Relentless (8 page)

Daniel focused on the monitor, brow tightened. He glanced at her and then back at the screen.

‘‘What am I looking at?’’

‘‘The knife,’’ she replied matter-of-factly.

He frowned, silent. Then he shook his head.

‘‘I expected matter readings,’’ he said with the air of a college professor, ‘‘which look nothing like this. This seems more like—’’

‘‘Waves of energy,’’ she finished. ‘‘Yeah.’’ She merely stared at him, unflinching.

He was silent a moment.

‘‘You’re telling me the knife is
radiating
energy?’’

‘‘Not quite. Whether it still is or simply was last night when you took the readings, I couldn’t say,’’ she replied, followed by a deep breath. ‘‘But these readings were not emanating
from
the knife. They
are
the knife.’’

He stared at her. ‘‘That can’t be right.’’

She nodded slowly, smiling again, eyebrows raised. ‘‘I know.’’

Grant waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they never did. There was nothing to adjust
to
. Everywhere he looked was black.

The loud pounding against the door continued in the distance, but then suddenly stopped with a crash.

He’s in
.

Grant listened carefully for the sound of footsteps, for any sound at all. But there was nothing. The stench of smoke filled his nose, and he fought the urge to cough.

He craned his head closer to the door, listening carefully, so carefully. He held his breath so he could hear.

The floor creaked nearby. His muscles stiffened.

But then there was nothing except the soft, distant sounds of flames. He relaxed and took a thick, smoke-filled breath.

The door to the tiny broom closet burst open, and Konrad stood on the other side. His gun was inches from Grant’s chest.

Konrad’s forefinger wrapped around the trigger and tensed. ‘‘It’s time I got paid,’’ he said, smirking.

A loud gurgling sound came from around the corner, in the kitchen. Konrad turned, startled for a fraction of a second by the bubbling coffee pot. Which was exactly what Grant was waiting for.

He flung his hand straight into Konrad’s face, splashing what remained of the peroxide from the drugstore into the mercenary’s eyes. Konrad screamed in pain, both hands covering his eyes, and Grant slugged him as hard as he could in the stomach with his other fist. The short man doubled over, down on his knees, roaring in agony and clawing at his face.

Grant dropped the small brown bottle from his hand and kicked Konrad once more in the gut for good measure. Then he ran.

But he only took a step or two before Konrad’s powerful hand wrapped around his ankle—the ankle attached to his wounded leg. Grant yelped in pain and went down face-first onto the floor.

He recovered quickly, kicking backward at the other man with his free leg. But Konrad was crazed, unflinching. His eyes were a mess, and he was bearing down, transferring all of his pain to the powerful grip he had on Grant’s leg.

Grant wiggled and kicked with his whole body, but it was like being held in stone. Grant twisted and looked in front of him on the floor. The carpet was in flames, a bonfire only inches from his face.

There was nowhere to go.

Grant looked back at the fire on the floor in front of him again.

Konrad’s grip tightened further.

A scream escaped his lips, as if it would help. The apartment door to his left flew open with a wooden
crack
, seemingly of its own accord. How Grant longed to run through it, he was only a few feet away . . .

But it was no good. The liquid fueling the flames rolled closer and the fire came with it, close enough for the heat to burn Grant’s face and hair.

The liquid!

Grant snapped his head to the right and saw an unbroken bottle that Konrad had flung through the windows.

Intense heat burning his skin was all he could feel as he strained hard to wrap his fingers around the bottle’s neck.

And then he had it. He twisted around sharp and fast, and with all of his remaining strength, he brought the bottle down from over his head to crash against Konrad’s skull. Blood and liquid fire snaked down through the unconscious man’s dark hair and across his face.

The last thing Grant saw of him was Konrad’s blistered, broken scalp in flames. Forcing himself to his feet, he coughed through the smoke as he surveyed the place. There was nothing more to be done here. The flames had spread everywhere. Out in the hall, into the other apartments. Everything that he had ever owned was going up in flames.

He couldn’t seem to care.

In the distance, he heard sirens, bringing questions that he had no answers for.

