Free Relentless by Robin Parrish Page B

other end. ‘‘You may proceed.’’
    ‘‘Parameters?’’ the Thresher asked, even though he knew the answer. This was no client calling to offer a job. This was the call.
    The conversation he’d been waiting years for. Quite possibly his entire life for.
    ‘‘You are hereby endowed with authority and purpose beyond that of any law of man,’’ came the emotionless reply. ‘‘Do not stop until your task is complete.’’
    The Thresher hesitated for a faint moment, effortlessly maintaining the sword’s pressure against his quarry’s neck. ‘‘The Secretum is confident? This is the time?’’
    ‘‘The appointed hour is at hand,’’ was the slightly annoyed reply. ‘‘Your destiny has been written, and so shall it be: the Bringer shall be slain at the hands of the Thresher . Find him, and perform your function.’’
    The Thresher snapped the phone shut, sliced his target’s head from his shoulders in a powerful back-handed chop, wiped the blood off onto the headless torso’s shirt, and sheathed the gleaming sword to his side, all in one elegant precise move.
    He was gone without another sound.

10
    Grant awoke violently, jerking straight up to a sitting position. He was sweating and breathing hard, and every muscle was tensed. It took several quiet minutes before he could remember where he was.
    Or who he was.
    When he’d finally caught his breath, he frowned; his bed sheet was ripped straight down the middle. He was still clutching the two torn halves in his hands. His leg throbbed, bright sunlight streamed in between the cracks in the blinds, and his thoughts drifted back . . .
    Three days had passed since his defeat of the mercenary Konrad. And Julie’s fussing over him had become more and more pronounced each day.
    The morning after Collin and Konrad had died in the fire, Grant and Julie visited an emergency room in Garden Grove, on the south side of L.A.—to avoid any potential connection with the arson. It was more than two hours after they entered the hospital before Grant had finally seen a doctor.
    The terse woman at the check-in desk was most unhelpful. When she requested his insurance card and carrier, he asked if she could find his records in the computer based on his name. She appeared rather miffed by the request, but she complied. He was unable to muster any surprise when she called him and Julie back to the desk to pronounce that no ‘‘Grant Borrows’’ had ever been a patient at any hospital on record. Her tone of voice made it clear how satisfied she was upon making this conclusion.
    Grant paid the bill in cash.
    That afternoon, at his sister’s suggestion, they’d both taken up residence in the Wagner Building’s high-rise penthouse. Grant still didn’t feel like it was really his, but as Julie had put it, they simply had nowhere else to go. He tried to convince her to go back home; with Konrad dead, she should be safe. But she would hear none of it, determined as she was to look after him.
    He’d spent each night tossing and turning in bed, snatching only brief moments of unconsciousness—all of which were filled with nightmares about burning buildings and bottles filled with fire and watching his own funeral from inside the coffin. He’d woken up screaming several times, and Julie repeatedly burst into the room and rushed to his side.
    Prescription bottles rested on his nightstand, waiting. They were terribly inviting.
    That night after the hospital visit, he’d had to physically lean on Julie just to make it inside the condominium, but she never complained. Two brand-new sets of stitches were biting into his leg on either side, where the bullet holes had been. The doctor had also treated him for a mild concussion, along with his other scrapes, and given him a prescription for pain—the very bottles that were currently holding his attention.
    And as he’d done several times over the last three days, he quietly opened the nearest pill bottle so Julie wouldn’t