Page 48 of Viking
He spat blood onto the floor.“They all beg, eventually.”His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile.“The girl will be next.The little redhead with her daddy’s eyes.”
Something primitive roared to life inside me at the mention of Athena.I charged forward, abandoning technique for raw power.We crashed into his desk.His knife slashed across my chest just above my tactical vest, cutting through my shirt, scoring a burning line across my skin.I barely felt it.
“You’ll never touch her.”I drove my fist into his wounded nose.Once.Twice.His head snapped back with each impact.
He rallied, bringing his knee up into my groin.Pain exploded through my lower body, momentarily weakening my grip.He twisted free, slashing wildly with his knife.I felt it catch my shoulder, but adrenaline dulled the pain to a distant awareness.
We separated, both breathing hard.Blood dripped from my split lip and the cuts on my arm and chest.His face was a ruin, nose flattened, one eye swelling shut.But those cold blue eyes still held nothing but contempt.
“You’re dead already,” he said, circling again.“You just don’t know it yet.”
“Then I’m taking you with me.”
He lunged, over-extending in his confidence.I sidestepped, catching his knife arm and driving it down into the desk with all my strength.The blade embedded in the wood.Before he could recover, I slammed my own knife into his thigh, twisting the blade as I yanked it free.He howled, staggering back, blood pulsing from the wound in rhythmic spurts.Femoral artery.He had minutes, at most.
But he wasn’t finished.He pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster, raising it with a shaking hand.I closed the distance before he could aim, catching his wrist and forcing it up.The gun discharged, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling.We struggled for control, our faces inches apart.
With a final surge of strength, I drove my knife up under his ribcage, angling the blade toward his heart.The gun fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers.I pushed the blade deeper, feeling it scrape against bone before sliding home.
“That was for Kris,” I whispered, watching the light begin to fade from his eyes.I twisted the blade.“And this is for threatening his daughter.”
A wet, gurgling sound escaped his throat.His hands clutched weakly at my cut, fingers tangling in the leather before sliding away, leaving smears of blood across the patches.
I eased him to the floor, knife still embedded in his chest.He tried to speak, blood bubbling between his lips, but no words came.I watched as understanding dawned in those cold eyes -- understanding that he was dying, that his operation was compromised, that everything he’d worked for was crumbling around him.
“Look at me,” I commanded, gripping his jaw to force his fading gaze to mine.“I want your last thought to be of them living free because of what we did here tonight.”
I stayed there, watching as the light faded from his eyes, feeling the weight of the moment press down on me.I’d killed before, but this was different.This was personal.
When it was done, when I was sure he was gone, I retrieved my knife and wiped it clean on his shirt.My body ached from a dozen small wounds, my split lip throbbing in time with my heartbeat.But beneath the pain and the adrenaline crash was something else -- a grim satisfaction that settled in my chest like a stone.Not happiness.Not pleasure.Just the cold certainty that I’d kept my promise to Kris.That his killers had paid their price.
I placed my hand over the locket beneath my cut, feeling its outline “It’s done, brother.They can’t hurt them anymore.”
Behind me, the door creaked open.Prophet appeared, shotgun held ready until he assessed the scene.“You good?”
I nodded, straightening despite the protest of bruised muscles.“Let’s finish this and go home.”
I stood in the control room, blood drying on my knuckles, breathing in the copper scent of death and the acrid remnants of gunfire.My body catalogued injuries with detached precision -- split lip, a few knife wounds, bruised ribs, a dozen minor cuts and contusions that would bloom into impressive bruises by morning.None of it mattered.What mattered was the laptop Prophet had and the information it now contained from the main system, the files Sarge was stuffing into a backpack, the evidence that would burn the corrupt senators, and any other high-ranking officials, to the ground and exonerate the innocent members.Because once all this became known, there was a chance the media would try to paint them all with the same brush.Men like Kris would be known as heroes.What mattered was that when I returned to the compound, I could tell Karoline it was over.That Kris’s killers had paid their price.
“We’re clear,” Bull reported, appearing in the doorway.Blood had soaked through a makeshift bandage on his shoulder, but his eyes were sharp, focused.Had any of us made it through this without getting injured?“Flicker’s doing a final sweep of the east wing.”
I nodded, pulling my attention away from the body cooling on the floor.“And the explosives?”
“Ten-minute timer once we hit the detonator.Nothing but ash will remain,” Saint said.
“Good.”I crossed to the map wall, studying what was left of the red pins marking locations across the country.I snapped a quick photo with my phone.
“Found their communications log,” Prophet said, holding up a small notebook.“Coded, but Wire can crack it.”
“Take it all,” I ordered, wincing as I bent to check the dead leader’s pockets.His wallet yielded military ID -- Colonel James Mercer, retired.I pocketed it, along with his phone and a small USB drive from his pocket.
Sarge examined a laptop screen, his injured arm held close to his body.“They’ve got files on all of us,” he reported, voice tight with pain and anger.“Surveillance photos of the compound.Dossiers on our families.”
A cold weight settled in my stomach.“Download everything, then fry the hard drives.”
While the others worked, I moved through the room, gathering anything that looked important.Maps, more files, a ledger with handwritten notes.In the corner, I found a small safe, its door hanging open.Inside was a stack of passports with different names but the same faces -- escape identities for the leadership.I took those too.
“Viking,” Flicker called from the doorway, his face pale from blood loss but his voice steady.“You need to see this.”
