Page 30 of Crossover
“Mom?” I looked at the staircase. “She’s here?”
16
GRAYSON
I stepped over another corpse—this one with a bullet hole to his forehead, his eyes and mouth gaping open—and squatted down. He was heavier to roll over than the last one, and frustratingly, like the last one, he was not carrying a wallet or any other identification.
I gritted my teeth and snapped a picture of his face with my cell phone. With any luck, I could identify them and uncover who had been collaborating with Daniel against Ivy.
Clenching my fists, I reminded myself to be thankful that the only casualties were those who had harmed Ivy; none of Hunter’s security team or my brothers had been injured.
Thank God.
But they almost had been, and it would be an Antarctic day in hell before I’d let that go. One of the reasons I’d ordered Hunter’s guards to man the doorsoutsidewas because I didn’t care to have a witness in here should I find someone alive.
Making my way down the hallway, I descended the stairs and entered the basement, where the last two bodies lay sprawled on the cement floor.
Only…the guy in the corner…
The surrounding blood was smeared, like something had moved. I stepped closer, squinting at his chest, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly.
He’s alive.
The realization sent a surge of exhilaration through my veins, igniting a burning desire for vengeance that consumed every fiber of my being. This piece of shit had not only participated in Ivy’s kidnapping, but had stood by as his accomplices hurt her. He had watched as her screams echoed through the chambers of hell they had created for her.
Anyone—anyone—who harmed a hair on her head would learn the true meaning of suffering. I would employ every skill, every technique, every ounce of knowledge I possessed to make them regret the day their path intercepted with hers.
The edge of my mouth curled up slightly.
Exacting revenge would serve another purpose too—to send a warning to others, a clear example of what I would do to anyone who dared to hurt Ivy.
First order of business was kicking his fallen pistol away from him, its metal scraping against the concrete until it came to rest on the far side of the room. Second order was slapping him across his rather ugly face, which was highlighted by a crooked nose.
“Wake up, asshole,” I snapped.
No movement.
Either he was unconscious or he was faking.
One way to find out.
I shoved my finger between his teeth and pried his jaw open, pushing the barrel of my pistol into his mouth.
His eyes flew open wide.
“Welcome to your nightmare, motherfucker,” I said.
When the smell of piss filled the air, I curled my lips in disgust, pulled the pistol out of his mouth, and pressed it to his forehead.
“Name.”
“I…”
I cocked the gun.
“Name.”
“Elliott! My name is Elliott Maddox.”