Free Web NovelChapter 109: Chapter 109 - Killing Machine
They had been alert for too long.
They are watching his every move. Every breathe.
Malcolm let his head sag forward, chin dropping toward his chest, breath slowing, evening out just enough to sell it. He closed his eyes and let his body go slack like a man finally losing the fight.
Taking his time.
Then he came back into his body by degrees.
Not all at once.
The first thing that returned was sensation, a dull persistent ache threaded through his shoulders and wrists, the chair pressing into his spine, the bindings still biting, still there.
The second was time. He counted it the only way he could, by breaths, by the slow drag of awareness crawling forward while the drug loosened its grip inch by inch.
He moved his fingers.
Just barely.
The motion was pathetic, a tremor more than movement, but it was real, and that mattered. He stopped immediately, letting stillness reclaim him, letting his breathing stay uneven and heavy, the performance intact.
Hours passed like that.
He counted them by sound. By footsteps outside the shed. By voices drifting in and out. By the way the air cooled as night deepened. Each time he tested himself, the movement came a little easier. Still sluggish. Still wrong. But no longer stolen from him entirely.
Two guards remained inside.
One sat slouched against a crate, eyes closed, head tipped back like sleep had crept up on him despite himself.
The other stood nearer the table, restless at first, then settling into boredom, flipping a notebook open and closed, pen scratching occasionally as he wrote something down that clearly did not require urgency.
Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.
It was sharp. Controlled.
A voice followed, muffled by wood. "Boss is calling for you."
The guard by the door straightened immediately, relief slipping into his tone before he could hide it. "Yeah. Okay."
He glanced once at Malcolm, long enough to confirm the stillness, then turned and left, the door closing behind him with a solid final sound.
One guard remained.
The man at the table did not look up. He kept writing, pen moving steadily, shoulders relaxed.
Malcolm opened his eyes.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He did not lift his head. He did not change his breathing. He moved only his right hand, testing the binding with microscopic patience, fingers working where rope met skin, where friction and sweat had done their quiet work over hours.
The knot loosened.
Just enough.
He waited, counted three breaths, then eased his hand free, inch by silent inch, until his fingers slipped loose at last, numb and burning all at once.
The guard did not notice.
Malcolm did not rush.
He rested his freed hand against the chair, letting circulation creep back in painfully, forcing himself to endure it without a sound, without a single visible reaction.
Malcolm slid his hand back into place.
Not tight. Not careless. Just loose enough to look untouched.
He let his shoulders sag further, breath turning uneven again, lips parting as if effort had finally run out of him, and he made a low broken sound in his throat, nothing shaped enough to be words, just enough noise to suggest movement, just enough to trigger habit.
The pen stopped scratching.
The remaining guard looked up sharply, eyes narrowing, hand already reaching for what hung at his belt. Malcolm kept his eyes closed, head lolling slightly to one side, chest rising too fast now, the performance ugly and convincing.
"Shit," the man muttered.
He stood and approached, boots slow and cautious on the concrete, and Malcolm heard the faint familiar click before he ever saw it, the soft plastic sound that confirmed what he already knew from the fragments of conversation he had overheard earlier in the night.
Another dose.
They were not taking chances.
The man came closer, syringe in hand, annoyance written into his posture more than fear, stopping just within reach as he leaned in to assess whether Malcolm was waking or fading.
That was close enough.
Malcolm moved.
His freed hand shot up and locked around the man’s wrist before sound could form, yanking him forward with sudden violent force, using the chair and his own weight to steal balance in the same motion. The guard gasped in sharp surprise, the syringe clattering uselessly to the floor as Malcolm twisted, forearm braced tight against the side of the man’s neck.
There was a sharp crack.
The sound was final.
The guard’s body went slack immediately, weight collapsing forward as breath left him in a single broken exhale. Malcolm caught him before he hit the floor, holding the dead weight steady, feeling the last reflexive shudder run through muscle and stop.
Nothing followed.
No gasp. No struggle.
Just silence settling heavy and irreversible.
Malcolm eased the body down carefully, already reaching for the knife at the man’s belt, the drug still dragging at his limbs but his focus razor sharp now, because he did not have the luxury of doubt.
The man was dead.
He reached for the knife on the man’s belt immediately, blade familiar in his hand, and cut through the remaining bindings without hesitation, rope falling away in pieces as blood rushed painfully back into his limbs.
He stood unsteadily, legs trembling, the drug still dragging at him like wet gravity, but he forced himself upright anyway, breath coming heavy and controlled, vision narrowing and clearing in waves.
He did not look at the body again.
He listened instead.
The shed was quiet.
