Winter's Storm: Retribution (Winter's Saga #2)

by Karen Luellen

  Or, and this thought made him want to vomit, had Gavil been killed? An anguished ball of emotion churned in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Had they just killed Gavil? Was he completely alone in the world now? Having a brother who hated him was better than not having a brother at all, wasn’t it?

  Halfway through the second day in recovery, the flimsy white curtain encircling his bed was yanked back sharply. The sudden movement jolted Creed from his disconnected daze. Commander Oldham himself stood there staring with unconcealed hatred creasing his leathery face. He was there to deliver a message, he said.

  The Director of the Facility, Dr. Kenneth Williams, was visiting from the Americas. He witnessed the match and wanted to have words with Creed. He was ordered to report to the Director’s office at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. A car and an escort would retrieve him for the meeting.

  Creed tried to ask about Gavil’s condition, but Commander Oldham, obviously disgusted to be in his presence, turned and walked out of the room as soon as he finished his message.

  The next morning, at oh-seven-forty-five, Creed was dressed and waiting for his escort. Thankfully, the three days of recovery and his rapid metahuman healing had afforded him the ability to walk, though gingerly. He would be damned to show up to this meeting in a wheelchair.

  There was an abrupt knock at his hospital room door. He remembered looking up just in time to see the door swinging open, and that’s when he saw her.

  “Creed Young?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m Farrow Schone, Dr. Williams’ personal assistant. I’ve been ordered to escort you to headquarters for your meeting.”

  “I won’t need that,” he said defiantly motioning toward the wheelchair she was pushing.

  “As you wish,” she responded coolly pushing the chair aside. “The car is waiting. Follow me.”

  She walked like a soldier, but even with all her training and the unflattering fatigues, she couldn’t hide her definite femininity. Her dark hair was cut boyishly short, but her full lips and smattering of freckles across her nose screamed of beauty. She looked to be a little younger than himself, but it was hard to tell—she had an agelessness about her. Creed couldn’t remember seeing before. Inwardly, he shrugged. As the Director’s personal assistant, she probably didn’t mix with regular metas like him.

  Creed noticed she discreetly slowed her pace for him.

  Unusual, he thought to himself.

  Metas, were trained not to be concerned for the weak or injured any more than necessary to complete their objective. That is, unless they had been trained to work as a team. In which case, the objective was to use every member as efficiently as possible. He was noticing the concern she showed was the kind usually reserved for a team member.

  Curiosity got the best of him so he asked, “Why did the Director choose you to escort me?”

  She stiffened a bit then just as quickly relaxed her shoulders. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Creed and Farrow walked in silence until arriving at the black car waiting curbside. The driver was standing beside the open door. Farrow climbed in the back seat and slid over to make room. Another courtesy he noticed while wincing with the effort to lower himself to the seat. He had to hold the frame of the door to maintain his balance. She was watching him carefully enough to see the pain flash across his face.

  “Recovery still takes time, even for a meta like you,” she whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear.

  Still breathing hard from the pain, Creed shot back, “What do you mean, ‘like me?’”

  Their eyes locked for a moment before the driver put the car in gear and began pulling away from the hospital. For the first time, he noticed her large doe eyes. The intensity of her observation made him feel a wave of dizziness he wanted to attribute to the overexertion. They turned away and stayed silent the rest of the short ride to headquarters.

  The building, though only three stories tall, was meant to be impressive. Black granite with black windows and rounded edges gave a contrasting modern feel to the old European countryside on which it stood. Flags representing the country and the company whipped in the breeze to the right and left of the entrance.

  A circled driveway left room for an artsy fountain in the center island. It showcased large, marbled, geometric shapes and coursing sheets of water slipping intentionally down at impossible angles until they disappeared under the pond at the base.

  The driver pulled around the fountain and right up to the front. Farrow opened her door and walked around to help Creed out. Defiantly, he pushed opened the door himself and shot her a pale but determined glance as he slowly rose from the backseat. The driver nodded once to Farrow and pulled the car away from the building.

  “This way, please,” she said turning to walk toward the doors.

  If it weren’t for the pain, these events would feel dreadfully surreal, dreamlike. Creed followed his escort and wondered what lay behind the black doors ahead.

  When Creed stepped off the elevator on the third floor, an older man wearing a three-piece suit came rushing forward all smiles and handshakes to greet them. Unsure of whom this man was, Creed played along and let the stranger have his theatrics.

  “My dear boy, it is so good to see you up and around. I was just sure you wouldn’t be walking so soon after your injuries, but look at you! Here you are a striking example of what all metahumans should be! I’m impressed, Creed. Very impressed. And I’m not afraid to tell you I was very worried there for a while—the way that brother of yours attacked you with a weapon.”

  The aging man shook his head and made tisk-ing sounds with his tongue as if reprimanding a child for getting caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

  “There are strict rules in those Retribution Matches. It was very unsportsmanlike behavior to have done what he did to you. And that he’s your brother, too!” The gentleman was still holding Creed’s hand as he spoke while gently leading him down the hallway.

