Page 92 of The Sentinel

Atlas danced through them, precise, lethal—a headshot here, a knife to the spine there, bodies piling up like cordwood. Nine down. One left. He bolted for the warehouse door, panic in his steps. I caught him, tackled him into the gravel, my knee pinning his chest. He clawed at me, desperate, so I drove my knife through his eye, deep, twisting until he went still. Blood ran thick, soaking my sleeve.

Ten dead. Ten fucking corpses littering the ground, and I didn’t feel a damn thing but the need to get inside. Ryker wiped his blade on a body’s jacket, calm as ever. Atlas checked his pistol, breathing steady. “Clear,” he said.

I didn’t answer. Just kicked the warehouse door in, wood splintering, and stormed inside. The air hit me—damp, sour with mildew and oil, the river’s rot seeping through the walls. Dim fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows. And then I heard it—a scream, raw, hers, cutting through the dark like a blade to my gut.

My voice almost tore out. I ran, pistol up, Ryker andAtlas on my heels. The sound came again—weaker, pained, but alive. I rounded a stack of crates, and there she was.

Tied to a chair, zip ties cutting into her wrists and ankles, blood streaking her swollen face. Her blonde hair was matted with it, her ribs heaving under a torn shirt—probably broken, I could tell by the way she hunched, gasping. The mercenary loomed over her, fist raised, grinning like a sick fuck enjoying his work. Hart stood behind him, pristine in her gray coat, watching like it was a goddamn show.

I didn’t think. Just fired. The shot took the bastard in the shoulder, spinning him, blood spraying. He snarled, reaching for his gun, but I was on him—pistol-whipped his face, teeth flying, then drove my knee into his gut. He doubled over, and I grabbed his head, slamming it into the concrete floor—once, twice, three times—until his skull cracked open, brains oozing out like spilled jelly.

Hart shrieked, bolting for a side door, but Atlas was faster—cut her off, gun to her temple, forcing her to her knees. Ryker secured the room, checking corners, but I didn’t care. I dropped to Claire, knife out, cutting her ties. Her wrists were raw, bloody, her hands trembling as the zip ties fell away. She slumped forward, and I caught her, her blood smearing my shirt, my hands, my fucking soul.

“Claire,” I rasped, voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”

Her face was a mess—swollen, bruised, one eye half-shut—but those gray eyes locked onto mine, fierce, unbroken. She coughed, wincing, a hand clutching her ribs, and I knew they were shattered. I’d kill them all again for that, slower, make them feel every second.

Then she moved. Slow, shaky, she reached for a pistol on the floor—one of the mercenary’s, dropped in thecarnage. Her fingers closed around it, and she pushed herself up, stumbling toward Hart.

“Stay back,” she croaked, waving me off, Ryker, too. Her grip was unsteady, but her intent was steel. She’d kill. I had no doubt.

Hart knelt there, Atlas’s gun still on her, but her eyes were on Claire—wide, panicked, the mask gone. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, voice trembling. “We can talk?—”

“Shut up,” Claire spat, blood on her lips, the gun shaking but aimed true. “You took Diego. You took everything.”

Hart’s mouth opened, a plea forming, but Claire cut her off. “You thought you could break me? You thought I’d just roll over?” Her voice cracked, raw with pain, rage. “I exposed you. I ruined you. And now you’re nothing.”

The air thickened, time slowing. Claire’s finger tightened on the trigger, her swollen face a mask of fury. I watched, heart pounding, torn. Should I stop her? Pull her back from the edge, keep her hands clean? She’d live with it—killing Hart—and I’d carry that weight for her if I could. But this was her fight, her justice, and I’d be damned if I took it away.

Then she stopped. Cocked her head, a dark glint in her eye. “You know what?” she asked, her voice low and lethal. “I’d rather see what my boyfriend’s gonna do with you.”

She lowered the gun, swaying, and I caught her as her legs buckled, pulling her against me. Her breath hitched, a sob breaking through, but she held on, fierce even now. I looked at Hart, kneeling there, pale and trembling, and felt nothing but cold, endless hate.

“Get her up,” I told Atlas, voice ice. He hauled Hartto her feet, zip-tying her wrists, her coat smudged with warehouse grime. She’d live—for now. Long enough to spill everything about Department 77, about Dad, about this war she’d started. I’d make her beg for death before I gave it.

Ryker stepped closer, eyeing Claire. “We need to move. Drones picked up chatter—more coming.”

I nodded, lifting Claire gently, her weight light but solid in my arms. She winced, clutching her ribs, but her hand gripped my shirt, anchoring herself. “Marcus,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “I?—”

“Later,” I said, soft but firm. “You’re safe. That’s all.”

But her eyes held mine, and I heard it anyway—the “I love you” she didn’t say. It hit me harder than any bullet, a truth I’d known since the pier, since she’d dared me to stop her. I’d burn the world for her, and she knew it.

A radio crackled on the mercenary’s corpse, cutting through: “Status requested.”

Ryker’s jaw tightened. Atlas cursed low. Department 77 wasn’t done—Hart was just the start.

I picked up the radio, keyed the mic and said, “Game over, motherfuckers.” And then I dropped it to the ground and stomped it to pieces.

I held Claire closer, her blood on my hands, and met my brothers’ gazes. “They want war,” I said, voice a promise. “We’ll give it to them.”

The warehouse swallowed our steps as we moved out, Claire in my arms, Hart bound and dragged behind. The world was alive with threat, but I’d bury it all—every last one of them—before I let her go again.

35

CLAIRE

The world had narrowed to two things: pain and Marcus.

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