by Stone, Kyla
The dancing ground to an immediate halt. As one, several dozen bodies stilled and turned toward her, eyes narrowing, hands going toward weapons.
“I told you!” Dahlia marched up beside Xander. “This girl is trouble!”
“It’s true.” Sutter rose swaying to his feet, firelight flickering across his flat features as he loomed over her. He jabbed a thick finger at her chest. “She just tried to kill me.”
“I did not!” Quinn said.
Dahlia crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s an imposter, Xander!”
Xander frowned, glancing from Dahlia to Quinn. “Is that true?”
“No.”
“What about that knife you’ve been hiding under your sweater all this time?” Dahlia asked with a sweetness dripping poison. “You just about stabbed Teddy with it.”
Every eye went to the knife in her hand. Quinn’s face went hot. “I can explain—”
Rocco pried the blade from her fingers and handed it to Xander. “She had this.”
Xander’s expression darkened. “No one kills one of our people.”
“He’s not one of your people! He’s not who you think he is.”
“Neither is she,” Sutter said.
Her mind buzzed. Panic shredded her thoughts. “His name is Mattias Sutter. He led a group of militants who killed a bunch of my people. He’s a murderer!”
“So, you do know each other,” Rocco said.
“She wants revenge,” Sutter said evenly.
“And why would she want that?” Xander asked.
Sutter smiled. “So many possibilities. Maybe because I killed her worthless methhead of a mother.”
Quinn strained against the hands holding her. “You don’t get to talk about her!”
Sutter gave a nonchalant shrug and turned his hard gaze to Xander. “She pretended to join you so she could assassinate me. That’s been her plan all along. She never believed in your cause. It was all a trick.”
Xander blinked. “That hurts me. It truly does.”
Quinn tried to wrench free, but Jett and Rocco gripped her so hard her fingers went tingly, her arms losing their circulation.
Dahlia stared at Quinn with a smirk, like Quinn was a bug she wanted to squish beneath her combat boots.
Xander looked at her with a hurt, angry expression. “I thought you said you were a believer.”
“I am!”
He stared at her, unblinking. His eyes were hard. The softness he’d revealed earlier had vanished. “No, no I don’t think that you are.”
“Look, Xander—”
“Shut up!”
Quinn slumped, defeated. The game was up. Pretending wouldn’t help her anymore. “Sutter’s a liar. Don’t trust him.”
“Teddy has been truthful so far. You, on the other hand, have been anything but.”
“No, he hasn’t!” Quinn shouted, grasping at straws. “Did he tell you we knew each other? He lied, too! What did he promise you? Do you have it yet? He’s just manipulating you. He doesn’t believe in your cause, either! He just wants revenge because we beat him!”
Sutter bared his teeth. “She’s crazy.”
“Stop it!” Xander unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Sutter, then swung toward Quinn. “Both of you, shut up! I’ve had enough!”
Quinn went still, a taste of fear in her mouth, metallic and coppery.
“We’re not one for a lot of rules here.” His gaze swept his group. “We do have one, though. No one leaves. No one lies. And no one betrays us. Especially. Not. You.” He paused in front of her, rage mingled with sorrow crossing his face. “I thought we were friends, Quinn.”
“Then let me go!”
“I can’t do that. And I don’t want to.”
“My people will come for me! You don’t want to mess with them. They’ll find me. You won’t get away with this!”
He shot her another disgusted look. “More lies.”
“I think we should do something special with her,” Jett said. “Make an example.”
A rustling of agreement from the crowd surrounding them. Quinn glimpsed eager, hungry faces, smiles like barracudas.
“Like what?” Dahlia asked, like she’d just been promised cake for dinner.
“We’ll think of something.” Xander motioned to Jett. “Get her out of my sight.”
Sutter stepped back, out of the circle closing in tighter and tighter. His face was flat and empty, devoid of emotion. Only his eyes gave away his delight.
Five dozen of Xander’s minions crowded in. Glee in their faces, the fire glittering in their crazed eyes, their pointed knives and spears and axes.
They looked at her like she was something they wanted to eat, something to be savored.
Quinn trembled, sweating, bracing against a shot of liquid fear that made her scalp tingle. Her bowels loosening, her heart a frantic fluttering thing.
Dahlia punched her in the stomach. Pain exploded beneath her ribs and radiated through her entire body.
Rocco kicked her feet out from beneath her. On her other side, Jett dropped her arm and delivered a strike to the back of her head. Dizziness washed over her as she fell to her hands and knees.
Gasping, she attempted to struggle to her feet, but there were too many of them. She got in a few punches, her fist connecting with someone’s nose, crunching cartilage. She yanked a hank of Dahlia’s hair from her scalp. The girl staggered back with a squeal like a pig.
A rain of kicks and punches poured down on her. Two dozen steel-toed boots striking her ribs, her back, her chest.
She kicked and scratched and screamed. Something smashed into her face. Her teeth loosened in their sockets.
More blows knocked her on her back. Her head thudded against concrete and everything went dark and fuzzy. Pain blinded her.
Instinctively, she curled in on herself like a pill bug, attempting to protect her head and neck with her hands, her knees pulled up to her belly.
