16. Axel
AXEL
LONELY WORLD - ACRES
While observing the live recording of my clone’s testimony, it isn’t difficult to equate this person with the half-starved, gangly thirteen-year-old who crashed back into our lives in the most violent way possible.
He has the same detached, clipped tone, the same cagey mannerisms. Hell, he even has the same matter-of-fact delivery while discussing death without a second thought.
Don’t get me wrong, there was no love lost when my father died. The man was an abusive piece of shit. He hated me and broke my mother in every possible way a person can be broken. That doesn’t mean I condoned Gunnar stabbing him forty-three fucking times then pulling another vanishing act.
“How does a homeless kid on the street go on to become a word-class assassin?” Warner taps the tip of his pen on an open notepad.
Across the meeting table, Gunnar is dressed casually. The dark T-shirt and jeans must’ve been loaned to him. Does Sabre have a lost property department? Maybe they can find a home for his troublesome backside too.
“Hunger leads humans down many dark paths.” His reply is ominous. “I ran away from every foster home the government put me in. Eventually, they gave up trying.”
“Someone must’ve taken you under their wing.”
“Let’s just say that for a hot meal, I was willing to do anything. Lie. Steal. Vandalise. Even running drugs or weapons. All I wanted was to find a safe place to sleep at night.”
“You were raised by criminals?” Warner cocks his head.
“More like passed between warring gangs no better than a hunk of meat.”
Nauseated, I drag in a stuttered mouthful of air. Passed between… Like a commodity. Shit, it’s all becoming clear. And I really don’t fucking like the full image.
Unfortunately, that’s what most people don’t realise… You don’t have to be transported overseas to be touched by this plague. Human trafficking can even occur within a single country’s borders. It’s both domestic and international all at once.
“They sold you?”
“An undocumented, runaway child willing to do anyone’s bidding for a scrap of food?” He scoffs without a single hint of humour. “You bet your ass they sold me.”
An unnamed emotion stirs inside my chest cavity, wrenching on each individual heartstring. Surely not. I can’t be pitying the man who sunk a bullet in my gut not so long ago. Yet the emptiness in his voice… it hurts me.
Gunnar stares blankly at the tabletop. “I bounced from gang to gang, kept in a cage, hungry and alone. To earn my freedom, I had to become useful to the criminal class.”
The image of his gaunt face invades my mind before I can halt its path. When Gunnar returned home, he was skeletal-thin. Desperation seemed to cling to him. For a long time, I mistook it for anger and hatred.
Maybe I was wrong.
Was his disgust towards a world that never gave two shits about him? Abandoned by adults. Forced to beg, borrow and steal. Locked up like a stray dog. It’s no wonder he reappeared in such a dire state.
“Why did you track down your mother?”
Nose wrinkling, Gunnar doesn’t lift his stare. “I wanted to hear for myself why she threw me to the wolves. Who does that to their own child? Then… I found out the truth.”
“Your father forced her.”
“I am not related to that scum.”
In what I assume is consternation, Warner quirks a brow. “Right.”
“Whether he forced her or not, she still decided to discard me.” The words burst like skin-carving lashes from Gunnar’s lips, as if he can’t stand the way they taste. “Trash receives better treatment than I did.”
When put like that, it’s no wonder the man wanted to shred our father with his bare hands. Because of him, Gunnar was abandoned to die. Helpless and feeble. That’s sufficient to breed all manner of vengeful rage.
“Was that the first time you killed someone?” Warner carefully probes.
“No, I couldn’t tell you when that was.”
“You were a child, though?”
“A child surrounded by violence,” Gunnar snarls out. “When I was granted a sliver of freedom by the thugs who traded me from pillar to post, I watched, learned and then made myself valuable to them.”
“Did this education involve killing on their behalf?”
“You could say that.”
“Sounds brutal.” Warner sets down his pen.
“Most would call it a baptism of fire.”
Flinching, I run a fingertip down the laptop, over my brother’s mask of forced nonchalance. I can’t possibly be feeling an urge to comfort him. Not after all the bad blood that’s passed between us. So why does this damned screen feel like the only thing holding me back?
“Tell me how you ended up working for the cartel.”
“I never worked for the cartel.” Eyes still downcast, Gunnar offers a slow shake of his head.
Leaning back in his seat, Warner folds his arms. “You admit to performing multiple services for them over the years—in addition to other international criminals, not least of all the Madden family.”
“Services. I’m a contractor.”
