10. - – Christian
CHAPTER TEN
-
CHRISTIAN
One second, I'm unconscious, the next, I'm on my feet with only one thing on my mind.
Amelia.
Find her, and kill anyone standing in my way. Nothing else matters.
The men who gassed us made mistakes. Tiny mistakes, but enough—boot impressions, tracks, dropped equipment. I only have to spend a few hours following the trail. By sunset, I know exactly where they took her.
A property owned by Amelia's father, Governor Theodore Whitmore, nearly eighty miles south on the coast of Alabama.
It's remote and private, tucked away behind gates and walls far from the eyes of the press and the public.
Probably so it could be spun perfectly in a carefully scripted news conference that Amelia was found safe and sound and now getting the treatment she desperately needs after her unfortunate breakdown.
It's all bullshit designed to protect their reputations, but it helps me out. I don't need witnesses either. The fewer people who know what happens here tonight, the better.
I watch the house through the scope on my rifle from a wooded ridge overlooking the property.
Six guards outside, probably another four inside, based on the rotation schedule, all armed, all alert.
Security cameras are mounted at every corner, and motion sensors are planted along the edge of the property.
None of it matters.
I move in just after midnight when the night is darkest, and the guards are tired from hours of watching nothing happen.
The first guard never sees me coming, and neither does the second.
By the time the third realizes something is wrong, the cameras are already offline, their feeds looping on footage from thirty minutes ago.
I've trained for years to dismantle enemy operations in hostile territory under impossible conditions. I'll make light work of this. Simply removing obstacles one by one, the way a surgeon removes a tumor.
Inside, a guard rounds the corner, unfocused. He's dead before he even knows I'm there. Another follows seconds later and begins to open his mouth to alert the others. The first word doesn't even make it all the way out of his mouth before he crumples to the floor.
None of it slows me down. Nothing will.
The last guard stands outside what must be Preston's office. He doesn't even hear me coming. I take him out with my knife, slowly lowering his body to the ground without a sound.
I slip through the office door and close it behind me, and I start my search at his desk, checking each drawer. One is locked, which tells me that's the one I want.
I use my knife to bust the lock, the drawer slides open, and just like that, I find everything I'm looking for and more.
Files stacked on top of files, folders thick with documentation that any halfway competent prosecutor would kill to get their hands on.
Financial records, correspondence, photographs of things that should never see the light of day.
Incriminating evidence on not only Preston, but Whitmore's name also appears again and again throughout the paperwork, the governor's signature on documents proving he's just as complicit in whatever corrupt schemes they've been running.
Theodore Whitmore is fucked too, and he doesn't even know it yet.
I take photographs of the most damning pages with a small camera I keep in my tactical vest, working quickly but carefully, making sure every shot is clear and legible. Insurance. Leverage. Ammunition for later.
When I make it to the master bedroom, I've made sure the only people still alive inside the house are me and whoever is on the other side of this door. The door is ajar, just enough to tell me there is movement on the bed, the sound of skin against skin.
I push the door open with the toe of my boot. Preston's back is to me, flexing, as he ruts into her like an animal. Amelia is beneath him, her fingers are digging into the sheets, knuckles white, but she isn't fighting.
I raise the gun. The sight aligns perfectly with the back of his skull. I almost pull the trigger, but then stop. Death is too quick for him. Too merciful.
He must sense the shift in the air because he stills, then twists his head back to see me standing there. His lips curl, satisfied.
"Oh, look, Amelia," he purrs, driving into her again with as much force as he can, as he looks at me. "Christian came to watch."
She gasps, a broken sound, and her body jerks beneath him. A scream tears from her throat, and my finger twitches against the trigger. Then I see it.
The blood.
A dark, red stain spreads between her thighs, soaking into the mattress. There is more on her inner thighs, smeared like he’s been painting her with it.
Preston follows my gaze, then smirks. "She’s always been a little fragile," he rolls his hips again. "But she knows her place."
Amelia’s eyes find mine.
And fuck.
She’s not begging or pleading, she’s apologizing to me. Like, this is her fault. Like she believes she deserves this.
I holster the gun. "You're bleeding."
Preston chuckles as he glances down again at the mess between them. "No, Vale," he says, dragging a thumb through the blood on her thigh. "That’s all hers." He sucks the blood off his thumb. "Had to put in some extra work breaking her again."
I'm across the room with my knife to his throat before he even realizes I've moved.
I drag him off of her, then drive the knife down through his kneecap. Cartilage gives, and tendons sever.
He's still screaming when I pull his head back to look at me.
"You're bleeding now." I twist the blade deeper, grinding the steel against his bone. Preston's scream turns guttural, blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the bed beneath him.
"You wanted to make a point," I lean close so we are face-to-face. "Now it's my turn."
His hands claw at my wrist; it's pathetic.
"You're going to listen carefully," I pull the knife free, then press it against his other kneecap. "Because I'm only saying this once."
Preston whimpers; he's gone ghostly white, sweat dripping down his face.
"You come for her, you look at her, you even think her name." The blade pierces skin. "I won't be this nice next time."
"Fuck you?—"
I drive the knife through his other kneecap. He won't ever walk right again, if he walks at all.
"You're done," I pull out my phone, and flip through the photos I took in the office.
"I've already sent copies to three journalists.
" I haven't, but he doesn't need to know that.
"If you try coming after either of us. They have the green light to leak everything I've sent them.
Your political career, your reputation, your freedom.
All of it—gone. I have enough evidence to bury you and Theodore both. "
"Amelia." Preston twists toward her, desperation bleeding through the pain. "Tell him the truth. Tell him you came willingly. That you?—"
I press the tip of my blade into the soft flesh just under his eye. "How fucking stupid are you? What did I just say about looking at her?"
"Never again! I promise, never again."
I grab his jaw, forcing his eyes back to mine.
"You ever touch her again," I press the tip of the blade down just hard enough to dimple skin, "there won't be enough left of you to identify."
"Christian." Amelia's voice trembles. "We need to go."
I finally turn to look at her.
She's pulled the sheet around herself, blood still visible on the fabric. Her face is pale, her lips cracked, and there are fresh bruises along her collarbone where his hands held her down.
I crouch beside her. "Can you walk?"
She nods, but I see her legs shake as she tries to stand.
"No, stop. I'm carrying you." Before she can argue, I scoop her up, sheet and all.
"He's still?—"
"He's not going anywhere." I glance back at Preston, who's trying to drag himself toward his phone.
"Someone will find you eventually," I kick the phone onto the floor, then out into the hallway. It slides under the stair railing, and we hear it bounce from step to step as it falls further down. I shrug my shoulders. "Maybe."