Page 147 of Desecrated Saints
I have to give her that.
I’m the only one who can set her free.
The bullet travels faster than the speed of light. Death is such a quick act for a permanent end. My shot is imperfect from my shaking hand, but it catches her right in the forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid watching the result. Logan vanishes from sight the moment my mother dies by my hand.
He’s waiting somewhere, arms outstretched.
I hope she hugs him and never, ever lets go.
Ears still ringing, it takes a moment for Bancroft’s unhinged laughter to register. It’s a deep, maniacal cackle that mirrors the sheer insanity of his deceased son. I check the chamber of the gun and find it empty. The sick bastard only gave me a single execution shot. I’ll have to do it myself.
The whizz of another bullet cuts off his celebration, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The laughter grating against my skull ceases as the guard holding four lives in his hand is struck, wavering in the air before he plummets in a spray of blood.
Reality shatters and reforms in an instant. The doors to Oakridge slam open, releasing a spray of bullets. Two more guards are caught and fall. When Hunter and Enzo emerge with battle cries, closely followed by Theo, I feel a glimmer of hope. Seven isn’t far behind, dropping from a nearby oak tree.
Leaves and branches stir in the wind as it suddenly picks up. My senses are awash with the heavy beat of a helicopter, nearly blowing the marquees over. Bright letters spell out its designation—SCU. That’s when Bancroft realises he’s absolutely screwed.
Two hands latch around my neck, attempting to snap the bone. Sliding back into the welcoming arms of Patient Eight, I break free from Bancroft’s hold with practised ease. He stumbles, attempting to regain purchase, but I’ve already rounded on him. His time has run out.
Terrified eyes meet mine.
Augustus is looking at me through his gaze.
“The game is over,” I tell him.
My blow is sharp, brutal. Bancroft’s knees crash into the grass as he clutches his head, looking dazed. I could walk away right now. I could spare his life. It will do my future prospects a lot of good. But Augustus taught me a valuable lesson when he ordered the murder of Allison Brunel in the Z Wing.
Fuck the moral high ground.
Never leave a job unfinished.
I can hear Hunter’s deep boom over the helicopter as help arrives, but I’m not done. Ignoring them all, I sink my teeth deep into Bancroft’s exposed neck. He’s powerless to push me away. It takes a decade of hatred and rage to tear into his throat, my mouth filling with hot, coppery blood.
Patient Eight doesn’t flinch.
She works in calm, collected silence.
He crashes before me with a thud, jerking as arterial spray paints the grass, along with my entire body. I watch the show with warmth running down my chin. Lazlo, Augustus, Jefferson and Bancroft die together in one body. A monster with many faces bleeds to death in the presence of his crumbling empire.
Voices try to break the violent haze that’s descended over me. Enzo is staring down at Bancroft’s corpse with a look of triumph, while figures jump from the helicopter and swarm all over us. My brain recognises agents Barlow and Jonas back in their uniforms, where they belong.
I feel absolutely nothing. Not until a hand takes mine, regardless of the blood.
“Brooklyn?” Seven asks warily.
That name is like a hot poker in the chest. It tears a hole in my suffocating shields, letting love and light pour in; so much that my knees buckle and he has no choice but to catch me. I’m enveloped in his coffee scent.
“Brooklyn,” he repeats. “Come back, Brooke. The work is done. Patient Eight can rest now. She’s finished her last job.”
The world is filtering back in with loud noises and frantic shouts. Too many people to count are swarming like ants, including government agents with bright-yellow SCU letters printed across their backs.
They aren’t arresting us.
We’re not being sedated or trapped in cuffs.
Sponsors and investors are trying to run where they can, but they don’t get very far. Designer high heels are tossed aside, and perfect dresses yanked up. I spot a couple of the men from Augustus’s fundraiser being pinned to the ground. Our eyes collide briefly. Their fear makes my mouth water.
Guns are pulled and panicked phone calls made, but it does nothing to prevent the inevitable. Agent Barlow is the first one to slap cuffs on a man, yelling into the radio strapped to her chest. I recognise the white-haired dickhead she’s arresting. He was there that night at the table, when Augustus boasted about his newest acquisition.
