Relentless (36 page)

Morgan’s mind raced, sifting through the trillions of pieces of information she could call up at will, trying to think of something, anything she could do to stall. Thomas’ ability—a highly advanced aptitude for physics—would be of no use in this situation.

‘‘I’m guessing,’’ Drexel continued, ‘‘that seeing your precious followers lined up and killed, one by one, would be the strongest possible motivator for you. So we’ll start with this one.’’ He looked down at Thomas, whom he had in a powerful vice around the neck. The boy began turning red.

‘‘You wouldn’t know how to read it,’’ Morgan said quietly. ‘‘You couldn’t possibly have any idea—’’

‘‘
Don’t
try distracting me with that all that extra gray matter of yours,’’ Drexel interjected. ‘‘This really couldn’t be simpler. Give me what I want, or this one gets a bullet in the head. Three seconds.’’

Morgan stood from the couch and took a step closer to him. She looked at Thomas struggling to breathe under Drexel’s powerful arm. He wouldn’t last.

She looked Drexel in the eye. He was awaiting her response.

‘‘Time’s up,’’ he said, smiling again. He cocked the safety back and pressed the pistol so hard into Thomas’ temple she thought he might break the boy’s skin.

So young . . . Thomas had barely begun living.

He had so much yet to experience . . .

Morgan glanced at Thomas and then looked back up at Drexel.

‘‘Shoot him,’’ she said.

Infuriated, Drexel backhanded her across the face with the pistol, and she fell to the floor. But she turned over quickly, resting on her elbows, ignoring the blood oozing from her forehead, and looked at him again.

‘‘I will never help you,’’ Morgan said with icy steel. ‘‘You can kill every last one of us—my people know what’s at stake. But you will
never
get the tablet!’’

A roar of rage escaped Drexel’s lips and he threw Thomas to the ground next to her. He leveled the gun on Morgan and pulled the trigger.

Working his horn as heavily as his gas pedal, Grant sped up as he exited the highway and turned onto the surface road where Morgan’s facility was located, a few miles outside of just about everything. Neither he nor Julie bothered to speak; their mutual sweat and heart rates were enough to indicate that they were both thinking the exact same thing.

Grant’s eyes shifted to the rearview mirror just in time to see something impossible.

The black motorcycle was right behind them again, but the rider wasn’t sitting on the seat. He was
standing
on it.

And just as Grant looked up, the man leaped from the seat and flew forward in the air toward them.

There was no time. No time to react, no time to shout a warning, to swerve or duck . . .

The Corvette’s fabric top was shredded as the sword slashed vertically down through it.

The sword kept going until it met Grant’s right shoulder and pierced his flesh down to the bone.

Grant screamed.

Julie screamed.

He slammed on the brakes, but this time the attacker was ready, bracing himself on his perch atop the car.

Julie wasn’t so lucky, her body slamming hard into her seatbelt.

The impact and the sudden appearance of the sword were too much of a shock, and she passed out.

Clutching his shoulder, Grant opened the door and let himself spill out onto the empty road. He backed away on his hands and knees.

The attacker jumped from the roof of the car and landed before him on the ground, perfectly balanced. Grant stopped as the sword was pointed at him again. His shoulder ached agonizingly, but he tried to ignore it.

The masked man walked forward until the sword was inches from Grant’s face.

‘‘Good chase,’’ he said. ‘‘Not good enough.’’

Grant’s hand came up lightning fast and clutched the end of the blade. He focused all his thoughts on the sword. In that split second, the weapon jumped out of the Thresher’s hand high into the air and stuck itself in the grassy soil at the edge of the road.

And for that one, brief, glorious second, Grant saw the other man’s eyes go wide. Grant didn’t know if it was wonder or fear that he saw, and he didn’t care. Even if it was only momentary, he’d scored a point.

He didn’t waste it. In that same moment, Grant wrapped his legs around the Thresher’s, and then straightened them, scissoring the man violently to the ground.

He lunged onto the Thresher, delivering a powerful blow to the head, but his attacker recovered fast and in less than an instant, everything was reversed, and
he
was on top of Grant. It had happened so fast that Grant couldn’t stop it.