He made his way out of the apartment, delirious and unsteady on his feet, but still careful to avoid the flames. They spread faster now, out into the hall, and then out the building’s front door and into the night. Julie brought the Jeep to a screeching halt a few feet away and he fell into the back, utterly spent.

‘‘What happened?’’ she shouted. ‘‘Are you okay?’’

‘‘If I ever . . . get my hands on . . . the person who did this to me,’’ he panted, on the brink of unconsciousness, ‘‘
I’ll kill ’em
.’’

Two days later, across town at Grandview Cemetery, a closed-casket funeral was held for Collin Boyd—for this man who had become the man Grant once was. It was an outdoor service on a brisk, windy day, with just a handful of white folding chairs containing occupants. Julie attended, tears quietly streaming down her face throughout the entire event, but Grant told her he ‘‘just couldn’t do it.’’ Watching
himself
be buried . . . It was too much, he said, after everything he’d been through the last few days.

But despite his insistence that he would sit this one out, he’d found his way here anyway. He watched the ceremony from a distance, amid a stand of trees on the east side of the cemetery.

The reverend presiding over the funeral had delivered an unusual message. Grant couldn’t quite make it all out—something about ‘‘a life that’s wasted.’’

Long after everyone had gone and night had fallen, Grant still stood in his spot by the trees, watching the casket sink into the ground. The loud clacking of the coffin mechanically lowering was the only audible sound in the graveyard.

But he could barely make out the wooden box through his red, bleary eyes.

He was consumed with emotions, thoughts, and regrets. This wasn’t just his body that was descending into the ground. It was everything he had been, the life he had known. It was gone, all of it. Forever.

He had always coveted his private life. Being by himself was the only time he found peace. But it was also the source of his greatest turmoil.

He was grateful to have his sister as a part of his life again. But even with her there, even though he was used to relative solitude . . . For the first time since childhood, he felt utterly, terrifyingly
alone
.

Collin Boyd was gone. Dead and buried. Grant Borrows was who he was now.

There was no going back.

Everything he thought he understood about life had changed, in less than an instant. The rules of science and nature and human existence were broken. He couldn’t be Collin Boyd anymore, but he had no desire to be Grant Borrows, either.

All he really had to call his own were the questions.

So many questions.

Am I living someone else’s life?
he thought uselessly.
What right do I
have to live a life that isn’t my own?

Shouldn’t that be
me
going into the ground?

He studied the coffin as it went lower, lower, lower, until it was beyond his ability to see.

Standing alone in the silent darkness, Grant could keep his feelings in check no longer, and he was tired of trying. He broke down, his battered body collapsing into a shuddering heap on the ground, his shoulders shaking violently.

The sound of his sobs filled the graveyard.

But there was something . . .

What was that?

A faint glow caught his attention between haggard breaths. The ring on his finger had become radiant. It was diffuse, like a light shining deep underwater.

It was shimmering.

Miles away, far outside of town, a middle-aged woman with a serene presence and silver hair stood alone in a darkened room.

All of her attention was focused on the ancient object lying on a table in front of her. She studied it with tremendous mental focus, memorizing its every groove, crevice, and pattern. Her finger ran gently over it, rubbing the scarred, craggy surface.

Something in the room began to glow softly. Her eyes shifted to the source of the light as a smile spread across her features.

‘‘At last,’’ she proclaimed, standing upright, ‘‘the Bringer has come.’’

INTERREGNUM

‘‘
P
HASE ONE COMPLETE,’’ said a voice hiding behind a pair of slumped shoulders that slouched before a bright computer monitor. The computer and its user were accompanied by dozens of others just like them, lining the outer walls of the shadowy room.

A single reply came from a voice somewhere near the center of the vast room. It was a deep, booming voice, punctuated with unmistakable authority. ‘‘Activate Phase Two.’’

‘‘Yes sir,’’ the computer technician replied without taking his eyes from the screen. ‘‘Making the call now.’’

9

The motorcycle snarled down the murky street through late evening fog, a fog as thick as the motorcycle rider’s hot breath. The black, gleaming machine was a bloodthirsty predator, nose to the ground in anticipation of a kill. The two tires chewed asphalt at speeds far above the legal limit, leaving the scent of hot rubber in its wake.

