Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
Sucking in a deep breath, I deliberately pushed Clara from my thoughts.
I stood on the perimeter of the establishment, hidden by thick trees. Thunder rumbled above, chasing jagged lightning, illuminating the compound in flashes of white.
My skin crawled beneath my black attire. Home. Hell. My place of birth from child to killer.
Snow flurried like icy tears—glistening in the dead of night, raining over the landscape and hiding a multitude of sins. Russia was just like I remembered—frigid, ruthless, uninhabitable.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
Australia, Hazel, Clara,—all of it seemed like a dream. I felt as if I’d never left this terrible wasteland and everything in me said to run.
Beneath the pulsating conditioning all I wanted to do was run far, far away and never look back. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be f**king free from all of this.
My muscles tensed. You will be free. Kill them all. Make them give you freedom by taking their f**king lives.
Straightening my back, ignoring the howling wind and jagged teeth of frost, I prepared for battle. I would win tonight. I would take back what was mine.
“You always were a weakling, Fox. Got to beat that compassion out of you.”
The flashback came from nowhere as I stared at the gargoyle embellished facility—so similar to the building I’d erected at home.
“You’re no one to anyone anymore. You’re an orphan, a drifter, an unknown. We are now your family, your shelter, your owners. Never forget that.”
Rows upon rows of windows, containing cell upon cell of new recruits and old, glowed dimly in the night. My heart thundered to think how many more they’d ruined while I’d been gone.
“Time to work, Fox.”
I rolled over, clenching my teeth against the broken radius in my left arm. I couldn’t remember a thing.
My handler laughed. “Trying to recall what some dickshit paid you to do last night? You won’t, Operative Fox. We programed you to forget. You’re brainwashed to suffer short-term amnesia whenever you complete a mission. That way you cannot compromise yourself or us if you’re ever caught. You cannot lie if you don’t remember.”
I wrapped my hands around my head, trying to squeeze the flashbacks from my thoughts. I couldn’t go to war compromised. I had to stay clearheaded and be the ultimate Ghost.
A sudden image of Clara consumed me, almost bringing me to my knees. Her innocent smile, her intelligent eyes—all gone.
“Roan, don’t fight with my mummy. She needs you.”
My stomach snarled, tangling with my heart. I was a f**king bastard for leaving her. Abandoning her and Zel when she needed me most.
I couldn’t breathe at the thought of never seeing Clara again. I’d never fight the horrible urge to kill such innocence again all while falling madly f**king in love with her.
Hazel replaced her daughter, taking me hostage. Her tears, her grief gripped my heart while the haunting sound of her wails danced on the wind. I hated that I wasn’t there for her. I hated I wasn’t man enough, strong enough.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
Blinking, I forced them both from my thoughts. They had no place here. Nothing else existed but the machine I was and the bloodbath I was about to indulge in.
Balling my hands, I took a step out of the tree line. Exposed in the cleared snowy moat of land around the house, I shed everything but my mission. I ceased to be Roan. I ceased to be heartbroken by a little girl’s death. I ceased to hate myself for not being there for the mother.
For this mission, I was nameless.
I was Karma. I was Fate.
I ran.
The backdoor, fortified with iron that I helped maintain, and a lock I helped design, barred my entry. Scraps littered the snow from dinner and trails of blood drifted off into the distance where local wolves took recruits that hadn’t made the cut.
I might have turned blind from a psychological issue to avoid more horror, but others—they just shut down. Nothing reached them. Not even the threat of death.
Picking up a rock resting by the door, I smashed the hinges with all my strength. I’d never be able to crack the lock, but the hinges—they were old and weather-worn. Wood splintered and groaned mixing with the howling wind.
By the time the door creaked open, my hands were bloody and I shook uncontrollably from ice.
I weaved through shadows, breaking into the one place I’d always tried to break out of. It was dark and late and no one was around. Dancing around tripwires and avoiding alarms, I moved deeper into Hell.
I infiltrated an operation so cocky and arrogant, they never thought to fear one of their own coming back to end them. They were so self-assured, believing their human weapons were subservient and loyal to the end.
They had it wrong.
No one wanted to be there.
No one wanted to serve in purgatory.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
My first stop was the armoury. A range of knives, blades, and other equipment lay as I remembered from two years ago. The anvil was the same. The stench of sweat and metal the same. But there were new items, too. The finesse not as refined, the lines not as straight. The smithy had been the only place where I’d found a smidgen of peace.
“I want you, Fox. I want to touch you.” Hazel’s voice rang in my ears, buckling my heart. I wanted so f**king much for her to touch me, to not have to deal with the shit inside my head.
The f**king bastards had to die. It was my only chance at freeing myself forever. My last hope for a cure. My last chance at happiness with a woman I desperately wanted to hug and protect.
I stood over a pile of weapons, taming my rapid heartbeat. I wanted to inflict pain. After all, I was a f**king Ghost.
I collected crescent moon blades, a silenced pistol, and a hammer I used so often to beat metal into submission.
That was all I needed.
My breathing calmed, my muscles bunched in preparation, and I slunk like the demon I was down unforgotten corridors. No spike of emotion. No residual humanity. I embraced the ice.
Kill. Sever. Bleed. Devour.
The witching hour was mine and I snuck into the first unseen bedroom, morphing with the dark. I didn’t know who’d created the society of Ghosts, or who bought our services. Some missions had been politicians, other movie starlets. There was no rhyme to who we killed—if they had money, they could buy us. We were purely guns for hire and it was time to burn the f**king place to the ground.
The first man I stood over wasn’t significant. I wasn’t in his realm of minions. He was handsome, well-built, and fast asleep like a f**king angel. But he was a ruthless dictator just like the rest—profiting on others pain and misery.