The Face of the Monster

The sound of the helicopter blades was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest.

I stood on the roof of the Glass Box, the rain slicking my hair to my face, my arm throbbing where the bullet had grazed it. The knife was gone. The cable was cut.

I was weaponless.

But I wasn't powerless.

"Jump!" Julian screamed. He was halfway down the rope ladder, his suit jacket flapping in the wind like a broken wing. He looked terrified. Not for himself, but for me.

Or maybe for the asset he was about to lose.

I looked at him. I looked at the dark maw of the helicopter cabin above. I looked at the ladder, swaying like a pendulum over the abyss.

And then I looked down.

At the balcony below. At the open sliding door of the master bedroom.

"No," I said.

I didn't reach for the ladder. I stepped back.

Julian's face contorted. "Elena! They're inside! You'll die!"

"Maybe," I whispered. "But I'll die on my feet."

I turned and ran.

Not toward the ladder. Toward the edge.

I jumped.

It wasn't a graceful leap. It was a desperate, flailing fall into the void. The wind tore at my clothes. The rain blinded me.

I hit the balcony hard.

*Crack.*

My ankle twisted. Pain shot up my leg, hot and sharp. I rolled, slamming into the glass railing, gasping for air.

Above me, the helicopter roared. The spotlight swept over the balcony, searching.

I scrambled on my hands and knees, dragging my bad leg. I crawled into the bedroom.

The room was dark. The only light came from the emergency LEDs in the hallway, casting long, blood-red shadows across the floor.

I needed a weapon.

I looked around. The lamp? Too light. The sculpture? Too heavy.

My eyes landed on the fireplace.

The poker.

It was wrought iron. heavy. Sharp.

I grabbed it. It felt cold and solid in my hand.

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy boots. Fast.

Thorne's men.

I limped to the door. I pressed my back against the wall, holding the poker raised.

"Clear," a voice said.

"Check the bedroom," another ordered.

A shadow fell across the doorway.

A man stepped in. He was wearing tactical gear, a rifle raised. He swept the room.

He saw the open sliding door. The rain blowing in.

"Balcony," he said into his headset. "Target might have jumped."

He walked toward the window.

He walked past me.

I swung.

I put everything I had into it. All the fear. All the anger. All the betrayal.

The poker hit his knee.

*Crunch.*

He screamed. He buckled.

I didn't stop. I swung again. This time at his head.

He raised his arm to block. The poker hit his forearm with a dull *thud*. He dropped the rifle.

I kicked it away.

He lunged at me. He was big. Heavy. He tackled me to the ground.

We rolled. He punched me in the jaw. I tasted blood.

I clawed at his face. I gouged his eye.

He roared. He grabbed my throat.

His grip was like iron. My vision started to blur. Black spots danced in the red light.

I couldn't breathe.

But my hand was still on the poker.

I jammed the pointed end into his ribs.

He gasped. His grip loosened.

I pushed him off. I scrambled up.

I grabbed the rifle.

I didn't know how to use it. I didn't care. I pointed it at him.

"Stay down," I rasped.

He looked at me. One eye was swollen shut. He was bleeding.

He laughed.

"You think you've won?" he wheezed. "Thorne has the whole mountain surrounded. There's no way out."

"Watch me," I said.

I turned and limped into the hallway.

I heard more footsteps downstairs. Shouting.

I couldn't go down.

I looked at the service elevator. The dumbwaiter I used for laundry.

Too small.

The window?

A thirty-foot drop to the driveway. With a twisted ankle, it was suicide.

I was trapped on the second floor.

Unless...

I looked at the ceiling.

The attic access.

It was a small hatch in the hallway ceiling. I had used it once to check the insulation.

I dragged a console table under it. I climbed up. I pushed the hatch open.

I pulled myself up.

The attic was dark. Hot. It smelled of dust and fiberglass.

I crawled into the darkness. I pulled the hatch closed behind me.

I lay there, listening.

Below me, boots thudded on the hardwood. Doors were kicked open.

"She's gone," a voice said.

"She can't be gone. Check the vents."

I crawled deeper into the attic. Toward the north side of the house.

There was a vent there. An exhaust fan for the bathroom. It led to the outside wall.

I reached it. I peered through the slats.

I was above the garage roof. It was a ten-foot drop from here to the garage, then another ten to the ground.

Doable.

I kicked the vent. It popped out.

I squeezed through the opening. I hung by my fingertips.

I let go.

I hit the garage roof. My ankle screamed in protest, but I rolled to absorb the impact.

I was out.

I slid down the shingles to the edge. I dropped to the ground.

I was in the shadows of the garage.

I looked around.

The driveway was full of SUVs. Men were shouting, sweeping the grounds with flashlights.

But the woods...

The woods were dark.

I limped toward the tree line.

"Hey!"

A voice. Behind me.

I froze.

I turned slowly.

A man was standing by the corner of the garage. He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He was wearing a suit.

Marcus Thorne.

He was holding a gun. A silver pistol.

"Going somewhere, Elena?"

He walked toward me. He looked calm. Smug.

"You caused quite a mess," he said, gesturing to the house. "My investors are going to be very unhappy."

