She pulled the door open just in time to receive a fist to the jaw.
It seems they’re more competent than I gave them credit for.
She stumbled back into the room. Her assailant wasn’t giving her time to regroup. He rushed in after her, charging low. She felt the air escape from her lungs, as he tackled her, taking the two of them over a desk.
She landed on her back, cracking the back of her head against the unforgiving floor-tiles. All the while punches rained down on her. Her vision swam as her body was pounded from multiple angles. She weathered them, waiting for an opening.
It didn’t take her long to realise the man attacking her had clearly heard of her skills and was trying to subdue her with sheer strength alone.
He must not have been listening well enough.
She endured the assault, timing his blows until she found an opening. She found it soon enough. He began to tire; the pause between each punch becoming longer as time went on.
At the correct moment, she moved her head out of the way from a strike aimed to her jaw. She heard his knuckles break as they crunched into the tiles, followed by a pained gasp.
She turned and whipped her forearm into his elbow, snapping the joint at a sickening angle; the way it unnaturally bent reminded her of a flamingo’s leg. His high-pitched squeal was cut off, as she drew her knife and slipped it into his ear.
She felt all of his weight suddenly drop onto her as he spasmed the last vestiges of life he had in him, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.
Another heavy fucker.
With a heave, she pushed him off. He rolled over, the knife – the handle of which was still in her grasp – slipped out of his ear, his blood spurting out of the wound, spilling down his neck in a flowing cascade of crimson. She pulled it out and wiped it on his shirt.
Shouts rang out ahead. She kicked one of the desks over onto its side as two more soldiers burst into the room, weapons raised. Their bullets punched into the thick wood of the desk, one passing through only inches from her head.
She sprang from cover, throwing her knife. It struck one of them on the arm sending him sprawling to the side. She raised her handgun and shot the second man before he could get his shot off. His head whipped back, blood washing the wall behind him.
He toppled back, tumbling over a desk, discharging a few rounds into the ceiling as he fell.
The other man barely had time to look away from his fallen compatriot, before Lex shot him through the eye.
VIII
Lex left the two men where they were; broken, bloody, and unmoving amidst the wreckage of what was once a normal, functioning office space. She approached the door with caution; not prepared to be left wide open again. Satisfied there was nothing sinister awaiting her, she slipped into the next room.
This floor, she noted, was designed differently to the first floor. There was no main corridor with potted plants and fancy paintings. This floor was one big space. Rows and rows of computer panels and telecommunication boxes ran in neat columns, from one end of the room to the other. She wasn’t surprised to find that none of them were operational due to her handy-work.
A few service droids roamed the room, pushing at buttons, chirping and beeping their disapproval as their workstations weren’t responding to their commands.
They seemed not to notice her presence as she passed them by; their attention taken up by their current operational predicament. She found it amusingly ironic that even Trammel’s own service droids were in it up to their eyeballs.
She jogged halfway along until she found a suitable alcove within some of the computer banks. She knelt down, using the momentary respite to catch her breath.
As she tried to figure out what her next move was, her eye was drawn to a tear in her suit, on her thigh – presumably torn as she’d hauled herself in through the window. She noticed it was darker at the edges. She winced as she pulled it back to inspect the damage. She must have dragged her leg over a shard of glass as it had left a deep gash on her thigh. The blood had already begun to clot; it felt tacky to the touch. She picked out a few small pieces of glass that glittered through the dark red of the gash, before closing it with some gauze and surgical tape from the medi-pack strapped to her belt.
She made an attempt to tally the body-count. She’d taken down four of the new arrivals – that much she was sure of. The explosion she’d caused on the first floor would have, at the very least, incapacitated a few more, though without going down there and wading through the wreckage, any number would be a guess.
She noted that Trammel had been carried into the building by his guard, she’d left the other one in the lobby – another figure for her tally. With Lex on his tail, he wouldn’t have let the guard out of his sight, so she could only presume he was still with him.
She tapped at her wrist-pad to check the status of her portable-cam, suspecting she wasn’t going to like the answer. She wasn’t disappointed, the feed had been cut.
I can’t waste any more time picking my way through mercenaries and floors. Someone will have heard the gunfire outside and alerted the authorities.
Time was not on her side. She was beginning to regret her recklessness at taking pot-shots at Trammel earlier. She should have done what she’d done with the others and killed the bastard.
Her problem was that her confidence in her abilities had got the best of her; she’d grown complacent. Killing the other members of the Inner-Sanctum had become monotonous, almost too easy.
For six months, she began to systematically pick off high-ranking members of the city’s true rulers one by one and, for a time, she thought she was making progress.
