Page 132 of Merciless

~Cristian~

MADNESS.

I saw it coming.

It was years in the making.

Too many in which I couldn’t act, couldn’t get close enough. By the time the opportunity arose to do so, it was already too late.

Power truly can corrupt. It can twist a man until he becomes a version of himself that is unrecognizable, his principles and reason for being trampled beneath the addictive need to rise above everyone else, no matter the price. There is no loyalty. No honor. No sense of brotherhood.

Such a man is beyond redemption.

He’s also incredibly difficult to predict.

Even an accomplished strategist like me, one with a wealth of field experience under his belt, couldn’t have seen this coming.

This weapons storage warehouse is of paramount importance to Priest’s plans. Setting off two explosions and actively compromising that made no logical sense, so I didn’t even consider it when I devised the strategy for this mission. It was an impulsive action borne from fear, desperation, and no small amount of rage at the insult of actually being attacked on his own turf.

And now, here we are.

Here I am.

While I managed to leap from the heart of the explosion, there wasn’t enough time afforded me to evade it in its entirety. I fared better than most of my men who were pouring in through the north access point at the time.

But it still isn’t ideal.

Grunting as I lay sprawled out amongst the debris on the concrete of the main floor over at the north west of the warehouse, I grimace at the sound of gunfire in the distance, shouts from Charlotte and our allies. They’re under heavy attack. They need my help and they need it now.

I reach down and yank out a large shard of glass buried in my right thigh.

“Cazzo,” I mutter under my breath as I toss it aside.

Against my battered and bloodied body’s protests, I force myself to my knees.

Grasping one of the shelves, I use it to leverage myself to my feet. The wound in my right thigh has my leg buckling and I crash into the shelves, digging my gloved fingers into the metal to keep myself upright. Judging by the burning pain through several areas of my body, my thigh is just one of many injuries that need tending to.

There isn’t time. And there won’t be time at all unless I push through and end this. End him.

Blood seeps into my eye.

I wipe it away roughly, beyond agitated. The sudden movement has me stumbling, my head swimming and worsening the pounding pain in my head that has plagued me ever since I came to a few moments ago.

Lovely, a head injury.

The crunch of footsteps has me instinctively reaching for my secondary handgun in my left hip holster. My hand shakes as I pull it free, hindering my draw time, and before I can even flip the safety off, a blow to my hand knocks it from my grip, sending it careening into a pallet rack several feet from my current position.

The culprit comes into view.

That dirty-blonde hair, the awful man-bun and that overconfident, unearned swagger.

The madman himself.

He smirks, enjoying my less-than-stellar state. “What’s the matter, Cristian? Things not going to plan for once?”

“It’s impossible to predict the actions of a madman.”

He sneers and takes a step closer and I’m very aware of the blade he’s clutching with no small amount of menace in his right hand. “I am what I need to be. You taught me that.”

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