"The investors are the least of your problems," I said. "The FBI is on their way."

"Are they?" He laughed. "I own the FBI, darling. Or at least, the agents who matter."

He raised the gun.

"Now. The hard drive. Where is it?"

"I don't have it," I said.

"Liar."

"I dropped it," I said. "On the roof."

"We checked the roof. It's not there."

He took a step closer.

"Give it to me, Elena. And maybe I'll let you live."

"Like you let Leo live?"

His smile faltered.

"Leo was a liability," he said. "Just like you."

He cocked the gun.

"Last chance."

I looked at him. I looked at the gun.

I looked past him.

At the garage door.

It was closed.

But the side door... the one I had poured gasoline in front of...

It was open.

And standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the dying embers of the fire...

Was Julian.

He wasn't on the helicopter.

He had come back.

He was holding a tire iron.

He put a finger to his lips. *Shh.*

I looked back at Thorne.

"You want the drive?" I asked.

"Yes."

"It's in my pocket."

I reached into my jacket.

Thorne watched me, his eyes greedy.

I pulled out my hand.

It was empty.

"Oops," I said.

Thorne's face twisted in rage. "You little—"

Julian swung.

The tire iron hit Thorne in the back of the knees.

*Crack.*

Thorne screamed. He buckled. He fell to his knees.

The gun flew out of his hand. It skidded across the wet pavement.

Julian didn't stop. He swung again. This time at Thorne's head.

Thorne dodged. He rolled. He scrambled for the gun.

"Get the gun, Elena!" Julian yelled.

I dove.

My hand closed around the cold metal of the pistol.

I rolled onto my back. I raised the gun.

Thorne was on top of Julian. They were grappling in the mud. Thorne had his hands around Julian's throat.

"Shoot him!" Julian gasped.

I aimed.

But my hands were shaking. The rain was in my eyes.

If I missed, I hit Julian.

"Shoot him!"

Thorne looked up at me. His face was a mask of fury.

"You can't do it," he sneered. "You're weak."

I tightened my grip.

"I'm not weak," I whispered. "I'm the Architect."

I pulled the trigger.

*Bang.*

The shot echoed off the cliffs.

Thorne went rigid.

He slumped forward. He collapsed onto Julian.

Silence.

Julian pushed the body off him. He sat up, gasping for air.

He looked at Thorne. A bullet hole in the center of his chest.

He looked at me.

"Nice shot," he wheezed.

I lowered the gun.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'll live," he said. He stood up, wincing. "Why didn't you get on the chopper?"

"Why did you come back?"

He looked at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable.

"I forgot my wife," he said.

He held out his hand.

"Come on. The boat is still at the marina."

I looked at his hand.

I looked at the dead man in the mud.

I looked at the house, dark and broken on the hill.

I stood up.

But I didn't take his hand.

I took a step back.

"No," I said.

Julian frowned. "Elena, we have to go. The rest of his team is coming."

"You go," I said.

"What?"

"You go," I repeated. "Take the boat. Disappear. Be the ghost you always wanted to be."

"I'm not leaving without you."

"Yes, you are," I said.

I raised the gun.

I pointed it at him.

Julian froze.

"Elena?"

"You saved me," I said. "But you also broke me. You made me into this."

I gestured to the gun. To the body.

"I can't go with you, Julian. Because if I do... I'll never be free."

"You love me," he said.

"I know," I said. "That's why you have to go."

He stared at me. For a long moment, he didn't move.

Then, he nodded.

"Okay," he whispered.

He backed away. Toward the woods.

"Goodbye, El."

"Goodbye, Julian."

He turned and ran. He disappeared into the trees.

I stood there in the rain. Alone.

I looked at the gun in my hand.

I dropped it.

It landed in the mud next to Thorne's body.

I turned and walked toward the gate.

I walked past the SUVs. Past the men who were shouting, running toward the gunshot.

I walked down the switchback road.

I walked until I reached the highway.

A car stopped. A beat-up Subaru.

The window rolled down.

"Need a ride?"

It was Sasha.

She was pale. Her arm was in a sling. But she was alive.

And in the passenger seat...

Sarah.

"Get in," Sarah said.

I climbed into the back.

"Is it done?" Sasha asked.

I looked back at the mountain. At the flashing lights.

"The show's over," I said.

Sarah put the car in gear.

We drove into the night.

"Where are we going?" Sasha asked.

I leaned my head back against the seat. I closed my eyes.

"To the sequel," I said.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled it out.

A text. From Unknown Number.

*I forgot to tell you.*

*The boat is rigged.*

I sat up.

"Turn on the radio," I said.

Sasha turned it on.

*"...breaking news. An explosion at the marina. Authorities report a luxury yacht has been destroyed..."*

I stared at the phone.

The boat.

Julian's boat.

He was dead.

For real this time.

I looked at the text again.

*You're welcome.*

*- The Director.*

I looked at Sarah in the front seat. She was watching me in the rearview mirror.

She smiled.

And for the first time, I noticed her eyes.

They were green.

Just like Julian's.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

She didn't answer. She just turned up the radio.

And kept driving.