The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(70)

I stood frozen at the sound, my palms sweating as I cradled the rifle loosely to my chest. The bannister shuddered, the stairwell creaking, and I took an involuntary step back as a man appeared. He was covered in blood, red splashes cutting across his muscular chest, which was still bare, the tattered remains of his Liberator suit hanging from the torn pants. Two bullet wounds, one in the leg and one in the shoulder, trickled with his own blood, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He lumbered up the stairs, ponderously slowly, coming to a stop on the landing and sniffing the air, much like an animal would. Then his head snapped toward me, and I could see nothing human in his flat, predatory gaze. His lips rose in a silent snarl, and a trickle of a growl escaped his lips.

“Solomon,” I gasped.

Solomon stilled for a moment, his face becoming softer, a flash of recognition kindling in his eyes. I felt a moment of hope that my friend was still in there somewhere—and then it was gone, replaced with the animalistic intensity from moments earlier. He took a slow step up the stairs, his lips curling in a roar of pain and anger.

I turned and fled.





26





Viggo





The rifle was a familiar feeling in my hand, the sights a familiar view. Training to be a Patrian warden most of my adult life had prepared me for this. As much as I hated the idea of taking human life, I was an instrument of destruction, the rifle an extension of myself. And I was good at it.

I knew later, if we survived, I would think back on this moment and reflect on all the decisions that had brought me to this point. But for now, there was no room for doubt or self-reflection. There was only my breathing, the sights, and the sure pull of the trigger.

I had taken a location that was a bit riskier, pressed against the wall several feet behind the top of the stairs, with a clear view of the bottom—but it had kept them back. I was more exposed from this angle, but I was counting on being better than them. And so far it was working.

I didn’t look at the glassy-eyed woman sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, nor did my eyes pause as they drifted over another still pair of legs—the rest of her torso out of my view, but her death confirmed by the large pool of blood forming around her. I sighted down on one woman, hidden behind a small table that didn’t provide her enough cover, using it to steady her gun as she pointed it in my direction.

I exhaled and squeezed the trigger just as she noticed me watching her. Her gasp became a gurgle as she clutched her throat, blood spilling out over her fingers. I cursed under my breath and pulled the trigger again, the next bullet stilling her mounting panic. I had blocked off the part of my brain that felt regret or sadness, but I still recognized, almost robotically, that her death would linger.

Bullets whizzed around me as a warden—perhaps more than one—suddenly came around the corner, unloading their magazines in my direction. If they were screaming their outrage at me, I couldn’t hear it over the sound of gunfire. The entire house was alive with the earsplitting pop-pop-pop. I ducked, then brought my gun up and returned fire, my bullets sinking through the unprepared group of wardens, to deadly effect.

I heard a horrifying roar, then screams and crashing, as I was changing out the magazine. I froze, wondering if one of the Matrians had thrown a grenade elsewhere in the house. I peeked my head around the corner, a little lower down, in case someone had their gun trained on the spot I had withdrawn from earlier, and jerked back quickly when a large figure raced by.

There were two women left in the group that had been trying to gain access to my stairs. As I ducked again, I heard them cry out in alarm, and then came a short burst of gunfire. A loud snarl cut beneath the shots, piercing my carefully constructed indifference with a thin thread of fear. Then came the sound of screaming—a long, terrified sound—viciously cut short by the clear snapping of bones.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say that silence reigned—the house was still too alive with gunfire, some of it clearly coming from Violet’s side of the house—but, directly below me, it had gone as eerily silent as a cemetery. I kept perfectly still, uncertain as to what was lurking below me. I heard harsh, wrangled breathing from below. The sound of sniffing followed, then heavy, lumbering footsteps heading off in a different direction, avoiding me altogether.

I exhaled the breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding, and used the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I stepped out from behind the corner, going into a quick squat so I could survey more of the lower level, my eyes darting in and out of the shadows in search of… whatever it was that had torn through two armed women. Just as I had convinced myself that it was gone, I heard horrified screaming coming from Violet’s stairwell—screaming that was now familiar to me.

I took a step toward the area, knowing that several layers of rooms stood between us and that I couldn’t abandon my post, and froze, listening. I thought I had heard my name, but it was hard to tell with the echoed sounds of shouting and fighting from the other parts of the house. I frowned, and strained, clasping my gun in now-clammy hands.

I heard it again—a muted, barely audible cry. It was Violet. I knew it with the same certainty that that I had killed three women and stood by while Solomon tore another two apart. I looked back at the staircase with a curse. It wasn’t even a decision on my part. I had already slung my rifle behind my back, clutching the strap to hold it tight, and moved toward her voice.