest of Dean.”
“Wow, so damn helpful,” he throws his arms in the air.
“The exact coordinates are in the iPad you’re holding if that helps,” and I extend my hand, offering it to him again.
Asher actually accepts it and lets out a string of colorful curses. He steps back, pacing around in restless small circles for a few moments.
“You do realize if any of this turns out to be fabricated, I’m personally putting a bullet through your skull,” he says, coming to a stop.
“A reasonable response.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. What you choose to do is your decision.”
The answer seems to annoy him even more.
Yet finally, I allow myself a small measure of relief.
The files are no longer mine alone. The burden is no longer mine only. And if the Dominion finds me before the time runs out, there will still be someone left holding the leash on them.
Asher grabs and looks down at the iPad again. But this time, he doesn’t scroll like a man reading intelligence. The faintest tilt of his head, there’s a recalculation behind his eyes. He’s already running through infrastructure, assets, and access points before replying affirmatively.
He slowly lowers the iPad. “Don’t tell me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”
I almost laugh. “Not even slightly.”
“Then why? After all these years?”
The answer is simple.
For years, I adapted. Survived. Complied. Convinced myself there would eventually be a better time to fight back.
Then Ariella happened.
A girl who should’ve been another name in a database. A girl who should’ve never danced into my darkness.
Instead, she became the first variable I couldn’t rationalize away. The first reason I stopped accepting the future they’d chosen for her. Because I’ve seen bits myself in her.
The world is a better place without accommodating another Alistair Hertley.
So I give him the clearest answer I’ve given so far. “Ariella.”
“Fucking hell, I knew I hated you. I am putting a bullet in you for that, you slimy motherfucker,” Asher points at me, trying to scare me.
We both know it’s not working.
I let out a short laugh. “After it’s all done and dusted.”
He doesn’t reply but turns away first, making it less than three steps before he stops.
Without looking back, he says, “You better hope we meet again, Alistair.”
The name settles heavily, like both a promise and a threat, between us. With him, it’s often the same thing.
“With all due respect, I intend to.”