Chapter 107: No Loose Ends

Chapter 107: Chapter 107: No Loose EndsThe opulent living room of the Wallenbern Estate was a charnel house. The scent of spilled blood, thick and coppery, mingled with the faint, sharp smell of ozone. Ornate furniture was overturned, and the bodies of maids and security guards lay twisted on priceless Persian rugs, their loyalty repaid with swift, brutal efficiency.

In the center of the carnage, Robert Wallenbern was on his knees. One eye was swollen shut, his lip was split, and a dark bruise was already purpling along his jaw. He was a king in the ruins of his castle, breathing in ragged, painful gasps.

Standing over him, immaculate in black tactical gear, was McKnight, flanked by two towering Echo Soldiers. They were perfectly still, their faces impassive masks of conditioned obedience.

McKnight circled Robert slowly, his boots silent on the blood-stained marble. "You were lucky, Robert," he began, his voice a calm, conversational lecture. "Truly. Standard decommissioning protocol for a family being pulled from the Table is simple liquidation. No loose ends, no risk of secrets getting out. But the Apostle granted you a gift. Freedom. A quiet retirement in a Swiss villa with your remaining wealth." He paused, crouching slightly to look Robert in his one good eye. "But you just had to betray them. A foolish, sentimental thing to do."

Robert spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the floor. A broken, sneering smirk twisted his lips. "You stole it!" he growled, his voice a guttural rasp. "After everything my family sacrificed, everything we built... they took our legacy and they’re just gonna give it to some punk in the Philippines!"

A cold, humorless smile touched McKnight’s lips. "Your family has been receiving help from the Table since the end of the Great War, Robert. You were propped up, an asset given every advantage. But a cost-benefit analysis was run, and you were found wanting," McKnight said, standing up straight. "A better potential member arose. Bytebull. Or, shall I say, Richard Santamo. He built an empire without our help, save for a few strings we pulled in the government to reduce friction. He has vision. You just had to want everything."

McKnight nodded to the soldier on Robert’s right. "Besides, the Table always prefers an asset with a leash. And Richard has one."

The soldier stepped forward. His uniform was identical to the other Echo Soldier’s, his face obscured by a full helmet, his posture that of a mindless puppet.

"You were let go because you’re a liability, Robert. Volatile, unpredictable," McKnight continued, his voice dropping. "But Richard... Richard has a weakness. Meet Subject Omega. Or as he was once known, Ronnie Santamo. Richard’s brother."

The name hit Robert harder than any physical blow. His face went slack with dawning horror as he stared at the emotionless soldier.

"Captured by yours truly," McKnight added with a hint of pride. "Conditioned at Black Site Nyrrh-Zeta to be the perfect warrior slave for his new masters. You see, whether Richard chooses to join the Table or not, we have his brother. Humans like us... we tend to surrender everything when family is on the line. It’s a design flaw we are very, very good at exploiting."



The last of Robert’s defiance crumbled, replaced by a raw, primal terror. McKnight’s smile widened. "Don’t worry, there will be no quick death for you. Lord Krull’kahn has taken a personal interest in your... re-education. He would like to take care of you personally."

McKnight tapped a device on his wrist. The air before him shimmered and tore open, coalescing into a swirling, unstable vortex of blue-green energy—a portal. "Take him," he ordered.

The two Echo Soldiers—the genetically forged stranger and Richard Santamo’s own brother—seized Robert’s arms. He screamed, a pathetic, strangled sound, as they dragged him unceremoniously into the vortex.

McKnight turned and walked toward the shattered main entrance of the mansion. Standing just outside were five men in dark, nondescript suits. The lead agent, a man named Davis, watched with a hard, weary expression.

"Davis," McKnight said, his tone shifting from enforcer to a predator greeting a lesser creature. He and Davis had come up together, years ago. Friends, once.

"McKnight," Davis replied, his voice tight.

"I’m offering you one last time, Davis. The world is changing. There’s still a place for men like you on the winning side."

Davis’s jaw clenched. "I’m not gonna work for some lizard who thinks we’re cattle."

The casual defiance seemed to amuse McKnight. He stepped closer to the agent, his voice dropping to a confidential, taunting whisper. "And now," he said softly, patting his old friend on the shoulder with chilling condescension, "you know what it feels like to be one."

Without another word, McKnight turned his back on Davis, strode back into the living room, and stepped through the shimmering portal. It snapped shut with a sound like tearing silk, plunging the ruined hall into an abrupt, heavy silence. Davis stood frozen for a moment, the weight of his inferiority pressing down on him, before turning to his team. "Alright," he sighed, the word tasting like ash. "Let’s clean this up. Let’s make sure this never happened."



