by T. K. Toppin
“What? To kill people? To murder? No. I didn’t…not this.”
“People are not going to listen to you unless you make them listen. I’ve been telling you for years. And now it seems I’ve wasted my breath. You might as well die like everyone else.”
“It’s over, Max!” Lorcan took another step. “Take a look around you. Can’t you see? The fighting’s done. They’ve taken back control. Your army has been stopped. The border troops have defeated your men outside. They’ve airlifted more troops in to help. Give it up, Max. It’s over, Son. Please. Let me help you.”
“Stop lying!” Max shouted, some of the earlier madness peeked through his control. “I can’t be defeated. Haven’t you been listening? Do you know who I am now? I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son. I’m Uron Koh! Do you hear me?”
“Yes…” Lorcan swallowed. He glanced at me, tired, in despair. Hurt. “I do see.”
“No. You can’t see. You never could see.” Max shook his head, appearing increasingly deranged. And still he kept shaking it. “No.” He leaped forward and slammed his right shoulder into Lorcan’s chest. The speed and agility—blinding.
Caught off guard, or maybe reluctant to fight his own son, Lorcan grunted and fell backward; rolling to his side quickly, he came up to all fours and crouched low. Max attacked again with a kick. Lorcan dodged, grabbed the foot and pushed up, sending his son crashing hard to the floor. No sooner had he fallen than Max sprang to his feet and retaliated with a volley of jabs, punches, and blocks. Lorcan did the same. Both men grunted with effort.
“John,” I hissed, tugging him away from the fight. “My krima. Will it go through your restraints?”
“What?” John did a double take, giving me an incredulous look. “No—the metal’s too reflective. But it may deactivate the signal so it won’t explode.” He sidled up next to me.
A cry came from Lorcan; he’d taken a kick to the ribs. He returned the favor, battering Max with a series of punches and kicks, but only finding his target once. The sight was frightening, father and son, battling for power. For death. They were equally matched, but Max was quicker.
“See the red light on the top?” John brought me back to the task at hand.
I pulled out my krima, engaged it, and with trembling hands, held him by the wrists. The red light sat on top of the restraints, as he said, and on the outer part. To me the restraints looked like a pair of shiny, silver binoculars—the viewfinder lenses being where his hands went through.
“I see it.”
“Stick it with the laser, watch out for the sparks. Don’t get hit by any of them.”
“What about the explosive?” I panicked and froze. “Won’t the laser trigger it and make it blow?”
“The explosives are on the underside, against my back. Quickly, stick it now.”
I aimed carefully and jabbed at the small red dot. The krima’s laser was as thick as fat knitting yarn, slightly wider than the red dot. It sent crackling sparks and stray beams of laser light every which way. I squeaked, tucking away the fingers on my other hand and tilting back my face. Finally, with a satisfying sizzling hiss, it broke through and extinguished the light. It made some more hissing and low hacking noises, like circuits frying, and then the smell of burning metals and plastics hit my nose.
And something else happened. The restraints snapped open with a grating snick, and John was free.
John turned and looked shocked. “How did you…?” He blinked, a line forming between his brows. Then he grinned. “You must’ve gone clean through the clasps. I’ll have to remember that.”
Chapter 56
The fight between father and son raged on. John, his hands free, catapulted off to join in the fray. Lorcan had grown visibly weaker. Though older and more experienced, he simply wasn’t quick enough to match Max’s speed and agility. The next strike to his face sent the older man reeling, pain and exhaustion marring his features. One eye was swollen. I wasn’t sure how Lorcan was able to see clearly. Blood covered his nose and mouth, and spattered the front of his shirt in dark steaks.
I tried goading Lorcan on, telling him his own son had killed his mother—had pushed her. Lorcan seemed only to hear through a hazy cloud. His body curved inward with defeat, his expression one of despair. He had failed to raise a good son.
Lorcan turned to me briefly, regret on his face. A man resigned, taking full blame of his son’s actions. The sight seared me with pain and stopped my breath. Lorcan’s only option was to destroy what he’d created. I saw that reflected in his movements; he was reluctant but determined to fix a wrong. Max was his responsibility, and if I knew Lorcan, he would see it through to the end. My throat locked at the thought, knowing one would die. But who?
