Page 286 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

KILLIAN

The metal gives way under my weight, and the cage door tears from its hinges with a screech that vibrates through my bones. Pain registers somewhere in the back of my mind—my shoulder is dislocated or broken and blood is streaming down my arm—but it might as well be happening to someone else.

None of it matters. Nothing matters except the sight of Malcolm’s hands on Quinn, the terror in her eyes, the blood on her face.

One of the guards points his gun at me and pulls the trigger before I can reach him.

The bullet tears into my fucked-up shoulder and I know I should feel it.

It should be enough to take me down—or at least slow me down.

But the pain doesn’t register. It’s just more white noise in the hurricane of rage that’s taken over my senses.

I barrel into him full-force, slamming him against the concrete wall hard enough to crack ribs. His head snaps back, connecting with the concrete with a sickening crack as his gun clatters to the floor between us. But he’s still conscious and still fighting.

From the corner of my eye, I can see that the second guard is lining up a shot, aiming at my head with shaking hands.

I grab the first guard by the throat with one hand, using him as a shield as I drop to the ground and grab the fallen weapon.

The movement sends fresh blood pouring from my shoulder, but I barely notice.

Three rapid shots echo through the basement, and the second guard crumples with a red stain spreading across his chest.

The guard in my grip struggles, clawing at my hand as I squeeze his windpipe.

His eyes bulge, bloodshot and desperate, while he fumbles for a knife at his belt.

I twist violently, feeling his vertebrae snap beneath my fingers.

His body goes limp, dead weight in my grasp, and I let him drop to the concrete.

“Fuck,” Elliot exhales, scrambling away from Quinn. His eyes are wide with shock or fear or both.

Good. He should be scared. They should both be very fucking scared.

Malcolm is already on his feet, backing toward the stairs. His hand darts to his pocket, and he pulls out a small device. He presses a button, and somewhere above us I can hear an alarm start blaring.

“We need help down here!” he shouts into what must be an intercom. “We have a prisoner loose! Bring every man you’ve got!”

I tune out the alarm, my vision narrowing until all I can see is Malcolm. The man who tortured Nico. The son of a bitch who touched my siren. Who murdered her mother. Every cell in my body vibrates with the need to rip him apart, piece by fucking piece.

Malcolm looks over, and I know he can see it in my eyes. He can see his own death reflected back at him.

He turns and runs. All that power, all that control, all that fucking superiority—and in the end, he’s nothing but a coward. He sprints for the stairs, shoving Elliot out of his way.

“Malcolm!” Elliot calls out, staggering from the force of Malcolm’s push.

Malcolm doesn’t even pause. He reaches the top of the stairs, pulls open the heavy door, and slams it shut behind him.

Elliot’s face drains of color as he realizes what just happened. Malcolm locked him in. Left him to die while saving his own worthless skin.

I’m already moving toward him, gun still in hand. I could shoot him right now—could put a bullet between his eyes and be done with it. But that would be too quick and merciful for this piece of shit. He deserves to suffer after everything he’s done.

I toss the gun aside. I want to feel him die with my bare hands.

“Don’t do this,” Elliot says, backing away from me. He pulls a knife from his belt, holding it out in front of him like that’s going to save him. “You’ll never get out of here. Malcolm’s men will be here any second. They’ll kill you all.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He lunges at me, slashing toward my already injured shoulder. I pivot, catching his wrist and twisting until I hear the snap of bone. He howls in pain as the knife drops from his useless fingers, but I’m not done yet. Not even close.

I drive my fist into his face hard enough to send blood and teeth flying.

Again.

Again.

I hit him until his legs give out, until he’s on his knees, swaying like he’s drunk, with blood streaming from his ruined face.

But he’s still conscious. Still breathing. Still way too alive for my satisfaction.

I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back, forcing him to look at me. One of his eyes is already swollen shut. The other is unfocused and dilated.

