Page 279 of Psycho Pack
I take one last look at the Council chamber, at the bodies of the men who thought they could control our world through fear and manipulation. Their blood seeps into the cracks between the marble tiles, staining the pristine white stone forever.
It feels like an ending.
And a beginning.
Chapter
Forty-Six
THANE
Iwalk at my brother's side through the hail of bullets with deadly purpose. Hot lead whizzes past my head, but I barely register it anymore.
We've cut through so many soldiers tonight—men I helped train, even faces I recognize behind their tactical masks—that the violence has become almost meditative.
The weight of it settles in my chest, but it's not quite guilt. Not exactly. I would gladly paint my hands red with the blood of every soldier in Reinmich if it meant keeping Ivy safe.
If it meant giving her the future she deserves.
Wraith's massive frame moves beside me with fluid grace as we advance. A soldier pops up from behind a barricade and my brother's massive hand shoots out, catching him by the throat. There's a sickening crack as Wraith snaps his neck with casual efficiency.
It doesn't affect him anymore, either.
At least, I don't think it does.
I put two rounds through another soldier trying to flank us. The body drops with a wet thud, adding to the growing pile of corpses we've left in our wake.
We've checked every other location our father might have retreated to.
The military command center.
The underground bunker.
The Council's safe houses.
But deep down, I knew we'd end up here.
The Hargrove estate looms ahead, its imposing architecture a stark reminder of everything we left behind. Nikolai's forces have already surrounded the grounds, their weapons trained on every exit. They part like water as we approach, giving us a wide berth. Even these hardened mercenaries seem to sense the gravity of what's about to happen.
"He's in there," remarks a surly alpha. With her leather trenchcoat and riot gear, she looks more like she'd be at home in an underground fight club than in a warzone. The fact that her coat is more red than black now with the blood dripping off it is proof enough it hasn't hindered her performance. The once brown-and-black fur of the lanky shepherd mix at her side is nearly as painted, its keen brown eyes tracking us warily as we approach.
"Thanks," I mutter, nodding to her as her men pull open the iron gates to let us through.
She takes a drag off her cigarette and then crushes the rest beneath her steel-toed boot. Her lips curl into a smirk that's slightly lopsided by the jagged scars running from the corners of her mouth to her ears. She's Nikolai's right-hand man—woman—so I guess that checks out.
"Careful in there, boys," she drawls in a raspy voice, leaning down to pat the side of the dog standing faithfully at her feet. "Ol' Bess here lit up like a Christmas tree when we scanned the perimeter, and she's got a taste for gunpowder, if you know what I mean."
I look up at the mansion with a curt nod. Of course our father wouldn't go down without making his last stand.
And it's sure to be a grand one.
We pass through the gate and stop for a moment at the base of the marble steps, staring up at the house where Wraith and I spent our childhood. If you could call it that. The place where our father's coldness shaped us into the weapons he wanted us to be.
The memories hit me all at once.
Endless training sessions.
Brutal punishments.