Chapter 29: MIDNIGHT WOLVES — PART 4
Olek is good. Better than good. Professional. Enhanced. Drugs maybe. Training definitely.
His knife nearly takes my throat. Violence Mastery reads it milliseconds before impact. I lean back. The blade whispers past.
My counter is automatic. Gun to his center mass. He twists. Round hits his vest. No penetration.
We're three feet apart. Both bleeding. Both armed. Both willing to die to win.
"What are you?" he asks again.
"The last thing you'll see."
He smiles. "Better men have promised me death. I'm still here."
He attacks. Not wild. Calculated. Professional series of strikes designed to create openings.
I read all of them. Phase 3 Violence Mastery is showing me things I shouldn't see. His weight distribution. His micro-adjustments. The pattern of his breathing.
I counter each strike. We exchange ten blows in three seconds. Neither lands clean.
He adapts. Changes rhythm. Throws in a feint that almost works.
Almost.
My knife finds his shoulder. Shallow. He grunts. Doesn't slow.
His pistol comes up. Point-blank range.
I bat it aside. The shot goes wide. But his knee hits my damaged thigh.
Pain Conversion maxes out. The agony is pure fuel.
I'm moving faster than him now. But I'm also bleeding from a dozen wounds. Shoulder. Arm. Thigh. Side. Cuts everywhere.
Regeneration is trying to keep up. Can't. Not fast enough. Not while I'm still fighting.
Olek sees it. Sees me weakening. Slowing.
He presses. More aggressive. Trading hits. His knife opens my ribs. Deep. I feel bone scrape.
But my hands find his throat.
Violence Mastery showed me the opening. Showed me the pattern. Showed me the three-second window where his guard drops.
I took it.
My grip tightens. He tries to break it. Can't. His knife slashes my arms. My chest. My face.
I don't let go.
His eyes are wide. Surprised. Like he can't believe this is happening.
Forty-seven men he's killed. I'll be different.
His movements slow. Weaken. Stop.
I hold on five seconds longer. Making sure.
Then I let go.
Olek collapses. Dead eyes staring at stars.
I follow him down. My legs don't work anymore. Blood loss. Exhaustion. Powers burning out.
The sky spins above me. Full of stars. Beautiful.
I did it. We won.
The thought is distant. Abstract.
Siobhan's face appears above me. Terrified. "Ben? Ben!"
I try to speak. My mouth doesn't work right. Too much blood loss.
"Get him inside!" Lucas's voice. Commanding. Professional.
Hands lift me. The world tilts. Everything hurts. Even Pain Conversion can't translate this much damage into power.
I'm past limits. Beyond reserves. Running on fumes and will.
"The wounds," Siobhan says. Her voice is wondering. Scared. "They're closing. Lucas, they're closing."
"Don't look," Sugar's voice. Gruff. "Just help me carry him."
"But how—"
"Questions later. Move."
I'm inside. Laid on something soft. Couch maybe. The bar ceiling above me. Dark wood. Familiar.
My regeneration kicks into overdrive. Desperate. Trying to save me from bleeding out.
The shoulder wound closes first. Muscle knitting. Skin sealing. It hurts worse than the injury. Feels like being burned from inside.
The arm follows. Then the thigh. The rib wound takes longer. Deeper. More damage.
I can feel it happening. Tissue regenerating. Bones aligning. My body forcibly rebuilding itself.
It's not fast enough.
"He's dying," Siobhan says. "We need an ambulance."
"No hospitals," Lucas says. "Trust me. Just... give him time."
"Time? He's been shot. Stabbed. He's—"
"Healing. Watch."
Silence. I can feel their eyes on me. Watching the impossible.
The rib wound closes. Not completely. But enough to stop the bleeding.
My breathing eases. The pressure in my chest lessens.
I surface briefly. Blink. Focus.
Three faces above me. Lucas. Siobhan. Sugar.
"We won," I manage. Voice rough. Barely there.
"You insane bastard," Lucas says. But he's smiling. "Yeah. We won."
"Carrie?"
"Safe. Still in the bunker. Heard the fighting stop."
Good. The objective is secure. Mission accomplished.
Darkness pulls at me again. I let it come. My body needs to focus on healing. Can't do that while conscious.
"Sleep," Sugar says. "We'll watch over you."
I do.
When I surface again—seconds? minutes?—there are sirens in the distance. State police. Cavalry finally arriving.
"The cover story," I mumble.
"Gang war," Lucas says. "Out of town criminals. We defended. They lost."
"Bodies?"
"Being arranged. Job's handling digital evidence. It'll hold."
It'll have to.
Darkness again. Deeper this time.
I dream of running. Of hunting. Of teeth and claws and prey that doesn't fight back.
I dream of being the wolf.
And when I wake—hours later, maybe—I'm not entirely sure which one is the dream and which is reality.
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