Twisted Together - Winters Pepper - Страница 91

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“Clear!” someone yelled, followed by a gunshot to the right. I didn’t know where to look. Men’s shouts sounded—then cut short. Running footsteps stomped—then thudded to a halt.

All around me men died—dispatched with precise coordination.

They stole my right! They took away my destiny—ending the men’s existence before I could.

The crackle of someone’s walkie-talkie slammed me into motion. They may have killed a household of bastards, but they hadn’t found Q. No alarm sounded—no raised voices.

Q was still missing—and I knew his killer would be with him.

Raising the gun, I hunted.

Time lost meaning as I sank deep inside myself—tapping into instincts and heightened senses I never knew I possessed. I embraced the animalistic part—switching off humanity, thirsting for blood.

I prowled room after room.

Stripper poles and couches in one. Cinema and media in another. Kitchen. Bathroom. Office.

Bodies. I stepped over countless corpses from the efficiency of Q’s team. Clean shots to either forehead or heart. Their vacant open eyes didn’t raise my heartbeat or garner any emotion but hatred; deep seated hatred kindling in my chest where my heart used to be.

“Tess, you’re not listening to me. Stop this—before it’s too late. I can’t save you again.” Q’s voice threaded with my conscience.

You can’t save me because you’re dead.

Shaking my head, ridding the craziness brewing inside, I entered a bedroom. And slammed to a halt.

Dark, dingy, not a dungeon, but not far off. Bunk beds lined each of the four walls. The lack of windows, and dampness from the floor, settled fast into my bones.

I sat on a threadbare mattress, looking around my new home. Girls huddled on each bed. All of them wore an aura of tragedy, eyes bruised with loss, skin painted with injuries and shadows.

A man loomed over me, his beard black and gross. Reaching behind him, he bared a knife.

The flashback of Mexico interlinked with the image in front of me. Bars across the windows, mattresses on the floor, women bound and gagged.

Two members of Franco’s team helped the six girls from a variety of horrible positions. Some were collared to the wall, others were tied to poles, slouching painfully.

Their naked bodies showed numerous evidence of abuse. Tortured. Raped.

Not anymore.

Now they were free.

My eyes stung. Q had saved yet more women—more birds—and he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of returning them to loved ones.

It’s your vocation now—embrace his love of birds and focus on nurturing rather than death.

My fist trembled around the gun. I couldn’t.

Bastards.

Devils.

I had to finish this. Whirling from the room, I ran. I needed to be far away—it threatened to unravel my hatred, dissolving me with tears.

I circled back to the front of the house, searching for a victim—any victim to transfer this rage onto.

My eyes fell on a staircase going down.

He’s close. My instincts sounded an alarm, purring with knowledge. Down there. Go.

I took a step, only to be wrenched to a stop. “Bloody hell, Tess. What were you thinking?” Franco swayed, breathing hard. “I’ve been limping all over the fucking house. It’s not safe. There could be anyone hiding, waiting to kill you.”

I don’t care.

“Let me go, Franco.” I pointed down the stairs. “He’s down there. I know it.”

Franco’s face whitened. “Let Alpha team go down. You don’t want to see if you’re right.”

“You’re wrong. I do want to see. I want to know what they did, so I can do the same.”

I need to see he’s really dead. I need to see the truth.

Franco shook his head. “Tess—this isn’t you. Stop it.”

I tore my arm from his grip. “You don’t know me! Stop pretending like you care. Your boss is dead, and I don’t want you to interfere. Go away.” I hated my cruelness, but nothing would stop me from finding Q.

Franco stood locked to the landing.

Not looking back, I darted down the stairs. I held the gun high, my finger teasing the trigger.

My first kill happened too fast to remember.

A shadow. A blur. A shout. A curse.

Bang.

I no longer teased the trigger but compressed it, letting loose a killing projectile.

The man dressed in a black suit crumbled to the floor, holding a gushing wound in his neck. “Fucking, bit—bitch.” His eyes narrowed to slits even as his arteries dumped litres of blood down his lapels.

I waited for a rush of sickness. I waited to feel different for doing something so barbaric, but I felt nothing.

Standing over him, I hissed, “Where is he? Tell me where he is.”

The man gurgled, holding the wound tightly. “Wh—who are you?”

Ice lived in my blood as I crouched over him. “I’m your worst nightmare.” Placing the gun against his crotch, I whispered, “I think you used this on trafficked women. I think you deserve more pain before you die.”

He let his neck go, drenching his body in blood. “No! Wait!” He pushed feebly at the gun. “Don’t!”

A silenced puff and his head snapped back, falling into death.

What?

A strong hand plucked me from the floor. I swivelled in their hold, glowering at my captor.  Franco held a silenced pistol awkwardly in his bandaged hand.

“How dare you. He was mine to kill!”

“And you did. He was seconds away from death.”

“Why didn’t you let me finish it?”

“Because you’ve taken his life. You might be able to live with that—but torturing, that fucks you up, Tess. And I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

“I’m not weak. Stop treating me like I am.”

Franco glared into my eyes. “You’re not weak. I agree. You’re strong—strong enough for Q and everything he gave you—but I made a promise to him. He made me swear I wouldn’t let you slip away, hurt yourself, or do anything to jeopardise your commitment to him and his company.”

“You don’t own me. You can’t do that.”

Don’t stop me from doing what I need!.

He shook his head. “I don’t own you but Q does. He may be gone, Tess, but you’re still his. You still have to obey—same as me.” Sighing he said softly, “I’ll let you kill Lynx, but I’ll do the rest. My soul can handle it—yours can’t.”

It can. Because this time my victims aren’t innocent.

Yanking me behind him, granting a protective wall of his body, he advanced down the black-tiled corridor. “Believe me. When the shock hits—when you finally let yourself feel, you’ll thank me.” Motioning with his gun, he muttered, “No more talking. Let’s go.”

I shoved him. “Let me go first. Don’t steal this from me, Franco. I need to do this.”

I need to avenge him.

“Shut up. I won’t let you go first, so stop.” His body was unmovable, blocking me from danger.

Gritting my teeth, I had no choice but to obey. His pace was agonisingly slow. A shuffle, a limp, but he did things I wouldn’t have done—scanned each doorway, tried every doorknob, making sure it was locked and no one would ambush us. “You’ll have your wish. I won’t take that from you. Just let me protect you while you do it.”

I wanted action. I wanted carnage. But it was silent.

Ominously silent.

What did you hope—you’d hear him? That he would be alive, and you’d hear his voice?

My eyes swelled with tears—finally recognising my stupid hopes.

Yes.

I’d been hunting in denial. Beneath my rage and grief blazed a fine layer of hope. It cindered the rest of my emotions. The hollowness inside had been filled with some other feeling. I didn’t have a name—disbelief perhaps. My soul taunted me with a lie that he was dead.

I feel him.

Some ludicrous part believed he was still alive. The connection we shared hadn’t been severed completely—it was there—weak, hazy, pulsing with darkness. But there.

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