Page 95 of Brutal Savior

I finally breathe when I reach the back door. Crouching, I press the pistol to the lock. All the Gilda guns come equipped with true silencers, not the sort you can buy retail. They actually take the sound down to Hollywood-movie level. Even so, she’ll hear what the bullet does to the door unless we can give her something else to worry about.

I whisper into my mouthpiece, “Now.”

Sound splits the air, the wail of a police car, jarring on this quiet suburban street. I fire. The bullet rips through the lock, and I kick the door in. I’ve only got seconds until she realizes what’s happening.

I race in, braced to hit the deck if she’s waiting for me. She isn’t. I get a brief flash of a neat kitchen decorated in beachy white and blue, then I’m racing down the hall, into the front living room.

A desk. Three monitors and a stacked PC. For a second, I freeze. It’s so similar to my stark setup at home that a shudder runs up my spine. Worse, though, she’s not there. Where the fuck is she?

Upstairs. She has to be. If I’m wrong and she tries to bolt, the Gilda will shoot her down. Gun at the ready, I edge up the narrow staircase. It’s steep, and the real wood planks creak under my weight as I step on them. Upstairs is pitch-black. This is bad. She’s gained the upper ground and could have a weapon trained on me right now.

“It’s over, Kelly. The house is surrounded, and you’ve nowhere to go. You don’t have to die, though. The Brotherhood can find a place for you.”

I’m talking shit. We both know it, but desperate people believe all sorts of crap. I’ve seen people grasp at straws a million times over.

Her voice has a sharp, nasty edge to it. “Does this take you back? Remember the cupboard under the stairs back home? The fun we had in there?”

My few memories of Mum’s house flicker through my mind. A laundry room filled with piles of filthy clothes. Ruth screaming in her cot. And, all at once, the looming black mouth of the cupboard.

In my four-year-old self’s memory, it stands as tall and wide as two men, the door a black pit of horrors.

Come in, Jacob. It’ll be fun.

“We used to play a game, remember? I’d put something in there you really wanted. Like that stupid dinosaur you loved. What was his name?”

Rex.

I’d forgotten about him, too. I don’t want to remember, but I can’t help it. His smiling green head, torn off, and all his stuffing pulled out. Such a small thing, but my body remembers the agony of it. Of losing the only thing that gave me comfort in that house. Physical pain stabs my chest, and I freeze.

“Once I lured you in there, I got to have my fun before I let you out. Do you remember that?”

The rational part of me tries to pinpoint where Kelly's voice is coming from, but I’m drowning in memories. Something sharp stabbing into my foot as I sobbed and clutched what used to be Rex. Her laughter. Her fucking…

“Jacob. She’s in the bedroom to the left. I can see her on the internal cameras. She’s using some sort of speaker system to throw her voice. She’s got a gun.”

Thank fuck for Candice. Her voice snaps me back into reality, and I force it all down. The pain, the terror. It can wait. The bedroom to the left. She’s got a gun. These are real, tangible problems. Things I can deal with.

I pull out my phone and tap a silent message to my team as I speak, “Grandad should have fucking killed you instead of giving you up. He should have taken you, then drowned you in the river. Called it an accident. It would still have been better than you deserve.”

“Oh, and you deserve so much better? The golden boy given everything when inside, you’re just as fucked up as me. How many people have you killed? Bet it’s more than me.”

I send the message.

“I’m sure it is.” I brace, waiting.

As soon as the first gunshot hits her window, I move. In three strides, I’m at the door. I kick it open just as glass explodes into the room. I drop, avoiding the gunfire, and see Kelly. She’s flat on the floor, eyes wide in the moonlight. She must have dived when the bullets hit.

The gun is still in her hand. She twitches it toward me, but I’m quicker. I shoot it out of her hand, and she screams, clutching her bloody wrist to her chest.

I should feel pity. I should, but the memories she brought back are right there, and they’re blotting everything else out. The gunfire from outside cuts off, and I stand over her, gun pointed at her head.

Blood gushes from her wrist, soaking the front of her gray T-shirt. I force myself to study her. She’s got my green eyes and Ruth’s dark blond hair. My sister. No doubt about it.

I raise the gun. She shakes her head. “No. Please, I can be useful. I can—”

“This is for Rex.” I pull the trigger.

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