But the man who rode the metallic beast wore an expression of unemotional, intense concentration as he stared without blinking into the onrushing wind. No glasses or helmet visor obstructed his view; he had little use for either. Covered in black from collar to foot, he was completely bald and rather short of stature. He favored the simplistic look primarily for its functionality, but also because of the imposing silhouette it formed.

Fear was a powerful weapon. But it wasn’t the most powerful one he carried.

Subterfuge, on the other hand, was pointless. It mattered not whether those he hunted saw his face. If they did, it was the last thing they would see in this life.

To those in the darkest corners of society—those who knew of the terrifying things that happened in the world’s underbelly—he was known as the Thresher.

This particular chase had lasted a scant few hours. Another hunter might be disappointed by such a weak prey; the Thresher cared little for how long a hunt lasted. Once begun, he would see it through, regardless of how long it took. As a rule, he refused to stop for food, rest, or sleep until his agreed-upon task was complete.

This one would be over in less than five minutes.

Streetlamps passed overhead as fast as a strobe light. He paid them no attention. His eyes were on the narrow main road ahead, long empty in the deep of night. His senses were alert and his muscles tensed.

Each time a side street appeared to his right, he stole a quick look, briefly searching for signs of his prey. It was on the seventh side street he passed that he caught the faintest glimpse of the other biker before the buildings between them again blocked his view.

He bore no weapons save for the contents of a single scabbard secured to his left hip. From the ornate leather sheath he withdrew a sword, which reverberated on the air like a chime. An intricate pattern was pressed into the blade, which bore all the hallmarks of a Japanese
daito
—thin blade, curved upward at the end. The sword was powerfully sharp with a crystallized edge, made entirely of one of the world’s strongest metals—save for its unusually long hilt, which was nearly two feet long by itself. The oversized wooden handle was wrapped in overlapping black leather straps.

The Thresher held the sword out to his side in one hand while guiding the motorcycle in the other, eyes still watching the passing streets to the right. His eyes were a glassy void, his breathing slow and cunning. As always, once the hunt was nearing its final moments, he relaxed and allowed himself to become an embodiment of undiluted reflex and instinct.

Suddenly he stood on the bike’s foot pegs, calling on every last bit of torque the machine had to offer. It roared in protest but obeyed its master, streaking along the twilight pavement at suicidal speeds. Two more side alleys lay ahead, separated by wide blocks of buildings. And though he had no practical idea of how many seconds there would be before he reached the last of the two, he knew precisely when it would occur. He could feel it approaching . . .

The first street passed, and this time he was almost neck-and-neck with the bright red motorcycle he was chasing. He’d gained a second or two on the other man, which was all he needed. He increased his speed to the machine’s last ounce of capability, and at the final moment, preparing to strike, he leaned forward as far as the bike’s balance would allow.

Milliseconds before clearing the second alleyway, the Thresher flung the sword down the last street with a brutal swing of his right arm. The thin blade reacted as an arrow springing from a bow, darting through the dirty alleyway.

As the red bike came into view, it passed to the immediate left of a large, rusted-out, double-wide Dumpster. The Thresher’s sword passed straight in front of his quarry’s line of sight and pierced the side of the Dumpster. The sword’s oversized hilt stuck out as a blunt instrument— directly in front of the passing motorcyclist’s face.

The driver of the red machine didn’t have time to realize what was happening until it was too late.

The Thresher watched as his quarry’s head collided violently with the sword’s protruding hilt, the man’s neck wrenching itself sickeningly backward. He fell from the crimson bike with the unmistakable crack of breaking bones, while the bike continued moving out of sight.

In what seemed like only an instant, the Thresher had retrieved his sword from the Dumpster and was on top of the other man, holding his dazed and battered form in a brutal headlock with one arm. His other hand pressed the razor-sharp side edge of the sword against the man’s throat with a tight, back-handed grip. He barely seemed to be exerting himself, with practiced, measured movements that applied only the exact amount of energy and force required, and nothing more.