  “Oh, my apologies, my dear Farrow,” he said looking back over his shoulder at the escort affectionately, “how rude of me. Thank you for retrieving our Creed. You’re free to go wait for us down in the lobby. I’ll have you called up when we’re done with our talk.” When he smiled, it looked like it hurt his face to make it twist up at the corners. Weird. Creed was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about this guy.

  “As you wish, Dr. Williams.” And with that, Farrow bowed slightly and walked backward a few steps before turning toward the elevators.

  This guy was Dr. Williams? This small, fragile, unassuming weakling of an old man in this tailored civilian suit was the Director of this military-run facility crawling with the most highly trained and deadly soldiers in the world?

  “Oh, my dear boy, we have so much to discuss,” the man was gushing as he opened the mahogany doors to what was undoubtedly his office.

  “First, have a seat. You must be exhausted. I mean, it wasn’t but a few days ago when you were forced to put on a very violent display of brotherly love. How are you feeling?” And for the first time, Dr. Williams stopped talking and waited for his guest to speak.

  “I’m fine, thanks to the medical care, sir.” Creed chose his words carefully; still unsure of what was happening.

  “Yes, well, when Commander Oldham and I saw what happened in the pit that day, I told him to have you brought immediately to my personal surgeon.” The yellow of the old man’s teeth stood in stark contrast to the glowing white that was the color palette of his office.

  “He wasn’t very happy with my decision. He insisted that you both be terminated immediately, but I put him right in his place. I told him I had plans for such a strong-minded meta.”

  Creed wondered if he was referring to himself or his brother. Some would have cause to believe strong-mindedness wasn’t necessarily a virtue. Gavil had a strong mind. Evil, but definitely strong.

  “Sir, where is Gavil?” Creed asked the one question that was weighing more heavily on his mi
nd than his own welfare.

  “Gavil, your brother, is not of your concern any longer,” Dr. Williams said cryptically.

  “Dead?” Creed asked.

  “To you, he’s dead. Isn’t that what you said to him on the field of battle just before you overtook him?” A wicked grin slipped across his old face.

  Creed was sure he had whispered those words on the battlefield. No one could have overheard them—so, Gavil must have been alive long enough to tell someone about their exchange.

  “Enough about him; I want very much to talk about you. How did you do it, Creed Young?” The Director came and sat next to him on the white leather couch as though he were about to lean in to hear a secret of great importance.

  “How did I do what, sir?” Creed asked confused and still thinking about his brother and that day at the match.

  “You were down. Gavil beat you with that weapon into your side. You were on the ground, curled up and dying. I saw you with my own eyes. Then, suddenly you were standing, and not just standing, but charging and attacking with a fury I’ve never seen before! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. So what I want to know, my boy, is how did you do that?”

  Creed weighted the moment carefully. How should he respond to this question? If he told the old man he was able to turn off his pain like flipping off a light switch, would he believe him? Would he somehow use it against him? Does his life depend on how he answers what felt like a very loaded question?

  “I remember the match, sir. I’ve been reliving it over and over, but I can’t tell you what happened to give me the ability to get up and fight at that point. I really don’t know how I did it.” Creed stared stone faced at the Director working hard to maintain his stoic expression so as not to give away his inner panic.

  Dr. Williams’ eyes narrowed skeptically and he stayed quiet a little too long. “Maybe it’ll come to you, over time,” he finally said.

  “Now, as I mentioned before, Commander Oldham is pretty upset that you disobeyed a direct order: To kill your brother, as the rules of the Retribution Match so clearly states. He insists you be made an example of for the other Metahumans so they see what would happen to them should they ever try to defy orders.

  “He offered two suggestions that would, in his mind, make things right. One, you are to be publicly tortured in the same pit where the defiance took place. Or two, to be publicly hanged, again in the same pit where the defiance took place. He was fine with either one and wanted to leave the final choice up to me.”

  Creed’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. Pain or no pain…he didn’t want to die! In a colossal effort to maintain his composure Creed had to ask, “And what did you decide, sir?”

  “I decided it was up to you what would happen, but that I would add one more option for you.” The Director stood from his place inches away from Creed and walked to his huge marble encrusted desk. He picked up what looked like a file and walked slowly back to where Creed sat as still as stone.

  “One more option, sir?” Creed’s voice wavered, but only slightly.

  “Yes, one more. That is, if you’re interested,” he stopped, put the folder to his side and looked up expectantly at Creed.

  “I—I am interested, sir,” Creed stammered.

  The old man smiled ruefully and finished walking the distance back to the white sofa. As he sat, his wrinkled hand passed Creed the folder.

  “This is your third option, Creed Young.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “An old score that needs settling.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The woman in the picture there,” he said motioning to a slightly yellowing photograph, “stole three very precious assets from me. I want her dead, and I want the assets returned to me.”

  “What did she steal, sir?”

  “Turn the page, son.”