“Please,” he slurs through his broken teeth. “I can help you get out. I know the codes, the exits?—”

“Fuck your help.” I drive my knee into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back and gasping for air. “You can’t even help yourself.”

I follow him down, straddling his chest and pinning his arms with my knees.

My hands find his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulge and his face turns purple.

But that’s too quick, too painless. I release his throat, letting him suck in a desperate gasp of air, only to grab his head in both hands.

Yeah, this will be better.

I slam his skull against the concrete floor. The sound is sickeningly wet, but I do it again. And again. For the way he held Quinn down. For the way he electrocuted Nico with that fucking cattle prod. For being a sick, sadistic, traitorous monster.

Blood and thicker matter spread beneath his head, turning the concrete slick. His eyes go vacant, staring at nothing. His body spasms once, twice, then goes completely still.

Only once I’m sure the last bit of life has faded from his body do I let go of him and sit back.

My chest is heaving, and the pain I’ve been ignoring is slowly starting to seep in as the blind rage dissipates.

My shoulder is totally fucked, throbbing with a wet heat that’s spreading down my arm.

My face feels stiff with drying blood—mine or his or both, I can’t tell.

The alarm is still blaring overhead, growing more urgent with each second that passes. It won’t be long before this place is swarming with Malcolm’s men. Finally snapping back to reality, I shove my hand into Elliot’s pocket and fish around until I find the ring of keys.

“Atlas,” I call out, tossing the keys across the room. He catches them one-handed, already moving to unlock his cage.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at my shoulder as blood continues to soak through my shirt.

“Fucking peachy,” I reply, moving to Quinn. She’s still holding the torn edges of her shirt together, and her face is a mess of blood and bruises, but her eyes are still sharp and focused.

Thank fuck.

“Are you okay?” I ask, helping her up.

She offers a small, bloody smile. “Better now.”

Fuck, I’ve never loved her more than I do right now.

I frown at her torn shirt, then look around for something to cover her with. “I’d offer you mine, but…” I glance at what’s left of my bloody, mangled shoulder. “Not sure it’ll be much better.”

“I’ll be fine.” She shrugs and ties the two halves of her torn shirt together, exposing her mid-section, but covering everything else. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Around us, Atlas is freeing Nico, then moving to the other cages. Owen and Cassandra stumble out, both looking worse for wear but still in one piece.

“We need to move,” Nico says, limping over to us. His face is a mess from Elliot’s torture, and one eye is swollen completely shut, but he’s still on his feet. “Malcolm already called for backup.”

“Then I guess we’ll give them some fun before they die,” I say, heading for the stairs. “Let’s go.”

But when we reach the door at the top, I see the problem immediately. There’s a handle, but no keyhole. Just a small black panel with a red light glowing beside it.

“Retinal scanner,” Cassandra says, confirming what I already guessed. “It needs Malcolm’s eye to open.”

“Or Elliot’s,” Owen adds.

I turn back to look at Elliot’s body. Even from here, I can tell that his head is a pulpy mess. I might have gotten a little carried away with the head-bashing.

“Well, fuck,” I say, walking back to the body. “I don’t think his eyes are in working condition anymore.”

I crouch down, examining what’s left of Elliot’s face. One eye socket is completely crushed, and the eyeball is ruptured beyond recognition. But the other eye still looks intact, if a bit swollen.

“We need something sharp,” I announce, looking around the room.

Atlas raises an eyebrow. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you’re about to do?”

I spot what I need on a table against the far wall—a set of torture implements laid out neatly like surgical instruments. I grab a curved blade, the kind meant for filleting flesh from bone, and head back to Elliot’s corpse.

“You can’t be serious,” Nico says, watching as I position the knife at Elliot’s neck.

“You got a better idea?” I ask, already cutting. The blade slices through skin and muscle with minimal resistance. “Because I don’t see Malcolm volunteering to come back and let us out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Owen mutters, turning away.