Punches fell upon Grant’s head and stomach, each one coming faster and faster than the one before. Too fast to block. His head turned to the side and he caught sight of a loosely hanging tree limb, on one of the many trees surrounding them aside the lonely road.

As the Thresher continued to strike at him, he focused with all his might on that limb. It broke free and speared through the air, impaling his attacker’s arm.

Grant brought both feet up and kicked hard against the man, sending him flying backward.

But he hadn’t realized what direction he was facing when he kicked, and he sent the other man sailing toward his sword, still stuck into the ground on the side of the road.

Both men got to their feet at the same time, but the Thresher had his hand around the hilt of his sword before Grant could reach him. By the time Grant was fully standing, he felt a stinging sensation in his stomach and looked down to see a long, straight line of blood stretching across his gut. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it stung, and he’d never even seen the swing of the blade.

In the next moment, he was on the ground, his head aching from a strong blow to his jaw.

As the world came into focus around him, he was barely aware of the blade that was once again resting against his throat. Only this time, his attacker stood over him, triumphant.

‘‘I was almost impressed.’’

He lifted the sword.

‘‘Almost.’’

44

Gunfire.

Someone was shooting.

Grant’s attacker heard it as well, pausing his final strike.

And then, to Grant’s great astonishment, the Thresher pulled away, mounted his bike, and roared away. Grant could only lay there in shock, wondering why this man would simply
leave
on the cusp of victory. He was obviously no coward.

‘‘
Collin
!’’ Julie screamed, exiting the car at last. She bolted to his side and helped him to his feet. Every part of his body ached, his mind bordering on delusion. It was the most brutal attack he’d ever suffered, which, given his history, was saying a lot. The fact that he’d made it out in one piece was as surprising as it was confusing.

Julie practically had to drag him as she gently placed him in the passenger’s side of the car. When she was safely in the driver’s seat, Grant mumbled through split, bleeding lips, his eyes only half open.

‘‘Where’d he go?’’

Julie followed the Thresher’s line of exit and it finally hit her. ‘‘Wait, isn’t the asylum that way?’’

Grant would have thought he was out of adrenaline, but somehow it spiked once more.

‘‘GOOO!’’ he bellowed.

Drexel’s bullet only grazed Morgan, though his aim had been true. Something threw him off balance, slamming into him from the side.

On the floor now, Drexel turned to see that Alex was on top of him, kicking and tearing with everything she had. It was a feeble effort; she was unable to cause the big man any pain. He plucked her off of him with one arm and flung her across the room to join Morgan and the boy on the ground.

Morgan was unconscious, bleeding from the graze just above her left ear.

The gun had fallen out of Drexel’s hand when Alex pushed him, so he freed the baton that was dangling from the other side of his belt.

‘‘
Big
mistake, girly-girl,’’ he growled, returning to his feet, spinning the stick threateningly in his hands. He advanced on them.

‘‘Not as big as yours,’’ said a quiet, gravelly voice from behind.

Drexel spun but was too late.

The Thresher was on him in a burst of furious motion, the stick flying free of Drexel’s hand along with the belt it had been attached to.

The gun was nowhere in sight as the Thresher stood atop him, eyes flaring.

‘‘Do you know what your mistake was?’’ the Thresher said calmly. ‘‘It was getting in my way.’’

‘‘
You
,’’ Drexel breathed, recognizing the other man. Then he laughed. ‘‘This is a pretty bold move, don’t you think? Crashing a party where you’re severely outnumbered?’’

‘‘The only person outnumbered here,’’ said Grant’s weary voice from the front door, ‘‘is
you
, Detective. Your keystone cops ran when they saw
him
coming,’’ Grant nodded toward the Thresher. ‘‘I’m getting the feeling that you two have already met.’’

Drexel threw the Thresher off of him, toward the hallway, and surprised everyone with the fluidity of his massive frame lumbering in the Thresher’s direction. The other man was already on his feet, but Drexel crashed into him like a linebacker, plowing him through the double doors.

The Thresher didn’t stop to think. He gave in to instinct, springing straight up and driving his fist into the air. It collided with Drexel’s chin and knocked him backward onto his rear end.

