Rows upon rows of windows, containing cell upon cell of new recruits and old, glowed dimly in the night. My heart thundered to think how many more they’d ruined while I’d been gone.
“Time to work, Fox.”
I rolled over, clenching my teeth against the broken radius in my left arm. I couldn’t remember a thing.
My handler laughed. “Trying to recall what some dickshit paid you to do last night? You won’t, Operative Fox. We programed you to forget. You’re brainwashed to suffer short-term amnesia whenever you complete a mission. That way you cannot compromise yourself or us if you’re ever caught. You cannot lie if you don’t remember.”
I wrapped my hands around my head, trying to squeeze the flashbacks from my thoughts. I couldn’t go to war compromised. I had to stay clearheaded and be the ultimate Ghost.
A sudden image of Clara consumed me, almost bringing me to my knees. Her innocent smile, her intelligent eyes—all gone.
“Roan, don’t fight with my mummy. She needs you.”
My stomach snarled, tangling with my heart. I was a fucking bastard for leaving her. Abandoning her and Zel when she needed me most.
I couldn’t breathe at the thought of never seeing Clara again. I’d never fight the horrible urge to kill such innocence again all while falling madly fucking in love with her.
Hazel replaced her daughter, taking me hostage. Her tears, her grief gripped my heart while the haunting sound of her wails danced on the wind. I hated that I wasn’t there for her. I hated I wasn’t man enough, strong enough.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
Blinking, I forced them both from my thoughts. They had no place here. Nothing else existed but the machine I was and the bloodbath I was about to indulge in.
Balling my hands, I took a step out of the tree line. Exposed in the cleared snowy moat of land around the house, I shed everything but my mission. I ceased to be Roan. I ceased to be heartbroken by a little girl’s death. I ceased to hate myself for not being there for the mother.
For this mission, I was nameless.
I was Karma. I was Fate.
I ran.
The backdoor, fortified with iron that I helped maintain, and a lock I helped design, barred my entry. Scraps littered the snow from dinner and trails of blood drifted off into the distance where local wolves took recruits that hadn’t made the cut.
I might have turned blind from a psychological issue to avoid more horror, but others—they just shut down. Nothing reached them. Not even the threat of death.
Picking up a rock resting by the door, I smashed the hinges with all my strength. I’d never be able to crack the lock, but the hinges—they were old and weather-worn. Wood splintered and groaned mixing with the howling wind.
By the time the door creaked open, my hands were bloody and I shook uncontrollably from ice.
I weaved through shadows, breaking into the one place I’d always tried to break out of. It was dark and late and no one was around. Dancing around tripwires and avoiding alarms, I moved deeper into Hell.
I infiltrated an operation so cocky and arrogant, they never thought to fear one of their own coming back to end them. They were so self-assured, believing their human weapons were subservient and loyal to the end.
They had it wrong.
No one wanted to be there.
No one wanted to serve in purgatory.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
My first stop was the armoury. A range of knives, blades, and other equipment lay as I remembered from two years ago. The anvil was the same. The stench of sweat and metal the same. But there were new items, too. The finesse not as refined, the lines not as straight. The smithy had been the only place where I’d found a smidgen of peace.
“I want you, Fox. I want to touch you.” Hazel’s voice rang in my ears, buckling my heart. I wanted so fucking much for her to touch me, to not have to deal with the shit inside my head.
The fucking bastards had to die. It was my only chance at freeing myself forever. My last hope for a cure. My last chance at happiness with a woman I desperately wanted to hug and protect.
I stood over a pile of weapons, taming my rapid heartbeat. I wanted to inflict pain. After all, I was a fucking Ghost.
I collected crescent moon blades, a silenced pistol, and a hammer I used so often to beat metal into submission.
That was all I needed.
My breathing calmed, my muscles bunched in preparation, and I slunk like the demon I was down unforgotten corridors. No spike of emotion. No residual humanity. I embraced the ice.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
The witching hour was mine and I snuck into the first unseen bedroom, morphing with the dark. I didn’t know who’d created the society of Ghosts, or who bought our services. Some missions had been politicians, other movie starlets. There was no rhyme to who we killed—if they had money, they could buy us. We were purely guns for hire and it was time to burn the fucking place to the ground.
The first man I stood over wasn’t significant. I wasn’t in his realm of minions. He was handsome, well-built, and fast asleep like a fucking angel. But he was a ruthless dictator just like the rest—profiting on others pain and misery.
I pressed one hand over his mouth.
His eyes flew wide, confusion smothering.
He squirmed and his hands came up to touch me.
It was instantaneous. To be inflicted is to inflict.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
I bowed to the command for the first time in two fucking years.
With precision and an emotion almost described as serenity, I dragged the sharp blade over the gristle and tendons of his throat.
Instantly, warm, coppery blood sprang from his body in a brutal cascade. His eyes wrenched wider, his mouth snapped below my palm, and he thrashed around in death throes.
His heart pumped rapidly toward death and the stench of his bowels loosening serenaded him from living to corpse.
I left his grave and returned to the hunt. The hunt for evil. He was the first to die, but definitely not the last. I gave myself completely to the sweetness of killing. I threw myself into my task and everything else ceased to exist. Time blurred, blood flowed, and men died like fucking flies.