John launched himself like a piston, head first, and collided with Max’s midsection. They toppled to the ground in a confusion of body and limbs. Max roared in surprise and rolled away, shaking his head for a moment. Without waiting a beat, John was up and kicking a prostrate Max square in the back of the shoulder. With a grunt, Max reached out and grasped John’s ankle; he yanked hard, but to no avail—John had already shifted his weight to his other leg. His movements were as fast as a striking snake.
I ran to Lorcan; he was on all fours, coughing and spitting gobs of bright blood from his mouth. I crouched down and inspected his face. It was peppered with large red splotches and blood, and his left eye was almost swollen shut. He gasped, clutching his middle.
“Lorcan! Stop this. He’s too strong.” I pushed him upright; he winced and groaned. “Oh, shit!” I gaped in horror at a blooming red patch, which stained his stomach and grew wider.
“He stuck me.” Lorcan let out an absurdly feeble laugh and squeezed his eyes shut from pain. “Had it hidden under his belt. My own son…stuck me with a knife.” He laughed again, coughing and spitting out more blood.
I turned my attention to John. He was being pummeled with blows, and somehow he’d lost his footing and was on the ground.
“He’s got a knife!” I bellowed, already on my feet. Blind rage consumed me, pushing aside the cold fear that had crippled me earlier.
My warning was enough to distract Max for a second; he looked up as if expecting me to jump on him again. John surged up, struck out with a kick and caught Max in the chest. Max grunted; hit the floor and curled into a ball, rolling away until he was back on his feet, a little dazed, but ready. And sure enough, in his hand he wielded a short dagger, gleaming with sinister coldness.
Then everything seemed to happen at once.
Max struck out with a backhanded swipe, feinting right. John dodged left to avoid the dagger, but his mistake was plainly etched on his face. Max shifted with blinding speed and jabbed to John’s left instead, sinking the blade into John’s hip. Crying out, John fell backward to the floor, clutching his side.
Lorcan had somehow managed to get to his feet, and sprinted with every last bit of strength he had left, heading straight for Max. And I ran toward John.
Lorcan barreled onto Max; they fell hard to the floor, skidding, rolling and rolling, wrestling together in grunts and snarls. Someone cried out, someone hit something hard, someone yelled.
I gripped John’s shoulders, trying to help in some way. He clamped a hand over the wound on his left hip, but blood still flowed freely through his fingers. His face held a deathlike pallor, contorted in pain, and his breath came in labored gasps.
“I’m fine,” he insisted through clenched teeth. “Probably nicked the hip joint—my leg’s gone a little numb. Don’t think it hit an artery…”
“Shit-shit-shit, then why are you bleeding like a stuck pig?” I pressed my hands over his to apply more pressure. He cried out and went rigid. “Sorry.” I risked a quick look at Lorcan and Max; they were on the ground wrestling. “Can you walk?”
John shook his head, grunting and groaning. “You, go. Get out and find Simon—anyone!”
“I’m not leaving you here like this!” I goggled at him.
; I heard a cry and turned my head to see. Lorcan lay curled on his side, his back toward me. Max stood over him, sneering, the dagger dripping red and oily with blood. He angled his body, taking slow and deliberate aim, poised over his father with the blade for another stab. Max’s face was mottled with rage.
“No!” I was on my feet in an instant. Like Trudi had taught me when meeting a head-on assault, I gripped the fully-engaged krima and tucked my weapon arm a little behind me and out of sight. I shifted my strength to my right, channeling it from my center, taking powerful, even breaths as I sprinted.
Max turned slowly and saw me. He flipped the dagger up in the air with a practiced flick of the wrist, caught the blade, then hurled it straight toward me.
Like a hazy dream, I focused on the gleaming blade flying through the air in a straight line, aiming for my chest. John screamed from beside me. I dropped like a stone to my knees—just barely—skidded across the dust-laden floor and surfed it. I tipped my head sideways, and a rush of air brushed over my face as the blade sliced by.
