Page 86 of Carter
“Stay on me,” Carter murmured, his voice low but steady, like a lifeline threading through the chaos.
I nodded, though he didn’t see. My pulse thundered anyway, because the weight of this wasn’t just about survival—it was about finishing this nightmare. About tearing down the monster who had stolen so many lives, tried to break us, and nearly succeeded.
Gideon limped beside me, patched as best as I could manage earlier, stubborn as ever. His hand brushed myelbow briefly, a reminder we weren’t alone. We had each other. We had Carter. We had a team that bled and fought like family.
Somewhere in these walls, Redwood was waiting.
I tightened my grip on the rifle and drew in a steady breath.This ends tonight.
The signal came—a sharp hand motion from Carter—and the world snapped into movement.
Cyclone swung forward with the breaching charge, pressing it against the steel door that sealed off the main chamber. My heart pounded in my throat as we all ducked low, shoulders braced.
Boom.
The explosion shook the corridor, rattling the concrete under my boots. Smoke curled through the jagged frame, alarms blaring in the distance. Before the dust even settled, Carter surged forward, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“Go, go, go!”
I followed, lungs burning, vision sharp as the chamber erupted. Gunfire cracked like fireworks in the dark, muzzle flashes lighting faces twisted with rage and fear. Redwood’s men poured from cover, weapons up, shouting in languages that tangled together into pure violence.
I hit the ground near an overturned table, shoulder slamming into the concrete as I fired. The recoil rattled through me, steady, almost comforting. One man dropped, another staggered, but still they came.
“Left flank!” Gideon shouted, his voice hoarse, and Carter was already there, moving like the predator he was, precise and lethal. Every motion reminded me why he terrified his enemies—and why he was the only person I trusted to lead us through this hell.
I kept my aim tight, every bullet counting, but my mind burned with one thought:Where are you, Redwood?
Because I could feel him in the bones of this place. Watching. Waiting.
And I swore, when he stepped out of the shadows, I’d be ready.
The floor trembled in the wake of the blast, dust hanging in the air like a bad promise. I swallowed the grit and pushed forward, every muscle keyed to one instruction: move. Carter was a silhouette ahead of me, all compact lines and calm brutality, and I let him be the center of the hurricane. I tied myself to his rhythm.
Muzzle flashes painted the room in staccato light. Cyclone was a storm of motion on the right, clearing lanes and dragging cover as if the walls themselves were made of paper. Faron and River rolled through a cluster of crates, taking down a pair of men who’d thought they controlled the field. Gideon, still favoring the limp, worked the left flank like a man who had no intention of dying tonight.
“Harper!” Carter’s shout cut closer than another explosion. “Over by the console—secure that door!”
I shot to the console, sweeping as I moved. Dust-smeared monitors reflected a dozen faces, grainy and impassive. Somewhere behind those screens, his voice had been the puppeteer for a thousand little cruelties. My hands tightened on the edge of the desk until my knuckles whitened.
A man lunged from a shadow and I met him with a round that knocked him into the metal cabinet. The room smelled like cordite and old money, like a place that had been stripped of decency for profit. Over the crackle of gunfire I heard something else: a slow clap, crisp and dry, that crawled up my spine.
From the doorway he stepped in—no burst, no dramatic rise from the floor—just ease. He wore a suit that had never seen honest work, sleeves rolled up like an affectation. Hishair was slicked back. His smile was patient and small and poisonous.
“Ms. Harper,” he said, as if this were a party and I’d come late. “You are exactly as I imagined.”
Every rational part of my brain catalogued facts—location, backup, angles. A less rational part answered with a pulse in my throat that felt dangerously like recognition. He was smaller than I’d expected in person, and yet he filled the doorway the way a lie fills a room.
Was he Redwood?
My rifle found the center of his chest before my mind caught up. He didn’t flinch. He folded his hands behind his back with bored grace.
“You did this to so many,” I said, and my voice betrayed me—raw as a bell. “You made monsters out of men and girls out of ghosts. Why? What do you get from it?”
He inclined his head. “Power,” he said simply. “Fear. The predictable order of it. People do what’s necessary when you give them a reason.”
“Necessary,” I said. The word tasted like bile. “You destroyed lives. You trafficked kids. What do you think—what will you say to them?”
“Perhaps,” he mused, “I’ll tell them the truth. That I gave them meaning.” He spread his palms like an honest man offering a handshake. “Or perhaps I’ll tell them nothing at all. Perhaps I’ll remind them how fragile order is.”