Room after room, I entered and dispatched. Five with the silenced gun. Seven with a blade. Two with the hammer. Four with my bare hands.
The night belonged to death, and I was the executioner.
The eighteenth handler died just before daybreak. His final cry petered out, smothered by my hand, and I stood upright rolling my shoulders.
The conditioning pulsed behind my eyes and I could barely feel my extremities. My body had become an instrument of carnage and I didn’t focus on the splatter of blood or other human tissue covering my clothing.
Stalking down the corridor, I knew I wouldn’t find my handler in this wing. He always slept alone on the opposite side of the compound. He was the next to die. He was my final trophy.
I savoured the anticipation and prowled through the dwelling, suffering blending memories of Obsidian and here. Every door looked the same, the length of corridor the same. I kept expecting to see Oscar appear or Clara bolting toward me.
“You’re not a bad man.”
Clara had that wrong. I was the worst sort of man: I was a murderer.
Instead of rushing to finish my mission, I stopped to look at the cells. I couldn’t let them die behind locked doors when I snuffed out the final handler. Retracing my steps, I headed to the heart of the house where the alarm system rested along with the security mainframe that kept every keypad lock secure on the cells.
With my blade, I stabbed it into the main console and severed power to the rest of the compound.
Instantly, alarms erupted, screaming a warning, shredding the silence of the dawn.
Rushing back upstairs, I passed children, teenagers, and adults as they shuffled out of their rooms. Recruits and operatives, all in different stages of training looked bewildered but with a small spark of hope in their eyes.
The ones who knew me nodded in silent respect before charging down the stairs and out into the freezing wilderness. The ones who didn’t were coaxed by others to leave.
It only took a few minutes before the entire establishment was an empty tomb.
Another minute until the person I was on my way to see, found me. I didn’t hear him arrive, but I sensed him.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
The hair on my neck stood up on end as I spun to face my nemesis. My handler stood behind me, hands on his hips, his perfect face looking like a flawless sculpture. He was blond and beautiful, but beneath his perfection lurked oil and ink and filth for a soul.
My heart bucked, sending thickening fear through my blood. The conditioning stuttered and failed when faced with the one man who was king over me.
“If it isn’t Operative Fox. I see you disobeyed orders once again and didn’t swallow your last task.” He cocked his head. “And you’re no longer blind. Interesting.”
I didn’t say anything. Clamping my lips shut, I swallowed my terror and stood my ground.
This man had hurt me more than anyone and the conditioning crunched my spine, ordering me to bow to him. To grovel for forgiveness.
“I love you, so you can’t be a bad man.” Clara’s sweet voice pierced through my fog, giving me something to latch onto. I wouldn’t let him win. Not this time.
He suddenly laughed. “How did you pull that trick, Fox? I must say. Very inventive.”
I clenched my hands around the hunting knife. “No trick. You warped my mind so badly, my brain decided it no longer wanted the gift of sight. You drove many of us mad with what you made us do.”
Clucking his tongue, he shook his head. “Always so dramatic.” He paced forward a couple of steps, closing the distance between us. Holding out his hand, he growled, “Give me the blade, Operative Fox. Return to your cell immediately. Punishment will be absolute after this heinous treason.”
My legs spasmed with the compulsion to obey. I took a step back unable to ignore the conditioning forcing me to my old cell. It crippled my mind, took my limbs hostage. It was like fighting a puppet master holding all my fucking strings.
Closing my eyes, I thought of Obsidian and the man I’d become. I’d struck fear into the hearts of others. I’d become more than just an operative. That man wasn't afraid of this blond asshole.
I’m not afraid.
I forced my foot to move, followed by another.
“Obey me, Fox. Stand down.”
I groaned, clutching my stomach as a wash of sickness filled me. Obey. Obey. Obey. Once again, the conditioning buckled my body, making me groan. I belonged to him and it hurt—fucking hurt—to disobey.
Gritting my teeth, hating the white smog settling over my eyes, I pressed forward another step. “Not this time.”
Every shuffle rebooted my heart from thrumming with terror to thudding with an entirely different beat. One that craved blood. I had violence running in my veins and another’s life-force on my hands. He might have butchered and tortured me, but ultimately he made me stronger. Strong enough to withstand him. Strong enough to end him.
“I’m fucking warning you, operative. Take one more step, and I’ll slaughter you where you stand.”
The conditioning rushed me like a swarm of wolves, tearing savagely at my body. Obey. Obey. Obey.
I locked my legs into position. Fighting. Battling. Winning.
Then I took another step.
My handler bared his teeth, eyes livid. “One more fucking move and I’ll let the bears have you.”
Only a foot between us. Our heights were even, our body size mirror images of each other. However, unlike the past, I was no longer his slave.
He was mine.
I struck.
Grabbing his neck, I squeezed with everything left inside me. “You no longer have the right to tell me what to do. You never had the right. You’re the fucking devil for making me destroy my family, and it’s time you returned to hell.”
With cold eyes, he lashed out and a hot laceration erupted down my side. “It’s not me who will die tonight.”