Page 128 of Shattered In Darkness

That means they won’t expect me to fight.

Snow makes the road a deathtrap. The van swerves, tires struggling for grip. Every time we turn, every rut or pothole, I memorize the pattern. The way the driver lets the speed drop, the twitch of the wheel, the curse under his breath.

I start working the blade at my wrist. I can’t see, but I feel the bite of the plastic strips at the skin with every sawing motion. Hurts like hell. I cut flesh before I cut the tie, but I keep going. The pain is fuel. Each slice is a piece of the future I want.

The van hits the worst stretch of road. Suddenly, the rear guard shifts, bracing a hand to the wall. His balance is off. The second the tie weakens, I snap my wrist free.

And lunge.

With the blade up, I slam it straight into the softness of his neck. Warm spray, all arterial, coats my knuckles. He tries to yell but only gurgles, blood pooling in his mouth. I slam his head back against the wall, twice, three times, until his skull cracks. He slumps.

The driver yells, fumbles for the gun. I seize the guard’s body, using it as a shield, and crash against the wire divider. The mesh buckles, metal biting into my shoulder, but I break through.

The driver's arm is shaking. He lifts the gun, but I’m faster. I grab his wrist, wrench it sideways. Bones crunch. He screams. I bite his ear, ripping a chunk out, and spitting it on the dash.

Blade to his throat, grinding against his jaw, I bark, “Where is Lola?”

He’s shuddering, fighting to breathe. Eyes roll whites-up. “She’s—fuck—office wing, back building, she’s still on the compound. They’re holding her there, I swear, please⁠—”

“Are you guarding her?”

“N-no. Just transport. Two men, sometimes three. The boss might be inside. That’s all I know, I s-swear⁠—”

“You tell anyone I got loose?”

He shakes, blood spattering the steering wheel. “No, I swear, not me—just moving you⁠—”

I don’t waste another word. Blade across the throat, hard and deep, air and blood hissing out at once. I hold him until the light dies from his eyes. No hesitation. I wipe the blade on his jacket, strip his coat and boots, and toss his body onto the snow, face down.

I check the van. Glove compartment, driver’s pockets—pistol, half-clip, another knife, van keys, radio set. I pocket everything. My hands are wet with blood. Every movement leaves a trail, which the snow covers in minutes.

The wind out here is brutal. It howls straight through the bones. I don’t stop. Even limping, bleeding, body shredded, nothing slows me down.

I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. My Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola.

The compound looms ahead. Lights distant, yellow slashes between the trees. I taste the promise of Lola—of her survival—like a fever in my mouth. Every drop of my blood on the snow, I promise I will paint these people’s walls with their own.

“I’m coming, Lola.”

Stay alive. For me.

The storm closes in. It fills my ears, stings my eyes, buries everything—van, corpses, the shape of me carving a path towards redemption.

Nothing can stop me now.

43

BRODY

The night breathes violence and hunger, swallowing every shape. The compound crouches like an old God, faceless and immense, exhaling cold that needles bone. Shadows pool and stretch, black, twitching with the pulse of unseen watchers. The air is soured by old blood and machinery grief.

Somewhere inside, violence coils and waits; the walls themselves seem to shudder with memory, and the promise of pain. Each footstep brings me closer to her.

Lola. It’s always her. Even now. Especially now. Every step I take is to get closer, every slide of my body along the fence, every stab of cold up my spine. She circles my mind.

Two guards power-walk the far perimeter, thick vests under navy jackets, boots caked in salt and slush. One swings a flashlight like he wants to hit someone with it. The other just stares at his phone, not even pretending to care. Idiots. They’re not watching the breach points. They’re not watching me. They’re not watching what’s coming for them.

I count their seconds. Seven between each pass, off by a beat here, a beat there. Cigarette pinched between trembling lips. Radio hissing on one hip, volume twisted too high. I could be standing in front of them and they wouldn’t know until I ripped their throats out.