Through it all, she dimly heard them chanting something as they kicked her. Hit her. Punched her. Destroyed her, breaking her down with every strike, grinding her bones to dust beneath their heels. “Death to power! Death to power! Death to power!”
53
Quinn
Day One Hundred and One
Quinn opened her eyes to excruciating agony.
At first, she had no inkling where or when she was. Her only companion was pain. Pain in every cell, radiating from her bones and muscles, pain flashing red hot behind her aching eyeballs.
And then, slowly, slowly, it came back to her. The warehouse. The bonfire, the brutal beating. Xander and Sutter standing there, watching.
Xander’s gang had knocked her unconscious. She didn’t remember being dragged to this room. She didn’t remember the zip ties scraping against her wrists.
At first, it was pitch black, but gradually, a sliver of dim gray light appeared through the slits in her swollen eyes.
A narrow window high up. Cold tile floor beneath her. Four square walls, a ten-by-ten room. Trash in the corners. A shelf along the back wall stripped of supplies. A storage closet, maybe.
Gingerly, she took stock of her injuries. One eye swollen half-shut, the other puffy and runny. Cheeks scraped raw, her lip split and bleeding in three places.
Her insides were mush, like a sack of potatoes beaten with lead pipes. Though she couldn’t see them, she imagined the bruises blooming across her back, her shoulders, her arms, her thighs, all radiating fiery agony.
And she’d vomited on herself. Her sweater was stiff and clumpy, the sour stench making her eyes water.
When she attempted to move, daggers of pain spiked up her spine. Her ribs were on fire, a few of them likely cracked. Dizziness spun her like laundry in the wash cycle.
With a groan, she curled into a fetal ball on the floor, a rush of despair threatening to overwhelm her.
They were going to kill her. This was a reprieve while they figured out some grand and ostentatious method of displaying he
r corpse.
The macabre images flashed through her mind. The grisly body hanging from the tree, spinning slowly in the wind. And the man at the marina, his high frantic screams as the mob converged on him.
Xander had been fascinated by her for a moment, a whim, like a child playing with a shiny new toy who discards it the moment something better comes along.
She had failed, and failed utterly.
Whatever game she’d thought she could play, could win, she was the one who’d been played.
Here she was, locked in a room, captured by a gang of crazed deluded sociopaths, awaiting execution—death by sword, by mace, by spear, it didn’t matter.
Maybe Xander’s insane blathering was right.
Nothing mattered.
What was the point of fighting, of struggling? Of days and weeks and months of backbreaking labor, just to put a little food in the hungry knot of your belly, just to survive one more day while everyone you loved either died or betrayed you?
Gramps, beloved grandfather—dead. Octavia, crappy mother—dead. Juniper and Chloe, her responsibilities—dead. And Noah, her friend, her hero…and the man who’d abandoned her, who’d looked her in the eye as he chose the enemy—dead, dead, dead.
All so absurd, futile, and pointless. So, so stupid.
That black void opened beneath her, swallowing her rage, her hatred, threatening to suck her into senseless oblivion.
She could fall.
She was so close, the pain taking her over. Just close your eyes, just give in.
That’s all it would take. Close your eyes.
“Let me out,” she croaked. She licked her lips, her throat dry and cracking, and tasted coppery blood. “Let me out.”
54
The General
Day One Hundred and One
The General stood and surveyed his domain at the Fort Custer Training Center in Augusta, Michigan, near Battle Creek.
Built in 1917 for military training during World War I, Fort Custer served the Michigan National Guard and the FBI, the Michigan State Police, and various law enforcement agencies.
In the loading bay, men and women in uniform scurried to and fro, engaged in various tasks as they prepared to ship out. Five hundred National Guardsmen. Twenty armored Humvees equipped with .50 caliber M2 Browning machine guns. Crates of RPGs and automatic weapons.
And the crème de la crème—two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters at his beck and call.
Whether it would be enough to demolish Poe’s Syndicate remained to be seen, though there were other local resources he could commandeer for the mission.
In his abject terror of Poe, Governor Duffield had given the General complete mission control. With the authority and manpower of the state government behind him, he was once again in the driver’s seat.
Soon, he’d regain his seat at the table, too—not merely at the state level, but on the national stage.
If America was going to survive, she needed more men and women like him at the helm. Those few souls ruthless enough to get the job done.
“Sir? You requested me.”
The General turned and eyed a seasoned warrior. His name tape read Gibbs. The man wasn’t one of the governor’s men, but one of the General’s.
He’d found he preferred the paramilitary contacts he’d cultivated through the years, soldiers dishonorably discharged for various vulgar offenses. While SEALS and Rangers were more skilled, they tended to stubbornly adhere to outdated ethical codes.
The corrupted and morally bankrupt were the ones the Governor utilized to great effect.
With a smile, he tugged a slip of paper from the pocket of his slacks and handed it to the soldier. “Here are the GPS coordinates. There’s a gang of one hundred untrained nihilists staying in a warehouse district. Eliminate them all.”
The man nodded. “Understood.”