Brick by brick.
As time dragged on, and the body count had risen, she slowly came to the realisation that the Inner-Sanctum was like a weed. As the bodies piled up, she found it wasn’t making a blind bit of difference. It seemed the level at which each member she’d slaughtered could be replaced easily. She needed to delve deeper into its rotten core, to find out who was the one who’d pulled the trigger.
She felt like a fly bothering a lion.
I woke from the murky depths with a purpose. To avenge you, my love. Whatever the cost. But it has to mean something. It has to cause them unimaginable pain, and unrepairable damage.
She rubbed her eyes as she felt the beginnings of one of her headaches lurking in the background of her mind. She needed information.
I’ll start with Trammel. I’ll root the bastard out and find a way.
She looked up, startled from her reverie, as torchlight and hushed voices filled the room. She pulled out her two curved blades and made her way toward the voices.
There was more to add to the tally.
IX
Jared stood a few feet from the door as it slid up. The light from the panic-room spilt out into his sodden bedroom. He was thankful the sprinkler system had shut off. He had the handgun raised in front of him, as he slowly ventured out of the only safe place in his building.
His hands were shaking. His shoulder throbbed, and he felt weak. He was still angry at the tone Faulks had used as he’d called him every name under the sun. He would bide his time with the Proxy. He was beginning to show his weakness in his old age. Jared would wait for the perfect moment to exact his revenge.
Soon, he would answer for his disrespect. He was equally irritated at having been cut off from the call, before he’d had time to fire back an insult or two, as much as anything, he grudgingly admitted.
He made his way around the bed and peeked his head around the door. There was no sign of Marr. Where the fuck was he? He breathed out an exasperated sigh, frustrated his guard wasn’t close; it was exactly what he was being paid for, to stay close and keep him safe.
Adding another annoyance to his ever-growing list of grievances he had for this nightmare, he glanced around the room in search of his scribe.
He could barely see anything. His living-room was too damn dark – in spite of the fact it sa
t in front of one wall made entirely of glass.
He had to take a closer look, which meant leaving his bedroom. For all he knew, Marr was lying dead and the crazy bitch was waiting for him.
Still shaking, he managed to steel enough courage and walk over to the centre of the room, all the while expecting that fucking witch to jump out at him. He could feel the water from his wet carpet seep into his shoes.
“Sir?” Marr called from the shadows.
Jared yelped, dropping the gun onto the coffee table. It clattered onto the varnished wood; the noise it made seeming louder to his shattered nerves.
“Get back in the panic-room,” Marr said, the guard’s tone struggling to suppress his disapproval.
“As soon as I find my scribe, I’ll go back into my hole, just try and stop me.” He took a closer look at the coffee table, where he usually left it. It wasn’t there. He looked up at Marr. “Have you seen it?”
“How the fuck should I know where it is… sir” Marr snapped, realising who he was talking to. “No, I’ve been watching the door.”
Jared glowered at him. “Faulks’ men? Have you heard from them?” he asked, striding over to the breakfast bar. Though irritated at his man, he felt a little easier having him close-by.
“They gave me an update when they raced up to the first… but nothing after she blew something up down there.”
“Found it,” Jared exclaimed, triumphant.
His delight was short-lived as a spray of bullets ripped across the room. Holes were punched in his sofa, sending puffs of interior stuffing into the air. He heard the crack of his kitchen tiles as they were reduced to mangled shards. Marr fell to the floor, though Jared couldn’t see if the guard had been shot.
Deciding his panic-room was now the only sensible place to go – now that Marr was out of sight, and for the moment, currently out of the fight – Jared ran back towards his bedroom. He only made it a few steps as he tripped over the coffee table, landing face-first onto its surface. Searing pain lanced across his mouth, feeling one of his teeth cut through his bottom lip. He suddenly began to taste copper as he rolled off the table and onto the floor.
Lying in misery, he heard something heavy clatter into the room… then nothing. He wondered if Marr had managed to get a shot off. He hoped he had and that bitch was lying in a pool of her own making.
His hopes were dashed, as something exploded. He knew it wasn’t a grenade. If it was, he’d be dead.
For a second after the explosion, all he saw was a blinding white light, then everything descended into darkness. His hearing was consumed with an unbearably high-pitched whine, and his head felt as though it had been crammed full of cotton wool.
He writhed in terror and disorientation. Which way was the fucking panic-room? Where was Marr? And most importantly of all, where was the woman?
His question was answered as he felt something heavy strike his chest, as though a sledgehammer had been brought down with significant force onto his ribcage. He tried to scream, but he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to expel anything other than a strangled wheeze.
