Page 97 of I Will Mend You
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for their actions.”
We sit in silence, and I sag under the weight of our unspoken words. Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Xero turns toward me, his eyes softening with compassion, but I shrink to the other side of the bench, creating some distance.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying not to sound so small and fragile. “Sometimes I can’t believe it’s really you.”
He nods, his shoulders sagging, making my heart squeeze with guilt at having caused him even more pain.
His phone buzzes, breaking the heavy silence. “Are you ready for a surprise?” he asks with a hint of a smile.
“What kind?”
“Myra just arrived at the gate.”
FIFTY-THREE
XERO
As Camila rounds the corner of the house with Myra Mancini, the air fills with the sound of feminine squeals. I rise off the bench and retreat into the kitchen, leaving the women to reconnect. Myra might be just what Amethyst needs to feel like she’s finally safe.
I walk past a wall of oak cabinets and enter a pantry filled with shelves of canned food. Stretching my hand up to the highest shelf, I pull the lever that releases the hidden door leading down to the basement. It springs open, revealing a darkened stairwell. As I descend, Myra’s voice grows faint, replaced by the gentle hum of our backup generators.
Fury powers my steps. Knowing that Amethyst is afraid of me is a dagger to the heart. I hate myself for making her suffer after I escaped prison. She should be recovering from her ordeal, not dreading my retribution.
Better still, she shouldn’t have ended up in Father’s clutches at all. I need to find that bastard. Kill him slowly for every torment he and his underlings inflicted on Amethyst. And for all the other women and children he corrupted and killed.
And for me.
I break into a jog, my footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. I don’t stop until I reach the passageway leading to the bunker where we’re holding our most promising of Father’s investors.
Its steel door grinds open under my fingertips, releasing damp air drenched with the mingled scents of blood and sweat. A fluorescent lightbulb swings from the ceiling, casting moving shadows across a dimly lit room equipped with chains hanging on the walls, and a metal table lined with tools.
Its single occupant slumps, blindfolded, bruised, and bound to a chair welded to the concrete floor with metal plates. Four IVs lead from his arms: sodium pentothal to lower his defenses, an amphetamine to keep him alert, scopolamine for compliance, and a saline solution to keep him alive long enough to talk.
He’s a middle-aged man who works out but still piles on the carbs, making him look more bulky than buff. His head is shaved in that defeated way of men losing to male pattern baldness, yet a thick ring of hair on his chin extends up his sideburns and around the back of his head. Nothing says ‘holding on to youth’ like a balding man clinging to his last scraps of dignity.
I press a button on the wall that sends a burst of electricity through the chair. He jerks awake with a scream, the restraints digging into his bloated flesh.
Inhaling a deep breath, I savor the scent of his fear.
“Good afternoon, Carl,” I say. “You and I are going to have a little chat.”
“Who’s there,” he slurs. “Do you know who I am?”
He’s a resistant fucker. Either he’s been trained to resist truth serums or he’s belligerent to the core. By now, the cocktail of drugs should have him broken and drooling. I cross the room and tear off his blindfold.
“Deputy Chief Carl Hunter,” I sneer. “Second-in-command to the Chief of Police of New Alderney.”
Hunter blinks over and over, his eyes adjusting to the sudden influx of light. He squints, closes his eyes then, forces them open. Recognition melts his battered face into a mask of shock. His pupils dilate, and his ruddy skin drains of all color.
“X-Xero? Xero Greaves?” he stammers. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
I flash my teeth at the memory of my piece-of-shit half-brother who I left to fry on the electric chair. “I’m not that easy to kill. Now, let’s talk about Delta.”
Hunter’s face tightens, the shock giving way to defeat, even dread. He swallows hard, his lips pressed into a grim line. No matter how much he tries to maintain his composure, his stoic mask is riddled with cracks.
“My colleagues will have launched a manhunt. They’re probably already on their way.”