“But you had dealings with key players relevant to our case, correct?”
“They often contacted me, I am the best after all.” He lifts then drops a shoulder. “And they paid well.”
“I’m interested in your knowledge of Nolan Madden’s operation, particularly when he relocated after our investigation. Clearly, you remained in contact with his son.”
“Blaine has hired my help multiple times. Yes.”
Most recently to locate Ember, then to track down Gracie Livingstone. The latter of which Gunnar only agreed to do in exchange for my head on a stake. Clearly, his professional talents are reserved for the highest bidder.
“Through our limited interactions, it was clear that Nolan Madden was driven by revenge,” Gunnar reveals. “He was obsessed with rebuilding his reputation and influence, one kill at a time.”
“Did you assist with those kills?” Tone clipped, Warner maintains a veneer of calm.
“I did whatever I was paid to do, Agent Mead. There’s no need to act all high and mighty now. I’m sure this company has overstepped many ethical lines to achieve its own goals.”
“Perhaps that’s true, but we don’t fan the flames of conflict unnecessarily. You didn’t find working for both Nolan Madden and his son to be a conflict of interest?”
My twin’s grin is downright predatory. “Do you think that terminology exists in my line of work?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“My clients don’t buy my loyalty; that price would be too steep for all the world’s riches.” There’s not an ounce of doubt in his voice. Just pure cockiness.
The concept of him bouncing between criminal empires, hiring out his services where their own ranks have failed, delivering results without being traced… It’s no wonder he was in demand. Afterwards, he had the benefit of fleeing while whole empires tore themselves apart.
Ew… Am I impressed right now?
“I’m going to show you a sketch and a 3D render.” Warner removes the papers from his notepad. “Tell me if you ever crossed paths with this woman while working for Nolan Madden.”
“He hosted a great many women, you know.”
“Hosted? That’s debatable.”
“You know what I mean,” Gunnar grunts.
Printed references to the mysterious Angela are slid across the table. From Blaine’s old, crumpled photograph and Gracie’s sketch, Fox used cutting-edge software to create an age-progressed composite. It’s rather lifelike.
After studying the images, Gunnar flicks the paper aside. “This is a dangerous thread to follow.”
“Tell me who she is.”
“If you’re asking me about her, then you already know.”
Thank fuck Blaine isn’t here to listen to this with me. Last I heard, he’d taken off to check in with his people. Probably needed space to cool off and think. That hasn’t stopped Ember from worrying about him relentlessly since Gracie’s breakthrough.
“Is Angela the mother of Blaine Madden?” Warner remains stoic, not even flinching.
I crane away from the laptop, almost afraid to hear the answer. Frankly, I’m terrified of what it’ll mean for our team and this investigation.
“She birthed him.” Gunnar dips his chin down once in a brief, flat gesture of confirmation. “That’s where her involvement ceased.”
“And she’s alive?”
“Last I heard. Yes.”
The screen slams shut underneath my white-knuckled hand. Just when I think we’ve uncovered the lowest of the low, a whole other dimension of hell opens up. Blaine’s ghost is back to haunt him, very much alive.
Yet still stuck.
Just like countless other victims.
I don’t have to love the guy to appreciate the ramifications of this discovery. Growing up never knowing your parent is one thing. Discovering she’s alive and has spent three decades in bondage might tip Blaine over the edge to the point of him starting an all-out war.
Crashing my fist on the laptop does little to release the slow burn of anger simmering inside me. The same anger that crests every time I watch our girl collapse and endure living hell because of what those monsters did to her.
Our team has made promises to Ember. Assurances that she’ll one day feel safe enough to forget her past and what led her to us. As long as people like Blaine’s father are still alive and kicking, that will never be possible.
My healing midsection twinges when I surge to my feet, the pain a dull reminder of all we’ve endured to get this far. Just another scar on the never-ending road to a justice that feels further and further from reach.
It doesn’t slow me down as I storm from my office in search of the one person capable of wrangling this frustration. Ember was checking on our rescued raid victim’s relocation when I left to catch the interview.
The meeting room where our large debriefs are hosted sits empty. I shudder while eyeballing the spot where she dropped during our last operation, spasming and contorting at all angles. Unfortunately, closing the door on it doesn’t temper the sting of the memory.
She might’ve gone to hunt Hyland down in the firing range—the grump needed to blow off some steam after a day spent with his ex—but I’ll check Warner’s office anyway.
Nope. Inside, his militarily organised space is clean and empty.