  On the next page there were pictures of two small children and a baby. Beneath each picture was an M-Case number. Creed recognized the number immediately because all metahumans were given M-Case numbers. His own was M429. Only these numbers were much smaller: M57, M61 and M74. They must have been some of the first metas.

  “These children are metas,” Creed said, thinking out loud.

  “Yes, they are.” Dr. Williams was giving Creed time to scan the documents following the pictures.

  “They were test subjects some twelve years ago at The Institute for Neurobiological Studies in the Americas? I wasn’t aware that there was another training facility, sir.”

  “Why would you be aware? But no, it was not a training facility like this one. It was the birthplace of the metahuman. It was at that Institute that the first serums were tested on human subjects and the results, all these years later, are magnificent soldiers like you.” The director was smiling proudly at Creed.

  “These meta children are the ‘assets’ this woman stole from you?” Creed was putting it together now.

  “Yes.”

  “And you want these children back?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But they’re not children anymore. They must be teenagers by now.”

  “They are.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the Americas.”

  “Are they still with the thief?”

  “They are.”

  “Will they come willingly?”

  “No doubt that woman has worked to turn them against me; turn them away from who and what they truly are. They may need some convincing, but once the woman is killed, they’ll be much easier to manipulate.”

  The doctor was watching Creed’s face carefully and loved what he saw. He knew he had chosen the right brother. Gavil was too evil, beautifully evil to be sure, but for this assignment he needed a strong-minded, gentle hand, and Creed fit the profile perfectly.

  “Excuse me, sir. But may I ask if there is any way to ‘settle the score’ that doesn’t involve killing someone?”

  Dr. Williams glared at Creed and said nothing to ease the silent anger that was clearly his response.

  “It’s just that, I don’t feel right about killing anyone. Not my brother, nor a thief. Could I just bring her back with the children?” Creed asked hopefully.

  “Let me make myself perfectly clear, son. The assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to terminate the woman and retrieve the three metas. Period. If you do not accept the terms of Option 3, there are still two other options you have from which to choose.” The venom in the doctor’s voice was potent. His three-piece suit looked even more intimidating than a five-star general. This man had power and he knew how to wield it.

  With a slow deep breath in an obvious effort to calm himself, Dr. Williams continued, “However, I can appreciate a man of principles. I, myself, live by a strict code of conduct in my personal and business affairs. You do not feel comfortable taking a life. But sometimes we have to make a trade. Sometimes the ends do justify the means. So let me put one more thing on the table to help you make your decision. You have grown up here at the Facility, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The only family you ever knew of was Gavil Young, and he wasn’t much of a family. Have I assessed that accurately?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever wondered where your parents were? What they were like? Maybe wondered why they gave you and your brother up to the Facility instead of keeping you with them?”

  Creed had no idea where the old man was going with this line of questions, but he did know it was making his stomach feel like it contained boiling acid.

  “What would you do to find them, given the chance? Or more pointedly, what wouldn’t you do?” If the devil himself had a face, it looked like Kenneth Williams’. He was nearly giggling with joy over the painful dilemma he saw in the young man sitting next to him.

  “Sir, are you saying you know where my parents are?” Creed’s voice came out in a whisper.

  “I am.”

  “And you’ll tell
me where to find them if I complete option three just as you say?”

  “Now you’re getting the idea, my boy,” beamed Williams.

  “And if I don’t agree to this assignment…”

  “Then there are always the death options from which to choose. Oh, and you’d die never having known your family.”

  Watching the conflict in Creed’s eyes was sheer pleasure to Williams. “Take a few moments to think about it, Creed Young. Weigh the rights and wrongs in your own mind. I’m going to step out and grab a cup of coffee. Would you care for a cup?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Creed mumbled deep in thought.

  “All right, I’ll be back in a few minutes. And Creed, that’s all the think time you’re going to get, so use it wisely.”

  The old doctor stood up with a grace he shouldn’t have been able to manage, and walked purposefully toward the large mahogany doors, opened them and closed them quietly behind himself.

  Creed hadn’t moved the entire time he had been in Williams’ presence. What was he going to do? Could he live with himself if he killed this woman, no matter what her crimes? If he didn’t kill her, then he wouldn’t have long to regret it because Commander Oldham would have his head on a silver platter for all the Facility’s metas to see.

  Look at what individuality and disobedience gets you, everyone! You get dead, that’s what you get.

  So, he takes a rifle and tags the thief right between the eyes long range. He would make it a fast and clean kill. She wouldn’t feel pain, and he wouldn’t have to hear the thump of the bullet hitting her skull. He could completely distance himself from the whole thing.

  Then all he’d have to do is coral the meta children and bring them here. Heck, he could shoot them with tranquilizers if he had to. That’s not a lot of work in comparison to the reward of finding his parents.

  He’d been dreaming of them for the last fifteen years. What did they look like? Did one of them have his blue eyes? Did he look like his father? Was his mother beautiful? Did she cry for him often and wish things had turned out differently? Were they nice people? Artistic? Musical? Athletic? There were so many questions Creed was aching to have answered.