Malcolm took the gun, then the knife, settling both against his body without looking down, letting familiarity do the work his sluggish muscles still resisted. He eased the shed door open and leaned into the gap, eyes adjusting to the thin gray light outside, that suspended hour where night still clung to the ground even as the sky began to pale.
Three men.
Two on the ground near the vehicles, loose in their posture, weapons hanging more from habit than readiness. One above them in the watch tower, silhouetted against the dim sky, gaze fixed outward, bored and inattentive in the way that came from too many quiet nights.
That one would scream if given the chance.
Malcolm slipped out and let the darkness close around him.
The first guard never heard him.
Malcolm came up behind him, close enough that the man’s back heat brushed his chest, and clamped a hand hard over his mouth before the breath could even turn into sound. The man jerked violently, surprise exploding into instinct, elbows flaring as he tried to twist free, boots scraping dirt in a brief frantic shuffle.
Malcolm tightened his grip, forearm locking the head back as the knife slid across the exposed throat in a fast decisive pull.
The struggle turned ugly for a second, blood bursting hot and sudden, spraying across Malcolm’s hand, slicking his fingers until the grip nearly failed. He widened his hold instantly, palm spreading, fingers digging in harder, refusing to let sound escape even as the body thrashed weakly against him.
The man’s resistance collapsed in jerks.
Malcolm lowered him carefully, easing the weight down until the body stilled completely, his hand still sealed over the mouth long after it was no longer necessary.
The second guard turned at the faint movement, confusion just beginning to form.
Malcolm was already there.
He closed the distance fast, hand snapping up to clamp over the man’s mouth as the other dragged the knife across his throat in a brutal clean arc. This one fought harder, panic lending strength, hands clawing at Malcolm’s arm, nails scraping skin, boots kicking as blood soaked through Malcolm’s grip and turned everything slick and dangerous.
Malcolm adjusted again, widening his hand, forearm bracing harder, chest pressed tight to keep the man upright until the struggle burned itself out in ragged shudders. He held him through it, absorbing the weight, then guided him down just as carefully as the first.
Silence returned, thick and absolute.
Only the tower remained.
Malcolm wiped his hand quickly against his pant leg, smearing blood darkly but restoring friction, then moved low and deliberate toward the structure. He climbed without haste, each step placed slow and controlled, freezing whenever the man above shifted his weight or leaned against the railing.
At the top, Malcolm rose in a single smooth motion.
His arm locked around the man’s chest from behind, hand clamping over mouth and jaw before a sound could form. The man stiffened, elbows jerking back, body slamming once into the railing in blind resistance, and Malcolm dragged the knife across his throat with practiced force, blood spilling warm over his wrist, making his grip slide again.
He widened it instantly, fingers spread, palm sealed tight, holding the man upright until the fight drained out of him and his weight sagged heavy and final.
Malcolm eased the body down onto the platform.
Malcolm climbed down from the tower as the light shifted again, the sky thinning from black to a washed gray that stripped shadows of their mercy.
As his boots touched the ground he wrapped both hands around the shotgun he had taken, the solid weight of it anchoring him even as his fingers still felt slick and wrong from blood not fully dried.
Then the sound hit.
A scream tore through the air, sharp and unmistakable, cutting clean through the quiet he had carved out, and his blood turned cold in an instant because he knew that voice, knew the way pain fractured it, knew the way terror pulled it raw.
Iyisha.
His body reacted before thought could form, something savage and electrical ripping through his chest as adrenaline slammed into his veins hard enough to blur the edges of his vision.
His heart stuttered, then surged, overdrive flooding limbs already dulled by the drug still riding his bloodstream, and the world tilted violently for a split second as dizziness washed up and threatened to take him with it.
He swayed once.
Not again.
Malcolm forced his feet still, dug them into the dirt, clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, breath dragging in deep and controlled pulls as another cry echoed from the house, followed by a broken sound that clawed straight through him and made his grip tighten white knuckled around the shotgun.
Focus.
He lowered his head briefly, eyes shut, counting heartbeats instead of seconds, riding out the rush and the chemical drag together, refusing to let either take command.
The drug made his limbs heavy, his balance unreliable, but the sound of her voice cut through it like a blade, sharp enough to keep him upright, sharp enough to keep him moving.
Her cries filled the air now, shouts breaking into sobs and back again, each one lighting his nerves on fire, each one threatening to tear discipline apart and leave only violence in its place.
He breathed again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He could not rush blind. He could not stumble now.
When he lifted his head, his vision had steadied, the world snapping back into brutal clarity, the house framed in pale dawn light, windows glowing faintly, walls too close to the sound he was tracking.
Malcolm raised the shotgun, shoulders squaring despite the tremor still humming under his skin, and started toward the house without another sound, every step measured, every movement driven by a single ruthless certainty.
She was alive.
She was screaming.
And he was not stopping.
