Ravaged by Them (Descent Into Darkness 2)

The front door of the police station opened, and my heart stopped beating for a moment—it was my father. He took a spot at the top of the steps and a few seconds later he was joined by a man who appeared to be in charge of the cops. Within a few minutes, they were joined by a man I had only seen on television up until that point—the mayor of Chicago. If I didn’t know that my father was the king before that point, it would have been hard to deny. He was positioned between the two of the most powerful people in the city.

Wait—I recognize that guy in the crowd. Steve?

I hadn’t seen Steve since returning to Prescott Manor. My father told me during one of the conversations he had with me after my return that he fired Steve for not protecting me. If he wasn’t working for my father, why was he in the crowd of people—it was mostly made up of media journalists that were searching for a story. My heart started beating hard in my chest. Steve—wouldn’t do anything stupid—would he?

Oh my god. My father is going to have them killed in broad daylight—as soon as they arrive.

I pushed open my car door and tossed my laptop beside me. One of the reporters said that Brody and Rourke were about to arrive. I scanned the street—there was an armored van approaching with the Chicago PD emblem on the side. The crowd certainly noticed it. Camera flashes went off—all of the video cameras were turned in that direction. My father just smiled—like he was waiting to enjoy the best moment of his life. I saw Steve move to the front of the crowd as the van approached.

I have to get there.

The van came to a stop and two men in riot gear hopped out. They walked to the back and started opening the doors. I saw Steve reach into his jacket—he had to be going for a weapon. Brody and Rourke were pulled out of the back of the van. The crowd applauded—everyone except Steve. I bolted across the street, dodging cars—making them come to a screeching halt. I screamed at the top of my lungs. The crowd didn’t hear me. They were making too much noise. I saw a flash of silver. Steve aimed his gun. I was too far away. There was too much distance between him and the gun. I was going to be too late if I lunged for him. Someone finally noticed me—one of the guys in riot gear. He tried to get his hands around my waist, but I dodged his attempt.

“Brody! Rourke! Look out!” I screamed—and I was close enough for them to actually hear me.

I got past the guy in riot gear and threw myself in front of Steve’s gun. I heard my father’s voice—louder than the rest. It was too late. Steve pulled the trigger. He didn’t see me until the bullet had already left the gun. I accepted my death—it was the ultimate price for my sins. I set Brody and Rourke up. I put them in handcuffs. I put them in a cell. I took a year of their life, but I wouldn’t take another day. I would just let myself die on a cold Chicago sidewalk instead. I prepared for the pain—the agony—and the dark conclusion of my life.

But that didn’t happen. When I finally stopped wincing and realized I was still standing, I saw a horrified expression on Steve’s face.

Then I saw why.

The bullet didn’t hit me. It didn’t hit Brody. It didn’t hit Rourke.

It hit my father, who was laying at my feet.

“Daddy!” I screamed and dropped to my knees—turning him over immediately.

I had learned to hate the man staring back at me, but nothing prepared to see the blood on his lips—to see him gasping for air as he choked on his sacrifice. He lifted his arm slowly and I grabbed his hand. The crowd of people around us took a step back as I started screaming for someone to help me. Steve dropped his gun and started pushing against them—trying to get away. I looked back at Brody and Rourke. I wanted them to help, but they were being restrained by the men in riot gear. The mayor and the chief of police came running down the steps. Other police officers joined them. Some of them tried to help—one of them tried to pull me away, but I refused to let go of my father’s hand. Tears were streaming down my face as I realized that my father was dying.

“Family…” Blood sputtered from my father’s lips. “Family comes first.”

I felt his hand go limp. I couldn’t hold onto him any longer. The police officer pulled me away. Brody and Rourke were taken into the police station and paramedics arrived. I knew there was no way they were going to be able to save my father. The bullet hit him in the chest and there was too much blood. He threw himself in front of the very bullet he put in motion—to save me. All of my fury—all of that desire for vengeance. It left me in screams of anguish as my tears flooded down my face.

The King of Chicago was dead.

Brody

Several hours later

“Miss Prescott, can we get a statement? Why did you try to save the two men that you previously accused of murder? Miss Prescott!” The reporter was aggressive, refusing to leave us alone as we walked down the steps of the police station.

“You’re about to get my fucking fist in your face if you don’t back off!” I turned towards him and snarled.

He immediately cowered.

“Leave them alone, Brody. We have to get Anabelle home.” Rourke grabbed my sleeve.

“Lucky for you,” I growled at the reporter and then continued walking.

I was still trying to wrap my head around everything that happened. One minute we were bein

g taken out of a van and the next, Adrian Prescott was on the sidewalk bleeding to death. Anabelle tried to take a fucking bullet for us. Her father jumped in front of it. It was poetic in a way—the asshole that tried to have us executed had to give up his own life in order to save his daughter before she could sacrifice her own. I might have even felt good about it if I wasn’t holding the heartbroken shell of the woman I loved that his sacrifice left behind.

I wasn’t sure the light would ever return to Anabelle’s eyes. She had witnessed something truly horrific—and we set her on the path that led to her father’s death. After we were taken into the police station and locked in a cell, we waited for two hours until we finally found out what she had done to save us. She found a video of her father committing the murder he pinned on us. It didn’t take our lawyer long to get us released after the video was played on the news. We found Anabelle waiting for us—or maybe she was just too stunned to move from the spot they put her in after she made it inside the police station.

Anabelle didn’t say a word on the drive to Prescott Manor. Most of the workers that met us at the door were in tears. Adrian Prescott might have been an asshole, but they apparently cared enough to shed tears. A doctor came to check on Anabelle after we got her upstairs. He put a needle in her arm and she didn’t even flinch. Her internal pain was stronger than any physical pain she could endure. The doctor could have probably amputated her arm without her even noticing. I watched until her eyes were closed—then I watched until I was sure she was asleep.

“Fuck, I need a fucking drink.” Rourke exhaled sharply.