The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(62)

I stood stock-still. The feeling going through me was more than rage. It didn’t have a name, but it was overpowering anything else in my mind. Pure reason was barely keeping me from running back into the house to exact terrible vengeance.

Where had the machine gun fire come from? It was obviously built into Ashabee’s system… I looked around in the moonlight and saw, built into the very stone walls that sheltered us, long metal panels. They looked like they might fold down at the press of a button, revealing a hidden artillery. I’d barely wondered what those could do when Tim, Jay, and I had been repairing the gate earlier. Now I wished I’d torn them all out.

I became aware of the sounds of panic coming from beyond the front gate. Names were being shouted urgently, followed by hushed and insistent tones. Someone was sobbing, a frightful keening sound that seared my heart, flaying it open wide.

I heard the sound of feet approaching, and turned, giving Violet a hollow look. Her hand was over her mouth, her eyes wide as she took in the dead. “Oh God,” she gasped.

She moved closer, dropping to her knees next to me, her face pale. I could see tears forming in her eyes, and when she met my gaze, I knew exactly what we had to do.

I climbed to my feet, reaching a hand down to Violet and pulling her up next to me. I led the way, pulling her behind me, heading toward the gate. I could see faces as I drew nearer—people pressed between the bars, their eyes searching for any sign of their companions.

My legs never faltered as I drew nearer. I was driven, now, by a compulsion so intense that it defied rational thought. I stopped at the inner keypad, entering the code, and turned back to the people on the other side. A hush had fallen over them, and I could see wariness and fear on their faces as the gate—the one that still worked on its motorized tracks—pulled open.

They remained where they were even as the gate opened to them. I turned to Violet, who was staring at the people. “We’re going to need paper and something to write with,” I said softly, and her eyes jerked over to me.

“Right,” she whispered after a moment, her breathing coming sharp and hard. “I’ll get Henrik, and we’ll… we’ll handle it.”

I nodded and then turned back to the refugees standing at the gate, looking in. I held up my hands in the universal peace sign, and approached them slowly. “My name is Viggo Croft,” I said. “A guest of… Colin Everett Ashabee.” I couldn’t help but spit the name out. He was lucky I cared more about checking for survivors than hurting him, but my hands were shaking with rage. I knew this was a precarious situation—the people he had just murdered were part of this group. They probably had family and friends among these people. It was a situation fraught with stress and danger, especially if they had any weapons.

I cleared my throat and continued. “I regret to inform you that the people… the ones who came onto the property…” My throat tightened, making the words hard to say, but I pushed them out, knowing that drawing this out would only make it worse. “They’re dead.” The crowd gasped, and I saw several people in the back turn tail and run, several more moving backward. “I’m sorry,” I shouted, taking a step forward. “Please… please don’t leave. It was a mistake. The man on guard tonight… he… he panicked. He activated the defense system.”

I looked down, feeling like I was choking on the lie, but knowing it was as close to the truth as I dared go. A part of me wanted to be honest and tell them that Ashabee was responsible. I would let them exact any justice they wanted, and would probably even be persuaded to help… But it was a bad call. It would not bring their loved ones back. As tempting as it was, as much as I wanted to give them an opportunity for justice, I knew this act wouldn’t be justice—it would be vengeance. And vengeance didn’t solve problems. It wouldn’t even make me feel better.

“Why are you telling us this, Mr. Croft?” asked a man who was pushing through the middle of the crowd, his hat in his hand.

“I can understand if you want to move on. Especially after…” my eyes flicked up to his and then moved away, unable to finish the sentence. “But… we have water, food, and shelter. You’re… you’re more than welcome to stay, or go. I’m… I’m sorry for your friends.”

The man looked around at the other people milling in front of the gate, and then put on his hat. “We warned them not to climb the gate,” he said, his tone remorseful. “But they were insistent. Their deaths are tragic, but if you say it was an accident, then I’m choosing to believe you. Convey our thanks to Mr. Ashabee.”

I couldn’t keep the grimace off my face at his gratitude toward Ashabee, but the man with the hat didn’t seem to notice. He turned back and gestured to someone in the crowd, and I watched as a woman and young girl came forward, slipping their hands into his. I stepped aside, making room for them as they walked up the road toward the house. The rest of the people watched, murmuring in voices too low to hear. I remained silent, letting them decide whether to enter or not.

A few more came forward, their expressions wary, their movements slow and cautious. I couldn’t blame them. For all they knew, this was a trap. I turned to the house, and saw Violet standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for them with the paper and pencil I’d mentioned. I knew she and Henrik would take down names, occupations, and whatever information they thought relevant.