But the sudden jolt of hitting the floor took my breath away. With arms outstretched for balance, the moment the knife passed, I flung my head forward in time to see Max stride toward me, baring his teeth in fury.
“Why can’t you ever just die?” he shrieked like a madman, face grotesque, ugly. Not a trace of the young boy I once knew remained.
He leaned forward to give me a backhanded strike. I swung out my left to block it; he twisted his hand around my arm and flung it away. The force of it pushed me onto my backside, and I kicked in reflex. From the corner of my eye, I saw John shuffle closer, trying to kick out with his good leg. He managed to hit Max’s knee. Max snarled in pain and caught John’s leg, wrenched it one way, and swung him in a wide arc along the floor. Helped by the slippery blood, John left a smeared trail of brilliant red; he yelled in agony.
I’d gone past fright and anger. A sort of flat calm settled inside me. I saw nothing but Max’s unguarded back and a wide, open lane that beckoned me to walk down it. Rolling to my feet, I bunched myself like a spring and jumped straight up into the air. Bringing my knees to my chest, I outstretched my arms for balance and tipped my torso forward to counter my center of gravity, then unsnapped my legs like a battering ram.
The kick hit Max squarely in the middle of his back. He gasped, head snapping back as he fell forward. He flipped over quickly, dazed, and shaking his head to clear it. I was already uncurling from my landing, the krima blazing in my hand, my body poised and ready.
“Where did you get that?” Max spat.
“Up my ass.” I made as if to lunge forward—he jerked up to meet me—and instead, I lashed out and kicked the inside of his thigh. He cried out, bucking his body up in a spasm. Without waiting, I hopped to my other foot and kicked at Max’s unprotected head. I hit the topmost part with a thud. He shrieked in anger and rolled to his side, but before he could get up, I pounced onto his back and brought the krima down on his shoulder.
He roared in pain, rearing up to stand. I clung onto him like a wild beast and brought the krima down again, between the joint of the shoulder and arm. He screeched and arched his body in pain. His left hand scrabbled wildly, trying to grab behind to dislodge me, all the while he shook and twirled his body like a rodeo bull. I held on, an arm wrapped around his neck and my legs gripped around his waist like a lover’s embrace. In a mad rage, he leaned forward and ran straight toward a wall and hurled himself against it.
I yelped as I hit the wall in a bone-jarring crash, but clung on, my strength coming from sheer determination. Fury blinded me, drove me near-crazed, like my opponent. I wanted nothing more than to kill. Max rounded and made another try at the wall. He staggered and pitched, drunk from his injury, but persistent as ever.
Again we crashed into the wall. I screamed as my wounded side tore open some more, the krima almost slipping from my hand. I had to stop him. Hit his head! If only he would hold still…
With effort, I raised my right arm. Max’s head was very close to my own; any slip or misjudgment in the strike, and I could burn out my own brains.
He stumbled and staggered with great effort, grunting and snorting. He dug his left hand into my thigh. The pain made me wince but with all my might, I let loose a roundhouse swing, bringing the krima around from the front—sticking him in the face. He shrieked. A shrill, long peel, venting in agony, his body jerked ramrod straight.
Letting go, I dropped to the floor, and hastily got to my feet. Max backed toward me, teetering on his feet; his good hand before him, clutching his face. The other arm dangled useless at his side as blood dripped down it like a river, dotting the floor with bright red spatters.
“Finish him!” John bellowed from one side. He lay close to Lorcan, who was still curled up but on his back. In one hand John held a communicator, the other was pressed to his hip.
I gripped the krima, kept it low, and shifted my weight to the right. In three strides, I’d be close enough to drive the laser dead center into his spine and drag it down as if gutting a strung-up carcass, crippling and killing him in the process. With no remorse, whatsoever, I strode up, raised my arm, and took aim.
