Sinner: The Deadly Seven, Origins

by Pecherczyk, Lana

  Flint didn’t give the guard a chance to argue. When the door opened, he entered, hit the basement button, and then stood holding the doors open.

  “Quick,” Flint urged. “In the lift. Go.” Another guard came rushing toward him with two children in tow. Despair, a tall girl with long hair clutched a small potted plant, and an auburn-haired boy… Flint couldn’t remember their names. Behind him, the elder Sister jogged with a toddler in her arms, and dragged another running child.

  He looked behind her and his heart skipped a beat. Mary came running with one child on her hip, and the other hand holding a girl, and a laptop tucked under her arm. They all filed into the elevator, filling up the small space. The infants cried and the guards had their hands full trying to console them.

  Despair clutched her pot and wailed, “She’s so sad. She’s so sad.”

  A hand clutched at his shirt and tugged. He looked down to the teary eyes of Despair. She tugged again. “She’s too sad. We have to help her.”

  “Where’s Gloria?” he asked Mary and took the laptop from her arm.

  Mary’s eyes were bleak and empty, her expression shut down. When she spoke, it was cold and clipped. “I don’t know.”

  An explosion erupted somewhere on the floor and they all flinched. A flare of heat hit their faces and the children screamed. The direction of the blast came from Barry’s desk. All those specimen jars were flammable.

  “What’s happening, Mary?” he asked.

  “She’s burning everything,” she replied. “We have to go. Now.” With a fierce look, she punched the close door button. “Let go of the door, Flint.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t make this harder than it is.” A look from Mary silenced him. He pulled his hand from the doors and they slid shut.

  A shift of movement against Flint’s side was the only warning he had before a little shadow burst past him and through the sliding doors, then they shut with a finality that had everyone silenced.

  “No!” Flint slammed his fists on the doors, rattling the metal, again and again. “No!”

  But there was no stopping the elevator’s descent. Another explosion trembled the walls and an anguished cry ripped from Sister Josephine as she realized the same thing Flint had. Unable to let her suffer alone, Despair had run after her birth mother. In the space she had left was a potted bonsai plant, wobbling as the elevator moved. Flint looked to Mary, but she was a stone statue.

  “Seven,” she muttered. “I saw only seven children make it.”

  “I’ll go back for her,” Flint growled. “When we get to ground, I’ll go back up the stairs.”

  Mary didn’t respond. She kept her eyes to the floor, sucking air through her nose, and exhaling through her mouth.

  Looking around wildly, Flint weighed his options. Stopping the lift would only jeopardize the rest. He had to go back up the stairs once they hit the bottom. Christ, his legs were jelly already, but he had to go back for the girl. He couldn’t live with his negligence causing more death. Not again. Not after his friend and the accident.

  The elevator pinged, signaling they were at basement level.

  The doors opened. Flint picked up the plant and rushed out. “Van’s over there.”

  He’d parked right up front. As he approached, he slid open the rear door and strapped the child in his arms into the seat.

  “What are you doing?” One of the guard’s said.

  “Getting these children to safety,” Mary replied and relieved the man of the baby. She clipped him into a baby seat then ushered Flint to help her get the rest into a seatbelt.

  The security guard shared a concerned glance with his partner. “I’m going to radio this in. This isn’t procedure.” With his hands now free, the guard twisted to speak into his shoulder mic.

  The second guard’s head swiveled from Mary to Flint, to an equally surprised Sister Josephine. Then he darted a glance at the lift. “I’m going back for the kid.” He disappeared into the same stairwell Flint had climbed earlier.

  “I’ll go back for Despair,” Flint said to her, in the privacy of the van. “Get to her before the guard.”

  “No,” she replied. “These seven are our priority. The fewer guards here, the fewer I have to hurt for us to get away.”

  “But, Mary. You can’t possibly—”

  “Why are you wearing those black clothes, Sister?” The guard’s voice elevated from outside. “I don’t think these children should leave the compound. The boss wouldn’t like that. Stop strapping them in.”