“Depart immediately. We will be a day or two behind you.”
It took time to ready a small army, to prepare logistics and supplies. His paramilitary team would travel quickly and inconspicuously and would arrive at their destination tonight.
Tomorrow, one less threat would face Michigan. And the General would be one step closer to his ultimate goal.
The General intended to ride into the tiny town of Fall Creek, Michigan as a hero, welcomed by all after slaying the threat of the nihilists. Overwhelmed with gratitude, they would take in the General and his army with open arms.
It was a familiar tactic, and one he’d used to masterful effect multiple times.
People were sheep; they seldom understood that they were under attack from multiple fronts and from multiple enemies.
The threat they didn’t see was the most dangerous.
Of course, there was always the chance that he would meet resistance. If they didn’t welcome him inside their gates, well, there was always plan B.
And he needed to ascertain the facts behind the rumor Sutter had told him. If it were true, it interested him. It interested him a great deal.
“Oh, one more thing,” he said.
The soldier stopped and spun toward him, a question in his eyes. “Sir?”
“There is a man named Mattias Sutter with them.”
“Sir?”
“Bring him to me. Alive.”
The General hadn’t yet decided on Sutter’s fate. He’d despised the weaknesses of his younger brother, and Sutter was cut from the same cloth.
Sutter had allowed the General’s daughter to die on his watch.
For that, the General would not forgive him. But as much as he loathed the idea, he needed Sutter. Sutter had valuable, vital intel. He was a necessary element of the plan. For now.
Once the nihilists were eliminated and he’d taken control of Fall Creek, the General would settle his men in Winter Haven as the staging zone for the next phase of his plan—dealing with Poe.
But first, he had another mission.
The General would kill anyone and everyone responsible for his daughter’s death.
55
Liam
Day One Hundred and Two
Liam was being followed.
He’d sensed it for the last quarter mile or so. He crouched low beside the brick wall, silenced HK45 pistol in hand, taking measured breaths, slowing his pulse and channeling his adrenaline as he waited.
Liam was in downtown St. Joe near the river, several blocks north of the beach. Three and four-story office buildings surrounded him, a few modern facades of glass and steel, many the same brick exteriors from a hundred and fifty years ago.
The city was eerie and still. Traffic lights and streetlamps were dark, no artificial lights anywhere. The smell of something burning reached him, a fetid, plasticky stench that turned his stomach.
Before he’d left Fall Creek, he’d outfitted himself with his M4, extra magazines, his Glock and tactical knife, and a radio, which was out of range.
His chest rig and plates completed the load out—including his night vision goggles, now perched over his eyes, casting the night in a greenish glow.
For the hundredth time, he longed for logistical support for insertion, evacuation, and air support. Once, he would’ve been provided reconnaissance data derived from drones, satellite imagery, and human intelligence.
Instead, he had nothing but his own skill and wits.
He’d completed the first recon loop around the target when he’d detected the interloper.
Vortex was a matrix of buildings that took up a couple of city blocks. From what he could tell, the main building was a long rectangle built of glass and steel that served as the headquarters—offices, conference rooms, and customer service rep cubicles.
On either side were the manufacturing plant and the warehouse for storage and shipment. Both were enormous, multistory steel structures. All three buildings contained dozens of entry and exit points. Once he’d finished his recon, he planned a roof insertion.
But he was being tracked. Maybe hunted.
Still
a block from Vortex headquarters, he’d backtracked behind a brick office building and circled his pursuer. Whoever was following him was no skilled operator. He was noisy, hesitant, lacking finesse; he’d given himself away a dozen different ways.
Liam was careful. Still recovering, he couldn’t afford an error. No mistakes. No surprises.
Pushing down the pain in his spine and side, he listened hard, the footsteps drawing further away as the pursuer approached the far side of the building, headed in the direction Liam had been moments ago.
Liam checked for snipers in windows and rooftops, scanning darkened doorways and spaces between buildings. Plenty of jagged windows. Trash piled against curbs and sidewalks.
No human beings in sight. Nothing moving. Everything dead silent but for the slide of footsteps ahead of him. If people were present, they were well hidden.
Blading his body, he edged around the corner, leading with his pistol, and glimpsed a figure about to round the next corner a hundred feet ahead of him.
Male, shaggy blond hair, six-two or six-three, thin and wiry, with an ill-fitting jacket and a familiar camo backpack. He held a tire iron in one hand but otherwise appeared weaponless.
Liam moved soundlessly behind him, stepping from heel to toe, stalking his prey as silent and lethal as a panther.
He prowled to within six feet without the man suspecting a thing. Liam could’ve shot him or slit his throat before his brain had registered Liam’s presence.
He didn’t, though he wanted to. Whether he serviced this particular target depended on the next thirty seconds.
Pistol aimed at the back of the man’s skull, he said, “On your knees!”
The man flinched but dropped to the asphalt, both hands in the air, still clutching the tire iron. “Don’t shoot!”
Scowling, Liam circled around to face him. “Seriously?”
“Oh, hell.” James Luther gazed up with an equal mix of fear and loathing. “Not like I’m happy to see you, either.”
