Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

and that’s what Elias had done his entire life. He was fast and sharp and could hit hard after relentless practice on the mu ren zhuang, but that’s about twenty percent of what you need in a fight to the death.

There’s so many more intangibles.

As Elias stumbled back with a broken jaw, Slater kicked him low in the calf, causing the muscle to seize up, and Elias went down on one knee.

Slater lined up a kick that ordinarily would have slammed into the body, but instead cracked into the side of Elias’ skull because of his kneeling position.

Elias splayed into the dirt.

Slater said, ‘Get up.’

No movement.

Slater said, ‘Come on, get up.’

Elias got to his knees, then worked his way shakily back to his feet. His mouth and nose poured blood. His eyes had watered up, and his jaw hung open unnaturally. He couldn’t shut it. It was broken.

Slater said, ‘Harness your ki. Like you do before you kill those who betray the movement.’

Elias was statuesque, defeated.

‘Come on,’ Slater said. ‘You’ve tapped into some higher ability, haven’t you? You can fight better than any of these MMA fighters you see on TV. You’re a master. Prove yourself.’

It touched the right nerve.

Concentration swelled in Elias’ face as he tried to shut out the pain and summon ten straight years of practicing Wing Chun in privacy. All those hours, all that hard work.

Slater learned long ago that smart work beats hard work any day of the week.

Elias threw a final, all-out hand strike, aiming for Slater’s throat.

His eyes were rabid with desperation.

Slater slapped it aside, drilled a calloused fist into Elias’ nose, then seized the back of his neck and held him in place as he smashed three consecutive elbows into the guy’s throat. Each impact caved in muscle and tissue and bone. Elias’ eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, and he fell unconscious to the dirt.

He died choking.

Slater thought of all the people he’d killed for the Riordans, and figured Elias deserved worse than that.

Unfortunately there was no time to be cruel.

Standing over the body, Slater muttered, ‘Shame.’

He rolled the corpse over so it was face-down, lifeless eyes burrowed into the dirt.

He went to find Alexis.

90

One of the disciples in the mess hall took the lead and said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

King put a hand on Violetta’s shoulder, conveying the need for her to stay where she was, and he stepped forward, using himself as a human shield. There were still a few dozen feet of empty tables and benches between him and the first disciple.

He said, ‘Let’s all cool it. We need some breathing room. We’ll work this out later, okay?’

The first man shook his head slowly, each swing of his chin menacing. ‘That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. You heard what Mother said. You are chosen, Violetta. You can’t shy away from this.’

King pined desperately for calm and peace, but those concepts were long gone.

His stomach knotted as he realised he might have to blow the cover by force.

But he had to be sure.

He said, ‘What are you going to do with her, exactly?’

The disciple’s eyes flared.

The dark silence said everything.

But the man spoke anyway. ‘You heard the command. She is priceless, and it looks like you two don’t want to hang around. That’s not acceptable. The baby will usher in a new era for Mother Libertas. If the lady doesn’t want to stay, then we’ll make the lady stay.’

King sensed every ounce of the danger his unborn child was in.

It changed him in his core.

He sensed the darkness rising in him, matching the energy in the air.

He said, ‘Is that right?’

The first man smiled, relishing the confrontation. He’d been moving closer this whole time, sidestepping the long tables, and now King could see the swollen pupils. A low dose of Bodhi, enough to strip him of inhibitions, remove fear, elevate excitement. King stared past the man to the other ten followers, and all of them had the same glint in their eyes.

They were separated by mere feet now.

King hadn’t lifted a finger in anger his whole time in the commune.

That was about to come to an end.

He said, ‘You sure this is the way you want to go?’

The first man said, ‘You’re making the choice. Not me.’

‘We’re going to walk out of here,’ King said, giving him a final chance. ‘That’s within our rights.’

The guy smiled devilishly. ‘Not anymore.’

King said, ‘Fine.’

A couple of dozen feet behind him, King heard Violetta quietly say, ‘No.’

He ignored it.

Nothing would endanger his child.

Nothing.

King sized up the first guy. He was tall, big, strong, with pale skin and sandy hair. A farmhand in a previous life, maybe. Now a devoted convert.

Given a purpose, an identity, a tribe.

In that moment, King properly soaked in the disciple’s behaviour for the first time. All the man’s doubt and hesitation was gone, replaced by ardent commitment to the cause, leaving him free to commit any atrocity he desired in the name of the movement.

For the first time, King truly understood the danger of Mother Libertas.

Then King became an automaton. Stripped himself of his own inhibitions for the following minutes, until Violetta and the child inside her were safe. Adrenaline fused with relentless determination and overrode his senses.

Violetta said, ‘Jason, no.’

He ignored it.

He walked straight at the first guy and said, ‘Okay. We surrender.’

The guy cocked his head. ‘You do?’

King’s demeanour didn’t gel with his words, and he was closing the distance fast.

King nodded. ‘Yeah, man. We screwed up. I’m sorry.’

‘Stay right there—’

Too late.

King darted into range and unleashed a colossal uppercut into the base of the farmhand’s jaw.

The other ten disciples charged at him, their rage as dark as their souls.

91

The alarm didn’t stop.

The blaring noise had filled the church for minutes now. The building’s thick stone walls muffled most of the din, but some sound snuck through, which was enough. The whine reverberated, echoing off the walls and the high ceiling.

Addison’s eyes were wide, depression giving way to terror.

Brandon was already stirring,