"Love." She says the word like it's a foreign language. "The capacity to love persisted in you despite everything. It was a flaw in my design. A weakness I should have eliminated more aggressively."
"It's not a weakness." I grab her throat, feel her pulse hammering under my palm. "It's the only thing that makes us human. And it's why I'm going to win. Because I have people to fight for. Something beyond myself. You have nothing but data and dead children."
I start squeezing.
Her hands come up, the broken fingers useless, unable to pry at my grip. Her feet kick weakly against the floor. Her eyes bulge, capillaries bursting, red spreading through the whites like ink in water.
"You spent your life taking breath from children," I say. "Now I'm taking yours."
She convulses. Her mouth opens and closes, gasping for air that doesn't come. Her body fights for survival even as her brain begins to shut down.
I hold on.
I hold on until the light leaves her eyes.
I hold on until she goes limp.
I hold on until I'm absolutely certain that Helena Cross is dead.
Then I keep holding on, just to be sure.
When I finally let go, she slumps in her chair, head lolling, eyes open and empty. Blood and tears and snot dry on her ruined face. Her broken fingers rest in her lap like dead spiders.
It's over.
Thirty years of nightmares, thirty years of wondering if I'd ever escape what she made me, and it ends like this. Not with a bang. Not with catharsis. Just a body and the slow realization that killing her doesn't change anything.
I'm still broken. Still fucked up. Still carrying the scars of everything she did.
But she's dead, and the children are safe.
I look at my hands. They're shaking. Covered in her blood. The hands that killed F7 on Helena's orders. The hands that have killed so many people since.
The hands that Asher holds when I can't sleep.
I should feel something. Triumph, maybe. Or satisfaction. Or at least relief.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I wipe my hands on her suit, smearing blood across the expensive fabric. One final indignity. One final reminder that she was never as untouchable as she believed.
Then I walk out of the office without looking back.
The safe house is quiet when we return.
The children are gone, loaded onto the charter, flying toward Geneva and whatever passes for safety in this world. Jace went with them. Marlee too, despite her injuries—a gash on her forehead and a sprained wrist from the girl who attacked her. She refused to stay behind.
That leaves me and Asher, alone in a motel by the hour.
I'm sitting on the edge of a cot, still wearing clothes stiff with dried blood. Helena's blood. Some of it from her face. Some from her throat. All of it deserved.
I should feel something. Triumph, maybe. Or satisfaction. Or at least relief.
Instead, I feel hollow.
Asher comes in from the other room, two bottles of water in his hands. He looks as tired as I feel, dark circles under his eyes,beard shadowing his jaw. But his eyes are soft when he looks at me. Concerned.
"Hey." He sits beside me, hands me a bottle. "How are you holding up?"