Drexel had barely hit the ground when he swung his meaty arm into the Thresher’s head. Drexel was on top of the other man now, but the Thresher kicked him backward over his head—an astonishing feat for his lithe frame. Drexel swept the Thresher’s feet out from under him and the bald man landed with a heavy thud. Drexel jumped to his feet and ran for the front door.

Grant stepped aside, out of his path, but the double doors sprung to life, crashing together in Drexel’s face as he reached them. Then he was flying through the air, and landed roughly on the cracked cement at the bottom of the front steps.

Drexel regrouped fast and threw himself onto Grant, pinning him to the ground. He pressed both hands against Grant’s larynx, and Grant fought the sudden weariness rising within him.

Sleep was a tangible thing that he could reach out and touch . . . and he
wanted
it . . .

Instead he turned his head to the side and focused on the Thresher, who was approaching.

But he couldn’t focus. The world was too dark.

Drexel spoke.

‘‘You probably think I’m just a dirty cop who dabbles in profiteering, making shady choices to get ahead. You may even think I’m redeemable. But I want you to know the
truth
about the man who defeated you, Grant:
I crave the shadow
. The thought of breaking all two hundred and six bones in your body, one by one,
slowly
. . . before I let you die . . . It gives me cold chills.’’

Grant could barely keep his eyes open as the darkness took hold of him.

But instead of passing out, the pressure on his throat eased up and he could see again.

Alex stood above the both of them, holding Drexel’s gun in both hands. But she held it steady, unwaveringly trained on him.

The detective twisted to look up. ‘‘You wouldn’t . . .’’ he said.

The Thresher appeared over Alex’s shoulder and inspected the situation, the fury evident in Alex’s eyes. ‘‘I rather think she would,’’ he said simply.

But before Alex got the chance, the Thresher’s sword was out again and Drexel’s weight atop Grant was gone. He sat up gingerly and saw the Thresher holding Drexel at knifepoint. Drexel was seated on the ground, back up against the driver’s side of Grant’s car.

Grant gasped angrily for air. Not knowing where the strength within him came from, he stood and wrenched the gun from Alex’s hands, joining the Thresher to look down at Drexel in victory. He leveled the gun on Drexel’s head.

‘‘Shall I finish it,’’ the Thresher whispered, ‘‘or will you?’’

The pain and the rage were fueling his movements now, yet Grant’s finger hesitated on the trigger. It would be so quick, so easy, to pull that trigger. He didn’t even need the gun in his hand. He could just
think
it, and Drexel’s head would pop like a grape.

‘‘No, Grant! You
can’t
!’’ Julie shouted, emerging from the other side of the car. ‘‘Never give in, never surrender! Remember?’’

She rounded the car slowly, watching the fire in Grant’s eyes blaze.

Her hand grasped the top of his right wrist, and held to the bracelet there. ‘‘Don’t forget who you really are,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Don’t throw away the goodness inside of you—not for
him
.’’

Grant watched Drexel, saw the fear in his eyes. And suddenly, he stepped back, breathing slower. He turned to Julie with tears in his eyes and embraced her.

‘‘You called me Grant,’’ he whispered in her ear.

She pulled away and smiled.

The Thresher watched all of this dispassionately. ‘‘If that’s your decision . . .’’ He brought the sword up and was about to strike . . .

‘‘Payton?’’ asked a voice from the asylum doorway. A disbelieving voice.

Grant knew that voice.

In the reflection of the blade, he saw her approaching. White hair . . . Middle aged . . .

It was Morgan.

But no, it couldn’t be Morgan.

Morgan never goes outside the asylum.

Not for anything
.

But there she was, standing on the front steps. She moved slowly forward, daringly stepping within striking distance of the Thresher, but she wasn’t looking at his sword.

She was looking into his eyes.

The sword came away from Drexel’s neck, and everyone there watched in stunned silence as the blade fell to the ground.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

The Thresher had
thrown
it down.

Morgan stared at the man before her, dumbfounded.

‘‘
Payton?
’’ she cried. ‘‘Is it really you?’’

‘‘No, love,’’ his soft British accent intoned. ‘‘Payton is
dead
.’’

The blood drained from Morgan’s face.

‘‘You left him to die,’’ Payton said. ‘‘Remember?’’

45