Thin fingers snaked their way through his hair before he was yanked to his feet. He was dangled in the grip of his assailant, his vision slowly knitting itself back together.
Looking him dead-in-the-eye was the woman. She glowered at him from the confines of her hood, her one eye boring into his with unforgiving malice. Her face was covered in blood – most of it he presumed wasn’t hers. He felt his bladder give up the good fight as warm piss ran down his legs – his humiliation complete.
“Please,” he screamed, holding his hands up. “Don’t kill me.”
He thought that was it, she was going to dismiss his begging and end his life. But surprisingly, she didn’t. Her attention was on his hand, or to be more precise, what he held in his hand. He realised, to his surprise given his rough treatment, he was still holding his scribe.
“Turn it on,” she growled, throwing him onto the sofa. He bounced awkwardly, sending splashes of cold water up into his face. “And you better hope the sprinklers haven’t fucked it.”
Despite the fear that was crippling his insides, like shards of ice being pushed in and out of his guts, he recognised the face staring down at him.
“You died,” he exclaimed. “I watched them hold you under… after they killed…” He knew the Proxy was struggling to control the situation, but he never thought in his wildest dreams the woman was… This revelation was gold to Trammel. If he managed to somehow get out of this alive, he could use the information to his advantage – an opportunity for further advancement.
With lightning speed, she grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him back to his feet. She wrenched him forward, so their noses were almost touching. He could smell death on her; death and blood.
She arched her head back and drove her forehead forward into the bridge of his nose. His vision became a field of stars as he heard the unmistakable sound of cartilage splintering. His face seared in agony. He burbled a whimpering cry through bloodied lips.
She held him steady. A great warmth ran down his lips and chin, cascading down to his shirt. “Don’t you dare say his name,” she screamed.
His head swam. They killed her. He’d watched as her thrashing had stopped; all life was gone. It was maybe why nobody had suspected their tormentor was her. They’d left her body for the fish. There was no one else there.
Thinking about it, since she’d emerged, what little CCTV there was of her, none of the footage contained her face. Just a shadow – a reaper plaguing their every step.
He pressed his thumb against the screen of the scribe and opened his eyes, the effort causing fresh lances of pain down his swollen features. He looked into her cold, blue eyes. She looked different; her hair was black – it had been blonde before; shorter too.
His scribe chirped into life. Relief swept over him as the scribe hadn’t failed. They both looked down at the hardware.
“Log in, and hand it over,” she said, coldly. He blubbered his acquiescence and did as he was told.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, suspecting he knew the answer. It didn’t matter, either way, he’d find out soon enough – though, from her previous exploits, the odds weren’t in his favour. He hoped she took pity on his pathetic state and spared him.
His scribe lit up, casting their features in a soft green hue.
She grabbed it from him and took a step back. His legs struggled to keep him upright. She glanced at the screen; a thin smile spread across her lips.
“On your knees,” she commanded.
“Please, I beg you. Don’t do this,” he pleaded, feeling a fresh gush of piss run down his legs.
“On your fucking knees,”
He slowly lowered himself onto his knees. He felt shame as tears began to stream down his bruised cheeks. This was it. He was going to die.
“Drop the fucking gun,” a voice said, coming towards the breakfast bar.
Marr stood; gun aimed at the woman’s head. If his mouth didn’t hurt so damn much, he could’ve laughed – hell, he could’ve kissed the big man.
The woman remained where she was; her lack of concern couldn’t have been more evident. She rolled her eyes… eye. “Can’t do that, I’m afraid. Drop your weapon or your boss gets it between the eyes.”
Marr stepped forward and shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. You can’t shoot Mr Trammel without dying yourself. You’re quick, but not that quick.”
Anger coursed through Jared. The two of them were discussing his death in this fucking scenario as though they were playing chess. “Just shoot this fucking bitch,” he tried to shout, but it came out as an incoherent wail.
Marr ignored him. “What’s it to be?” he asked the woman.
The woman sighed, closing her eye. “I choose you,” she said, spinning around, her arm a blur.
They both fired at the same time. Marr ducked for cover after he got his shot off. The woman ran towards the window after she�
��d discharged her own.
She leapt over the sofa and shot the window. The glass cracked and splintered, but never smashed. Before Marr could regain his composure and fire at her, the crazy bitch jumped through the window, disappearing into the night.
Time stood still for a moment. He listened for the sound of a body hitting the sidewalk. There was nothing. All he could hear was the rain falling outside his open window.
He raised himself to his feet and limped over to the window. He looked down. There was no sign of her. the only activity outside was the approach of several police vehicles, an armed response van to the front of the convoy.
Neon Revenge Page 4