  Mary shifted past Flint and got out of the van to respond. “It’s not safe here. You saw what happened up there. If they’ve survived, it would be a miracle.”

  When Flint went over the plan in his head that day, it had not gone like this. It had been a series of reactions, prompted by well thought out actions. Zeros and ones. If this… then that. Logic. That was the way of programming. That was how things should go.

  But this was not ordered. It was chaos.

  Flint secured the last strap on the child and gave him a bottle he had waiting on the seat. He handed the smaller girl her toy cat and the bag of toys to the eldest to distribute. He gave the potted bonsai to the boy with long, auburn hair.

  The eldest children did their best to console the youngest, each pitching in to help. They were a tight knit family. His chest clenched at the missing child, and he hoped, in his heart, that she had saved herself. Perhaps she’d crawled into the shelter of a cupboard or something.

  He pulled out his cell and checked the camera feed from upstairs. They had shorted out, just like he’d planned. For once he wished that his gadgets didn’t work. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and counted to ten. He had to trust Mary.

  Flint got out of the car and gestured for Sister Josephine to stand to the side with him. “We’ll take it from here,” he said to her quietly. “The Hildegard Sisterhood have everything planned.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Your colleague over there is… what is the word she used—”

  “A Sinner,” the sister whispered, nodding emphatically. “I can tell from her uniform.”

  Flint blinked. “You know?”

  “Everyone in the Sisterhood knows about the Sinners. We don’t know exactly who they are or what they do, but we understand they exist. They sacrifice their souls so the rest of us may flourish. Anything you need, I’ll do.”

  “Why don’t you go out the exit ramp and wait for the Fire Department on the street. They’ll need someone to brief them. Minus the sinner business.” The word left a bad taste in Flint’s mouth. She wasn’t a sinner. Not to him. She was a hero. A saint.

  “Of course.” The Sister left, giving Mary a curt nod of respect as she passed.

  Flint met Mary where she stood near the guard at the end of the van. She straightened herself. It was the first chance Flint had to closely inspect her Sinner uniform. Black, sleek, stretchy. Dark hair braided. Fists strapped like a boxer. Made for action. Made for silent nights, and dark things. Except the slash of red at her throat—the scarf pulled down over her neck. That was a promise of death.

  But it was more than the uniform. A change had come over Mary. The soft, sexy, cheeky women he’d fallen for over the past two years was replaced with a cold, hard lethal weapon. Eyes full of danger watched the remaining guard.

  The sound of screeching tires echoed in the parking garage. Lights flashed in the darkened area. Two black SUVs sped toward them.

  While the guard inspected the approaching vehicles, Mary quietly lifted her red scarf to cover her mouth and nose. She turned to Flint.

  A simple look, that’s all that passed between them, and his heart almost surged out of his chest. Something was about to happen. Something dangerous. Deadly.

  Mary closed the rear sliding door on the van. “Get in the car, Flint. Start the engine.”

  Shit. Fuck.

  His blood turned cold, but he trusted Mary. He opened the driver side door.

&
nbsp; “Step away from the vehicle,” the guard said, unclipping his gun. He pointed the barrel at Flint, but his wary eyes darted to Mary, latching onto her new face scarf.

  “You will not shoot with children in the van,” Mary said, voice muffled through the fabric.

  “I know how to aim, ma’am. I can take you out without hurting them.”

  The SUVs pulled to a stop, and an army of soldiers jumped out.

  “Flint,” Mary repeated, never taking her eyes off the guard. “Get in the car.”

  He hesitated. There were so many guns.

  “Now,” she barked.

  Eleven

  Mary shut the door behind Flint and faced the closest guard.

  He lifted his gun and pointed it at her head. “I mean it, I’ll shoot.”

  The blood pounding in Mary’s ears drowned out all sound, and she forced herself to calm. Peace. Gather. Assess. Prepare. She heard her breath. Her heart. The snick of his metallic weapon, and then she entered the zone.

