Free Relentless by Robin Parrish

the coffin as it went lower, lower, lower, until it was beyond his ability to see.
    Standing alone in the silent darkness, Grant could keep his feelings in check no longer, and he was tired of trying. He broke down, his battered body collapsing into a shuddering heap on the ground, his shoulders shaking violently.
    The sound of his sobs filled the graveyard.
    But there was something . . .
    What was that?
    A faint glow caught his attention between haggard breaths. The ring on his finger had become radiant. It was diffuse, like a light shining deep underwater.
    It was shimmering.
    Miles away, far outside of town, a middle-aged woman with a serene presence and silver hair stood alone in a darkened room.
    All of her attention was focused on the ancient object lying on a table in front of her. She studied it with tremendous mental focus, memorizing its every groove, crevice, and pattern. Her finger ran gently over it, rubbing the scarred, craggy surface.
    Something in the room began to glow softly. Her eyes shifted to the source of the light as a smile spread across her features.
    ‘‘At last,’’ she proclaimed, standing upright, ‘‘the Bringer has come.’’

INTERREGNUM
    ‘‘ P HASE ONE COMPLETE,’’ said a voice hiding behind a pair of slumped shoulders that slouched before a bright computer monitor. The computer and its user were accompanied by dozens of others just like them, lining the outer walls of the shadowy room.
    A single reply came from a voice somewhere near the center of the vast room. It was a deep, booming voice, punctuated with unmistakable authority. ‘‘Activate Phase Two.’’
    ‘‘Yes sir,’’ the computer technician replied without taking his eyes from the screen. ‘‘Making the call now.’’

9
    The motorcycle snarled down the murky street through late evening fog, a fog as thick as the motorcycle rider’s hot breath. The black, gleaming machine was a bloodthirsty predator, nose to the ground in anticipation of a kill. The two tires chewed asphalt at speeds far above the legal limit, leaving the scent of hot rubber in its wake.
    But the man who rode the metallic beast wore an expression of unemotional, intense concentration as he stared without blinking into the onrushing wind. No glasses or helmet visor obstructed his view; he had little use for either. Covered in black from collar to foot, he was completely bald and rather short of stature. He favored the simplistic look primarily for its functionality, but also because of the imposing silhouette it formed.
    Fear was a powerful weapon. But it wasn’t the most powerful one he carried.
    Subterfuge, on the other hand, was pointless. It mattered not whether those he hunted saw his face. If they did, it was the last thing they would see in this life.
    To those in the darkest corners of society—those who knew of the terrifying things that happened in the world’s underbelly—he was known as the Thresher.
    This particular chase had lasted a scant few hours. Another hunter might be disappointed by such a weak prey; the Thresher cared little for how long a hunt lasted. Once begun, he would see it through, regardless of how long it took. As a rule, he refused to stop for food, rest, or sleep until his agreed-upon task was complete.
    This one would be over in less than five minutes.
    Streetlamps passed overhead as fast as a strobe light. He paid them no attention. His eyes were on the narrow main road ahead, long empty in the deep of night. His senses were alert and his muscles tensed.
    Each time a side street appeared to his right, he stole a quick look, briefly searching for signs of his prey. It was on the seventh side street he passed that he caught the faintest glimpse of the other biker before the buildings between them again blocked his view.
    He bore no weapons save for the contents of a single scabbard secured to his left hip. From the ornate leather sheath he withdrew a sword, which reverberated on the air like a chime. An