He whirled without looking, swinging his fisted left arm and catching me full in the side of the face. My head felt like it had exploded; it snapped to the right and I hit the ground hard. The world spun wild and bright in a multitude of colors and shapes. My left ear screamed with a high-pitched whine, and bile pushed up my throat.
I slumped onto my back and groggily tipped my head up, watching Max, who took deliberate steps toward me. The entire left side of his face flapped open from the side of his nose to the lower jaw near the ear. Like a skull’s rictus grin, his exposed teeth were stained red with blood. My mouth parted as the beginnings of horror and surprise shot through me. He bore down on me, and he had my krima in his hand, ready to drive it down into my chest. I screamed. John screamed.
Then the remainder Max Wellesley’s face exploded.
His head jerked backward, and the sheer force of whatever impacted with his face knocked him clean off me. I stared, hard, at the spot once occupied by Max, unable to understand. Reason finally filtered through. I turned to see who’d fired the pulse gun.
“Adam?” I croaked.
Chapter 57
Lorcan died not long after. Before he did, he chuckled in his good-natured way and smiled at me. With a bloodied hand, he gently held my face and told me he was such an ass for letting me slip through his fingers. Then, with the smile still on his face, the twinkle in his blue eyes slowly faded.
I cried without realizing I did so. In fact, quite a lot happened then that I didn’t register until much later.
After Adam killed Max and saved my life, John had to pry me loose from Lorcan, still cradled in my arms. John had managed to call for help using the communicator from the dead mercenary while I fought with Max—their weapons were useless to us, since they required fingerprint recognition. We waited for help, propped against a wall, while Adam grimly tended to our wounds. He didn’t speak, and his hands shook while he re-sealed my wound and applied a pressure bandage to John’s injury.
John, pale and weak from blood loss, was still able to function. With Lorcan’s death still fresh in my mind and his body no more than ten feet away, I’d drifted off into a sort of numb oblivion. I was hollowed out, gutted. I half-listened to John and Adam as they talked in low tones—John did. Adam only nodded or shook his head.
Simon catapulted into the room, armed and ready, followed closely by a small group. He sized up the room in seconds, then leveled a gun at Adam.
“On your feet,” Simon ordered, “and move away, slowly.”
“What’s going on?” John shifted as if to stand, winced, and slumped back against the wall. I reached out and held his wrist, mutely willing him to stay and not leave me. Heaviness pressed my body, my thoughts and emotions burdensome and needy. And I just wanted everyone to speak quietly while I curled up into a ball.
He looked across at me with a pained frown.
“Your brother here has been fooling us the whole time,” Simon replied, his tone terse and brittle. He wiped a stray line of blood that dripped persistently from his brow.
After a pause, John looked up at his brother. “How did you get out?” Suspicion slowly stole over from gratefulness.
Adam stood, arms loose at his sides. He dropped his eyes and bowed his head in that blasted Lancaster fashion. He looked resigned, tired. “John…” he said quietly but turned to Simon. “They need medical attention. I promise, I will explain everything.”
“Explain it now!” Angered, John leaned forward, gripping his side.
Adam shook his head and walked up to Simon. “You may take me now,” then walked past him and into the cluster of armed guards.
Simon nodded to his men, cocking a brow to John and me. Two of his Elites moved to assist us. John, who wasn’t used to being ignored, glowered with boiling rage, but remained quiet.
We were taken straight to the sub-level clinic where Aline commandeered her post with swift efficiency. John was taken immediately from my side and tended to first. Minutes later, I was next.
The clinic hummed in a hive of activity. Through my weary fog, I saw many injured and many dead. Some were already treated, but lingered as if in shock. Others, yet to be treated, sat in silence, waiting their turn. Doctors and nurses, automated attendants and volunteers, all rushed about, talking and ordering, shouting.
The smells in the clinic made me ill. Coarse disinfectant masked the rancid odor of vomit and fear, and the coppery oiliness of blood and open wounds. I must’ve briefly closed my eyes to all this, since the next time I opened them, I lay in a small, quiet room with John in a cot next to me. A bandage wrapped my torso tightly, and I smelled like an antiseptic solution. I could only imagine what my face looked like.