  Time slowed.

  She flicked her wrist. A dagger unsheathed from within her sleeve. A glint flashed in the air, and the knife was embedded in the guard’s neck before he could blink. He dropped, the gun went off. Plaster on the roof sprayed white dust, making the air murky.

  Perfect cover.

  She zipped to his side, retrieved her knife, ignored the gurgling and blood.

  Under the cloud of dust, Mary ducked behind a support pillar and pulled her second knife from her right sleeve. She flipped the blades in her palms as she centered herself.

  Her breath. Her heart. Listen.

  Mary closed her eyes and concentrated. Where were they?

  A boot scuffle. A man’s low voice. The crackle of a shoulder mic.

  She rolled the daggers around her fingers and caught them in her palms. The blades were dull at the edges, but sharp at the points. Perfect for throwing and piercing.

  There.

  Mary released at two approaching shadows emerging from the dust. She ran forward, watching as the blades hit their mark in the center of their necks. They went down gurgling and gasping for air.

  Six to go.

  She continued, darting past the felled soldiers, yanking the knives out by the handle loops. Refocus. Retarget. To the right… and thirty degrees to the left. She threw.

  Whoosh. Thud, thud.

  Two more down. Four left.

  A quick assessment showed the throwing knives were too far to retrieve. For a moment, she wished for her sword—a perfectly balanced Katana gifted from the Onna Bugeisha. It was in the van. Also too far.

  The remaining guards watched their comrades fall, but then their weapons were up. Assault rifles. Mass destruction in a small space.

  So was she.

  “You shoot, you risk the children,” she shouted as she crouched and released small knives from straps at her ankles. She slid them between her fingers so three blades poked through each hand like claws growing from her knuckles.

  They zeroed in on her position.

  They aimed. Fired. Crack! Crack!

  Mary twisted and ducked behind a support pillar. Bullets whizzed by, bursting the brick mortar, sending another cloud of dust into the air. A stinging pain sliced her right shoulder blade, and she hissed. Debris or bullet. She tested her arm by rotating. It burned, but she’d live.

  They fired again and the white cloud of plaster bloomed, making her mouth dry when she breathed. Every time they did that, they gave her cover in the dust. She had to hurry. Creeping quickly, stealthily through the white bloom, she slipped to the next pillar, then the next. She crouched low. They hadn’t seen her move and still trained their weapons on the spot she’d vacated, waiting, converging.

  She darted toward their cars and, as quietly as she could, punched the rear wheels with her bladed fists until air hissed out.

  They should’ve checked behind them, because she was on them before they knew it.

  She was a dark tornado, whirling and dominating. She slashed the closest guard across the neck, twirled, then sliced the second above the eyes, blinding him with his own blood. Then she punched him. Hard. The blades pierced. Hand to hand combat was sloppy, but she was angry. Furious. They were bulls in a china shop, discharging their weapons like their surroundings didn’t matter. Like the children didn’t matter.

  They mattered.

  She clenched her fist and hit him in the neck, piercing skin and breaking cartilage. The man’s scream bubbled. He let go of his rifle to protect his face. She gripped the falling weapon, spun and with two shots hit the final two guards in the chest.

  This all happened before the final crumb of plaster hit the floor.

  Mary paused, listening; breath quiet, heart loud. No more guards, but a car coming.

  She dropped the rifle, ran to the van, snapped the door open and hopped in.

  “Go!” she cried and hit the dash, ignoring Flint’s horrified face as he stepped on the gas.

  * * *

  Dust and blood covered Mary, but not as much as she’d feared. After wiping her hands and face with a baby wipe, she felt semi-decent.

  They drove quietly for forty minutes before Flint attempted to speak. He’d opened his mouth a few times, but clicked his jaw shut. He shook his head, checked on the kids behind him and mumbled to himself, deep voice rumbling through the car.

