Self-loathing, for falling so easily into vice, for so frequently choosing to numb the pain that dogged him, for choosing so often to run from his demons instead of confronting them, for stubbornly muting the memories that spun like mechanical blades within him, cutting him to pieces from the inside out, and for silencing all of this by retreating into the temporary havens of drug-fuelled highs or excesses of sex and debauchery.
He paused as a torrent of memories surged through his mind with the momentum of a tsunami, tearing trees from the ground and wrenching houses from their foundations.
Could I have saved her? Could things have been different? Could I have prevented the deaths of my friends? Could I have saved all of them? It’s my fault, isn’t it? Everything tragic that has come to pass is my fault. I could have stopped it, I could have prevented it, if only, if only, if only … And now all that remains is violence, bloodshed and a bitter, desperate last stand from the few stragglers who escaped the holocaust perpetrated against our kind, and the rest of the natural world.
But there is something else.
Something I dare not speak of, for it is the dark force that has kept me alive, that has kept this weak flame in me burning through times of the most intense darkness, bleakness and despair.
But how can I still, in all honesty, continue to deny its influence, its power, the force with which it steers this near-empty vessel that I have become? I say that I have gone on, that I have endured against all odds, because of the bright flames of justice and of goodness that burn in my soul.
That much is true, yes … but it is not the whole truth.
There is another flame – a black flame that combusts with the antithesis of light. A flame that burns with the force of the most terrible darkness. A desire that has pulled me through the loss of all hope, of all will to hold on to this fragile strand of life upon which I dangle above the yawning maw of death.
Revenge.
Hatred.
Burning on, ever on inside me, with the ravenous vehemence of lit gasoline.
I will cut your still-beating heart from your chest, Sigurd Haraldsson. I will gouge it from your chest, tear it out and crush it in my fist while you watch. That will be the last thing your eyes ever see. And maybe, just maybe, if I can slaughter you I can somehow vanquish the guilt, the regret, the self-loathing that are, perhaps, far more frightful monsters than you ever could be.
William shook his head vigorously, as if trying to exorcise the negative surge of emotions from his mind. He had to have a clear head for what he was about to do, and thoughts like these were not helping.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he gave the corridor a quick visual sweep. He noted that it was clear, and then glanced at his wristwatch; everything had run according to schedule thus far. Now he just needed to let Sharaf in. He hurried over to the third window from the end of the corridor, and then conducted one final visual check. With both excitement and fear buzzing upon his every nerve ending he put down the crossbows and one AK-47, for he needed two hands for the next task. Ever vigilant, he kept one of the AK-47s slung over his shoulder and hanging at his hip, ready to be fired in an instant in case of an emergency. He then took his backpack off and retrieved an insulated canister of liquid nitrogen. Attached to it was a small spray nozzle with a battery-powered pump.
With a swift, sharp tug he ripped the curtains off the window, leaving the frame and burglar bars exposed. He paused just for a second to glance out at the galaxy of lights splayed out to the very edge of the horizon; Bangkok, in all of its sinful glory. Up here from the tenth floor, the view was not completely expansive, but, unobscured by any other tall buildings in the immediate vicinity, it was spectacular enough.
However, this was no time for sightseeing or distraction; everything had to be done with extreme precision, and not a single second could be wasted. With this sense of urgency spurring him on, William switched on the pump and began spraying the burglar bars with the liquid nitrogen. The liquid steamed and hissed as it hit the steel, cooling it with an almost supernatural rapidity. William kept an eye on the volume of liquid remaining in the canister; he would still need half of it in case the first attempt failed. He sprayed it up and down, only using the precious substance on small areas. After a minute, he had applied enough liquid nitrogen for the steel to shatter. He shut off the pump, stashed the canister back into his backpack, and then took out a heavy rubber-coated hammer. With a few sharp blows he was able to break the bars, after which he opened the window and peered outside.
There he was, leaping from pipes and ledges and scrambling up sheer walls using the most precarious of handholds: Sharaf, dressed rather appropriately in his bulletproof Batsuit. A parkour and free climbing expert, he had come up to this floor via a different route, after having completed his task of speed-welding a few outside doors shut to prevent both the board members’ escape, and entry of Huntsmen reinforcement troops.
In a moment he was at the window, and William leaned out to offer him a hand to get in.
‘I’ve just scaled ten floors with almost no handholds,’ Sharaf said with a smug grin, gripping the windowsill. ‘I’m pretty sure I can get in here without your help.’
William stepped back, checking the ends of the corridor again, and allowed Sharaf to climb in. As soon as Sharaf was safely inside William handed an AK and four
