Kill Order

Part 1, Chapter 12: The Sharp Edge of the Blade

...

Tristan woke to pain and iron. One wrist was chained by a short length of cold steel to a wall bracket just high enough that his shoulder burned. Blood crusted his shirt where the gun butt had split skin earlier, and every bullet wound throbbed like a drum. The interrogation room lay silent now except for the buzzing light above and the faint hiss of a broken valve somewhere beyond the door. Levchenko's corpse still slumped on the other side of spider‑cracked glass, but Tristan no longer looked at it. He looked at the shackle.

The cuff was hinged stainless with a simple warded lock. His free hand roamed the floor, fingers sweeping dust, glass fragments, splinters of chair leg. Nothing long enough to reach the lock. Nothing thin enough to pick it. His breath slowed. Think. The chair he was tied to earlier lay broken nearby where guards had dumped it. Its seat was steel framed plywood. The frame had angles.

With a grunt he hauled the chair close, jammed a sharp corner between chain and wall bracket, and twisted. Pain lit his side but the chain links flexed. He exhaled, planted his feet, and wrenched again. Metal squealed. On the third pull one link snapped with a sound like a gunshot. The sudden slack made him exhale with relief, dizzy but free.

The realisation hit with a flood of heat through icy veins. He was loose. The tide of this nightmare, until now dragging him under, shifted a fraction toward his grasp. He rose unsteady, eyes scanning for anything that could serve as a weapon. Along a wall lay lengths of rusted pipe. He grabbed a metre‑long section, tested its weight. Heavy enough to break a skull.

The shattered window offered a route. He vaulted the frame, glass scraping his boots, and dropped to a service hallway lit by a line of red bulbs. Every movement stung, each breath a stitch, yet adrenaline pushed pain aside. Two guards stood at the far corner speaking Russian, unaware. Tristan crept within two paces, then swung the pipe low. The first man's knee shattered; he crumpled without a sound beyond the crack of bone. Tristan pivoted, reversed the pipe in a short arc, catching the second guard behind the ear. The man folded into silence.

Ahead voices carried from an intersection. Three more guards armed with knives walked casual patrol. Tristan moved among shadows until they passed beneath a faulty light. His pipe flashed. One guard fell with a crushed larynx before a warning shout could form. The second swung his blade. Tristan deflected with the pipe and drove his elbow into the man's throat. He seized the man's wrist, turned the knife into a reverse grip, and plunged it under the ribcage. The third lunged but Tristan slid inside the arc, hooked an ankle around the man's heel, and pushed. As the guard fell Tristan stamped on his wrist, disarming him. One pipe strike ended the fight. None had time to cut him.

Five bodies on the floor, Tristan dripping sweat, wounds throbbing but no new injuries. Anger powered him forward down the corridor until a single conscious guard staggered from a doorway, knife trembling in hand. Fear widened the man's eyes at the sight of Tristan soaked in blood yet standing. Tristan slammed him against the wall, pipe tight across his throat.

"Where is she?" His voice was a raw growl, filled with pure anger.

The guard's eyes widened. "First room down the third corridor..." Spit and terror flew, he stuttered as he spoke.

Tristan tightened the pipe. "Better be true."

"It is, I swear." The man choked, pleading.

Tristan's fist crashed into his jaw, dropping him unconscious. He kept the knife, discarding the pipe now dented. Pain threatened to drag him under but another surge of adrenaline swamped it. Evelyn. He limped toward the corridor, blood marking each step.

The steel door to the said room splintered when he drove a shoulder into it. White light washed over tile floors streaked with tools. Evelyn lay strapped to an upright restraint chair, arms bruised. She was bleeding, unconscious. Tristan took one step toward her.

Borodin slammed into him from the side like a bull. The impact re‑ignited every injury. Tristan stumbled aside, knife skittering out of his grasp. Borodin's fist hammered the healing bullet wound near his ribs. Agony buckled his knees.

"You just will not stay down," Borodin sneered, voice dripping scorn. He drew a pistol. Tristan swiped an arm, slapping the weapon clear. It clattered across the floor.

Fury met fury. They locked in a vicious grapple. Tristan drove a knee into Borodin's thigh but Borodin raked fingers across the abdomen wound, forcing a roar from Tristan's throat. Borodin's forehead smashed his nose; blood sprayed. The Russian laughed through clenched teeth.

"I will finish you in front of her," he hissed, shoving Tristan against a gurney. "Then I will take my time with her. Hours. Maybe record it, slow frame by slow frame. Every cry, every tear."

Tristan snarled, launching fists into Borodin's ribs. Borodin absorbed the blows, countered with a hook that landed on Tristan's stitched leg wound. Pain blacked vision for a heartbeat. Borodin slammed Tristan's head to the floor. The world tilted.

"You see," Borodin said, panting, "your body is broken. She will break slower." He spat blood. "I will make her beg."

Rage flared white hot. Tristan surged but Borodin drove a boot into his chest, pinning him. A knife gleamed in Borodin's hand. The blade plunged, sliding between Tristan's pectoral muscles, hot metal and hotter pain. A knife was in his chest. Breath left in a wet gasp. Borodin went on top of him, raining punches onto skull and cheek.

Tristan's consciousness flickered. He tasted iron, heard bones in his face creak. He mentally surrendered, accepting that this is the end.

Part of him couldn't let go. The thought of her broken under Borodin's cruelty blazed inside him.

His eyes snapped open. A growl tore up from his core. He swung a wild uppercut with all the strength left in his torso. Knuckles smashed Borodin's jaw. The Russian's head whipped, balance lost. Tristan seized the knife hilt protruding from his own chest, teeth grinding against waves of nausea, and began to pull the blade out of him. Every millimetre was agony, but the blade slid free slick with his blood.

Borodin staggered, recovering. Tristan rolled, mounted him, knife reversed in fist. Borodin's eyes widened. A final breath rasped between Tristan's teeth.

Tristan yelled, using all of his might and swinging the knife towards Borodin.

The blade plunged into Borodin's neck, ripping apart his confidence. Blood fountained. Borodin's hands flailed, eyes widened at the realisation, grasping air that no longer offered power. Seconds dragged; the eyes that had mocked turned blank, as the lungs of the beast were finally emptied.

Tristan knelt over the body, knife slipping from fingers. He collapsed. His consciousness slipped away.

Overwhelming solemnness consumed Tristan. It was over. Mikhail Borodin was now a corpse. A memory. A washed stain.