Winter's Storm: Retribution (Winter's Saga #2)
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An angry, guttural growl echoed from the darkened hospital room.
Glowing yellow eyes only a few yards away locked on Farrow Schone and in that instant, she knew it could smell her blood, hear her heart racing, and see the pulse in her exposed neck.
Farrow had never felt more like a piece of meat than she did right then.
Oh, crap! She thought and began backing slowly away from the opening of the door, but as she did, the creature crouched low and coiled its legs tightly under its muscular body, ready to spring.
Farrow could see now it was some kind of wild dog—a wolf or coyote, maybe.
…whatever it was, it was huge, and pissed-off.
Its piercing eyes were mesmerizing, hypnotic.
Its snarling muzzle exposed flesh-tearing teeth glistening wet with saliva.
There was no way she was going to be allowed anywhere near the people in that room.
Not wanting to cause a scene or get mauled, Farrow made a hasty exit.
Her orders were only to put eyes on the Winters and determine who was alive and who wasn’t. Dr. Williams was going to be livid to know they all survived. Farrow was also to collect Gavil and catch a flight back to Germany where she had no doubt all hell was going to break loose.
One week after the rescue of
Dr. Margo Winter
Dr. Kenneth Williams’ training camp called “The Facility” in Furth, Germany
Black laces, measured perfectly, slipped like silk through the metal holes of his military boots. Practiced fingers gripped each cross section and worked their way up the tongue until the top most position when both ends were tugged taught. He wrapped them once around, tied a quick double knotted bow and tucked the excess lace into the top of the boot.
Creed Young stood and swept his large hands over the wrinkles that had quickly formed in his freshly pressed military fatigues. His olive green T-shirt stretched tightly across his wide chest, barely containing his massive physique. His chiseled face was stoic, marble and expressionless as he reached to retrieve his beret.
This was the day for which he had been trained. This was the day of his Retribution. In all the years he lived at the Facility, he had watched many Retribution Matches. Watched the two metas sent into the arena together and ordered to “Kill, or be killed.” The battles were brutal. Even for the audience filled with hard-core metahumans trained to believe weakness needed to be stomped out. The Matches brought out the primal, vicious and evil. This wasn’t just a friendly competition to see who would come out on top. This was survival of the fittest in its most primitive sense. This was Darwinism deformed, but it was Creed’s way of life; all he’d ever known. And today was his day.
From outside he heard the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd. His opponent must be hearing this, too. He wondered who was chosen to enter the arena with him. What was he thinking? How did he feel about the terms of the battle? How determined was he to win? When it came down to it, Creed wondered if he would be able to kill his opponent, as required by the rules of the event.
In the mirror, the eighteen-year-old stared at his reflection and tightened his jaw. Creed struggled with this part of his discipline. He struggled simply obeying an order just because it had been handed down. Every other meta just did as they were told. They were unquestioning, unthinking and uninhibited by their thoughts.
Creed was different from the others, and he knew it. The hard part was making sure no one else knew it. He was skilled at disguising his thoughts and feelings with an expressionless face. He knew the consequences of being different. Over the years he witnessed several cases where perfectly viable metahumans were removed from the Facility for lesser infractions than individual mindedness. And they were never seen again.