It takes less time than expected to remove Elliot’s head. The spine is the hardest part, but I manage to sever it with a few well-placed cuts. I palm the top of his head and lift it like a grotesque football.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Atlas says, but I’m pretty sure there’s a hint of admiration in his voice.

“You’re welcome,” I reply. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

We make our way back to the door, and Quinn helps me position Elliot’s remaining eye in front of the scanner. The light flashes, then turns green, and there’s a mechanical click as the lock disengages.

“It worked,” Quinn says, sounding surprised.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I tell her, dumping Elliot’s head on the floor. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Atlas rolls his eyes as he pulls the door open. “I can’t wait to see your next party trick.”

The hallway beyond is dimly lit and eerily quiet compared to the blaring alarm in the basement. We move as quickly as we can, each of us battered and bruised but driven by the need to escape.

“Any idea where we are?” Nico asks Cassandra.

She nods, her eyes darting around as she takes in our surroundings. “I’ve been here once before, but never in this section.”

“Great,” I grunt. “So we’re in a fucking labyrinth.”

“I think I can get us out,” she says. “The main exit should be this way.”

We follow her through a series of concrete corridors, and the air grows more damp the farther we go. The alarm is still blaring non-stop, but it’s more distant now, which I hope is a good sign.

“Wait,” Quinn whispers suddenly, holding up a hand. “Listen.”

Footsteps. Multiple sets, approaching fast from the corridor ahead.

“Get back,” I whisper, pulling Quinn with me as we duck into an alcove. The others follow, pressing themselves against the wall just as a group of guards rounds the corner, heading toward the basement.

I count five of them, all armed with automatic weapons. Too many to take on head-to-head, especially in our condition.

But they pass without noticing us, too focused on responding to the alarm. Once they’re gone, we hurry in the direction they came from, treading as lightly as we can through the empty, echoing corridors.

“We need weapons,” Nico says, his voice low. “I took this off one of the guards, but it’s not enough.” He holds up a handgun and checks the magazine. “Six rounds left.”

We keep moving, following Cassandra’s lead. At a junction, we encounter two more guards. They spot us immediately, raising their weapons, but Nico is faster. Two shots, two bodies hitting the floor.

“Four left,” he says, retrieving their weapons and passing them out. Now we’re better armed, but still completely outnumbered and outgunned.

We round another corner and freeze. A group of guards has set up a makeshift barricade at the end of the hallway, all of them with weapons trained on our position.

“Get back!” Atlas shouts, pulling me and Quinn behind the corner as bullets pepper the wall where we were just standing.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the wall. “We’re trapped.”

Nico peers carefully around the edge. “Too many to rush. And they’ve got the high ground.”

“Options?” Quinn asks, her voice steady despite everything.

“We could try another route,” Cassandra suggests, but her face says she knows it’s not likely to work. This place is crawling with Malcolm’s men by now.

“They’re going to flank us soon,” Atlas points out. “We can’t stay here.”

I look at Quinn, at Nico and Atlas. My family. The only people in this shitty world I’ve ever cared about. I refuse to let it end here, in some trafficker’s warehouse, gunned down like animals.

“I’ll create a distraction,” I say, checking the weapon I took from one of the guards. “The rest of you make a run for it.”

“No fucking way,” Nico growls.

“We’re not separating,” Quinn says firmly.

Before I can argue, a metallic object rolls into the corridor from behind the guards’ barricade. It clatters across the floor, coming to rest just feet from our position.

“Grenade!” Owen shouts, but instead of an explosion, the canister erupts in a cloud of thick, white smoke that rapidly fills the entire hallway.

The guards start coughing and shouting in confusion. Gunfire erupts, but it’s wild and unfocused, with bullets hitting the walls and ceiling as they shoot blindly into the smoke.

“What the fuck?” I raise my own weapon, ready to fire back even though I can’t see a damn thing.

Then a voice calls out from somewhere in the smoke—a woman’s voice, clear and commanding.

“Quinn! This way! Follow my voice!”

Quinn gasps beside me. “Willow?”