  The van descended into silence, nothing but the sound of tires whizzing, and air pushing on the windows. The children were asleep. It took twenty minutes for them to relax, but the drag of night and the soothing motion of travel wore them down until the last of them drifted off.

  It had been just Flint and Mary for a few miles, and yet he’d said nothing.

  Heat warmed Mary’s face. She didn’t know what to say. What did he think of her now? That look when she’d entered the car. His skin had turned pale. His pupils so black and big they covered his irises. He saw her kill and maim those men. It was necessary. It was also necessary to leave a woman and child behind in a burning building.

  He must hate her.

  Despite the loss, and the gaping void she feared would never close, she had no tears. No pain. She was numb. This was her. This violence was part of Mary. For years she’d been taught that it was a necessary evil, but only after Flint she understood that her life could be more. And she wanted that.

  She wanted to feel again, just like she had when they’d kissed.

  Suddenly, she was a little bruja girl back at a festival. Behind the performance tent her father had whipped her while her mother watched, sneering. How she hated her parents then. How she had wished to maim and torture them back. Mary’s little back had bled and oozed from welts for days after that. All because earlier that morning, Mary had been so hungry, so starving out of her mind, that she hadn’t paid attention to the vision she had earlier. Food was how they paid Mary, and they’d fed her nothing since the night before. She’d been so caught up with the taste of lunch that her mouth watered and her stomach cramped. Pictures of barbecued chicken swam before her eyes. The smell. The taste. When a man came and asked what his future held, her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t future-tell on demand, but had to remember what she’d seen in the days before, and try to relate it to the right customers. The memory was hard to force, and it demanded a lot of attention to detail.

  In the end, someone had died. She couldn’t remember who, but they all blamed her. If she was worth her money, she’d have seen how to stop it, how to prevent it.

  A death. You couldn’t come back from a death.

  The hate for her parents still drove Mary to violence. She’d often wished they weren’t hers, that they’d stolen her from loving, kind parents who would have fed her big family meals, who would have tucked her into a warm bed, and who would have kissed and cuddled her when she scraped her knee. But they weren’t. They didn’t feed her for days after that death… until she had grown too faint to walk.

  Mary squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the memory, but it was
replaced with a more recent failure. She’d done it again. Too caught up in her own feelings. If only she had written down her vision, like the Sisterhood had taught her, she would have noticed Gloria was missing. She would have noticed the seven children included the new baby, but not Despair. She would have seen past her hormones and starry eyes, and maybe she could have saved them.

  Pain flared in her chest, expanding, threatening to block her airways.

  She bit her lip and tried to glimpse Flint as the passing street lights illuminated his face. He had become impassive. Deathly quiet.

  She should never have dragged him into this. He’d seen her kill without mercy, and she’d forced him to leave a child behind. Maybe it was better she sent the children to the Sisterhood, despite her promise to Gloria.

  You couldn’t come back from a death.

  Twelve

  Flint was so far out of his league he couldn’t think. The police sirens blaring on the other side of the street didn’t help. Not after us. They were fine. They’d escaped. He didn’t even know where he was driving. He just drove. Away would be good. Another fucking country better.

  What he’d witnessed had left him paralyzed with fear.

  Those soldiers discharged their weapons without considering the children in the van. They were so goddamned lucky that not a single bullet pierced the metal walls of the vehicle. He’d almost had a heart attack when the first gun had fired. If it weren’t for Mary—

  His brain emptied.

  Mary.

  Fuck.

  Fucking Super Woman that’s who.

  Christ. He scrubbed his face and blew air through his nose. The shakes still wracked his body, aftershocks of adrenaline sporadically firing his nerve endings, lighting them up with nowhere to go. He was seriously jacked. He did not understand how she was so calm. Years of training, she’d said. Training as what? A mother-fucking-ninja? His fists tightened around the steering wheel, making his knuckles blanch. His foot tapped the floor. A quick check in the rearview showed the kids sleeping. They’d survived. More resilient than him.