Chapter 56
Electra
My father might not have been the one to aim a gun at me, but he may as well have been the one to pull the trigger. The same way he might not have brought the chopper down, but Ines’s death is on him.
How I will make him—and all those involved—pay, but first things first. Holding my breath, I ease myself toward the butcher block, every step measured and silent, then grab two knives and draw them from the wood.
The men downstairs might not perish from a throat wound, but it’ll temporarily knock them out. Not to mention it’ll hurt like a mother.
On soundless steps, I creep back toward the staircase, my deep breaths spreading my ribs and propagating the ache beneath. I embrace the pain, glut myself on it, letting it fill and drive me to the stairs’ landing.
I let my blades fly, then snap my palms to drive my weapons fast and hard into their intended targets. One knife slides into a larynx; the other into a chest.
While Otto’s throat wound takes him to the ground, his friend only staggers. Anticipating he’ll try to shoot me, I slap his hands and sweep his feet from under him, making sure he faceplants into Otto in order to wedge the knife deeper.
I fly Otto’s gun into my hands just as Quinn’s cell door moves. Lo and behold, out walks my half-brother. Was he even shot, or did he just feign the whole thing?
I wait until he cranes his neck and sees me before squeezing a 9mm right between his eyebrows.
Alexander’s lips part around a muted gasp, and then down he goes, collapsing onto the other two. Satisfaction dances through me, momentarily eclipsing my pain.
I wait for Reeve’s door to open next, but it remains shut.
Keeping my finger on the trigger, I skulk down the stairs as lithely as a cat, then sidestep the piled bodies, jumping when I hear Gael bark, “I just asked you a question, you little shit. Answer it again by spittin’, and I’ll cut off your tongue. ”
Reeve’s still alive.
Relief stings my eyes. I’m not too late. I sidle against the door, about to blow it open when I hear a faint whimper coiling out of Quinn’s cell. I slink toward it and catch sight of her face, of her swollen right eye and split lip.
I might hate the girl for multiple reasons, but at that moment, I hate Alexander more.
To avoid her screaming and alerting Gael to my ingress, I pin her lips shut with magic, then turn back toward the bleeding Atlanteans, roll Otto’s friend onto his back, and grab his gun.
Except that the gun comes along with him.
When the man begins to lift it toward me, I discharge a bullet into his groin.
He passes out before his whimper is fully formed. I divest him of his weapon, then return to Quinn and slice through her restraints with Reeve’s switchblade.
Her lid—the one not swollen shut—reels high as I free her, and even higher when I place the gun inside her hands.
“Don’t shoot me in the back,” I whisper. “You’ll regret it. And close the door behind me. Understood?”
She blinks her one working eye. I take it as an acknowledgement.
I snap the switchblade closed and pocket it, then step over my mound of victims, pausing at Reeve’s door for a long, drawn-out breath. One meant to ground, not soothe.
I am so fucking done with being betrayed.
The same cold viciousness that seized me the night Yasmin tried to kill Calanthe floods back and unbridles my rage.