Static nods once, decision made. "Then let's go to war."
Outside, clouds gather on the horizon, dark and ominous. A storm is coming. And so am I.
Twenty-Nine
Blood.
Bones.
And dust.
I stand in the fiery ruins of El Centinela. Or Devil's Gulch. It don't matter what you call it. It's gone. All of it. The smell of burning flesh and sulfur fills the air. Aside from the crackles and burn and roar of the fires around me, there is no sound.
Everyone is dead.
I let those who ran escape.
But those who remained to fight died by my hand.
I'm head to toe in black tactical gear.
But blood streaks my face like war paint.
Some of it is mine. Most of it is not.
This is what I was made for. This is what I am.
My boots crunch over broken glass and pulverized concrete as I walk through what was once the main street. I torched the trucks. I razed the buildings. All of the tunnels beneath collapsed, severing the poisonous arteries.
The air shimmers with heat, distorting the landscape into something unreal.
It looks and feels like hell.
It's where I belong. Not with her in my arms by the sea. She is a heavenly creature. Something pure. Something good. Every kill made me feel further from her. But it didn't matter. Because I don't matter. Every kill brings her closer to freedom. To safety.
Static's voice crackles in my earpiece. "Satellite shows no survivors in your sector."
He makes it sound clinical. So do I when I respond. “Copy.”
I barely gave myself time to heal before the operation. The modified CRISPR sequences in my DNA have kept me going long past a normal man's limits. Bullets grazed me, knives sliced my skin, but I kept moving, kept killing. The monster they made me, now unleashed in its full, terrible glory.
Flames lick up toward the night sky, casting wild, dancing shadows across the desert. The fires will burn for hours yet, visible for miles—a beacon, a warning, a message to Isla Graves and everyone like her. It burns like the entrance to damnation.
And I am the demon who stalks its gates.
I pull the phone out Static gave me and dial. Static said it was untraceable. But it doesn't matter. They can trace it all they like. I want them to know exactly where I am.
"Graves,” she answers.
"You know who I am." It's not a question. I'm sure she does.
There's a pause on the other end. "I do," she replies simply.
"You're having trouble reaching your team." Also, not a question. And I let it hang. She doesn't know how to respond to that.
"It's because I killed them. All of them. El Centinela is gone. I razed it to the ground."
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension. I canalmost see her face. I'm sure she’s recalibrating now. The board hasn’t just changed but has been upended.