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The world looked peaceful from the 71st floor. From her secluded table in the revolving restaurant, Jean Thalie Wallenbern watched the city sprawl below, a breathtaking tapestry of captured light. She hadn’t touched the glass of Château Margaux a sommelier had reverently poured for her. Her thoughts were a quiet, cold river, having finally settled after the turbulent rage of the past few days.

She wasn’t thinking of the cryopods in Greenland her father had spoken of. She wasn’t thinking of her brother, Andre, likely drowning himself in liquor and women. She was thinking of the price. The long, bloody history of her family’s service to the Cabal, the Divine Concordance, had been a loan, not a gift. Power was their currency, and now the debt had been called in. There was a cold logic to it that, in her final moments, she could almost admire.

A waiter, his movements practiced and discreet, approached her table. He placed a small, exquisite dish before her. "Your appetizer, Ms. Wallenbern. Seared foie gras with a balsamic reduction. I hope it is to your liking."

Jean looked up from the city lights, her public mask of detached politeness clicking into place. She offered a faint, tired smile. "Thank you. It looks perfect."

She picked up her fork. The weight felt strange in her hand, impossibly heavy. She took a single, deliberate bite. The flavor was a rich, decadent explosion on her tongue—a final taste of the world she was about to leave.

A moment later, it began. A subtle numbness in her throat, a pleasant warmth that spread with terrifying speed. There was no pain, no struggle. Her vision tunneled, the million lights of the city blurring into a single, brilliant smear. Her fork clattered softly against the fine china as her head slumped forward, her cheek coming to rest against the cool, crisp linen of the tablecloth. To anyone who happened to glance over, she might have simply fallen asleep.

The waiter observed this from across the room. He calmly walked to a service corridor leading to a staff bathroom. Inside, he peeled off the waiter’s uniform, revealing the simple, dark clothing of a tourist underneath. He balled up the uniform and dropped it into a waste receptacle. He exited through a different door, merged seamlessly into the crowd in the bustling hotel lobby, and disappeared into the city night. The account was closed.

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In a sound-proofed VIP room of an exclusive underground bar, the air was thick with the scent of spilled bourbon and expensive perfume. Andre Lucroe Wallenbern was in his element, a king on a velvet throne, laughing as he leaned back against the plush cushions. He had done his part. The letters were sent, the activation messages on their way. He had spit in the eye of the gods who had cast him down. Now, he would enjoy his final reward. seaʀᴄh thё Novёlƒire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Two women flanked him, their laughter tinkling around his own boisterous roar.



"You really think you can just vanish?" one of them, a redhead named Chloe, purred, trailing a finger down his chest. "A man like you? They’ll be looking for you everywhere."

Andre grinned, pulling her closer. "Let them look, darling. I’ll be a ghost. A very rich, very satisfied ghost. I left you a little something to remember me by."

"Oh, you did?" asked the other woman, a blonde named Sasha, who was positioned behind the couch, her hands massaging his shoulders. "Was it enough to make us miss you?"

"It’s enough to make you forget every other man you’ve ever known," Andre boasted, closing his eyes in bliss as Sasha’s fingers worked the tension from his neck. "I am, after all, unforgettable."

"You are that," Sasha whispered in his ear.

Her other hand, hidden from his view, moved with a viper’s speed. A thin, silenced stiletto slid from a sheath on her thigh. In a single, fluid motion, she drove the blade deep into his back, just below the ribcage.

Andre’s eyes flew open, his boast turning into a wet gasp. The smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter, bovine shock. Before he could even process the searing pain, Chloe moved. The woman in his arms, his prize, pulled a similar blade from a garter and plunged it into his chest. Once. Twice.

His body convulsed. He looked from one cold, unfamiliar face to the other, a final, uncomprehending question in his wide eyes. He slumped back, the life draining out of him onto the expensive velvet.

The women stood up, their faces now cold and professional. They wiped their blades on a cocktail napkin and scanned the room. Confirming their privacy, they slipped out a private rear door into a dark, refuse-strewn alley. They moved quickly, their heels clicking softly on the grimy pavement, heading for their extraction point.

They were halfway down the alley when two soft phuts echoed from the darkness above.

Chloe crumpled first, a neat, dark hole appearing in the back of her head. Sasha had just enough time to register a flicker of movement on a fire escape across the way before a second bullet struck her in the same spot. She fell forward, landing beside her partner in a heap.

From the shadows of the fire escape, a figure lowered a silenced pistol, confirmed the kills through a small scope, and melted back into the city’s darkness. The Concordance left no loose ends.