Chapter 286: The end is near 1

LUCIAN

The alley smelled like rust and stale grease, a cloying reek that clung to the back of my throat and refused to let go. I pressed my spine against the brick, knees drawn up, the stolen clothes sticking to my sweat-slicked skin. My lungs still burned from the smoke — a raw, scraping ache that turned every breath into work. Above the rooftops, the city kept its indifferent rhythm: sirens wailing somewhere close, the fire that had been set still eating through what remained of my life three blocks over.

The dead woman’s phone was cold in my hand, screen cracked but working, and I was in her contacts, determining who could at least render a small help when a walkie-talkie crackled to life at the mouth of the alley.

I heard static first. Then a voice — young and tense — cutting through the afternoon hum.

"They found something in the debris."

I went still. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Another voice answered, older, gravelly. "What kind of something?"

"Clothing. Scary similar colors to what... And there was the family crest on the jacket lining."

A silence stretched between the static bursts. I could picture them standing in the street, black tactical gear gleaming with sweat, faces tipped toward the smoking ruin of my office building.

"The boots match," the first voice went on. "So do the black leather and the gold buckles. Bastien was wearing those this morning when he left the estate."

"Goddess." The older one breathed it out. "You think it’s him? You think Lucian got him?"

My hand tightened around the phone until the casing groaned. The realization hit like a fist to the gut. Bastien. That little bastard had been in my building. He’d found my safe house, killed my men, taken his woman, and then torched the place — dressed some dead mercenary in Alpha regalia so the world would think he’d burned.

And now the world believed it. They thought I’d killed the Alpha heir.

I laughed — a dry, rasping sound that scraped my smoke-damaged throat. They had it wrong. Perfectly, disastrously wrong. Bastien wasn’t dead. He was out there somewhere, laughing at all of us, while I took the fall for his escape.

The walkie-talkie crackled again. "Sweep the perimeter. He couldn’t have gone far. Check every alley within three blocks."

I pushed myself up, joints screaming, and my head swimming. This alley was a dead end now. If they were sweeping the block, they’d find what they were looking for fast. I needed to move.

A fire escape ladder hung overhead, bolted to the brick a few feet up. I edged toward it, footsteps silent, or so I thought.

"Hey!"

The voice came from behind, sharp and commanding. I turned.

Two sentinels stood at the alley’s mouth, weapons drawn, silhouetted against the smoke-stained sky. The younger one — the one who’d spoken — held his radio in his left hand, his gun in his right. The older one was already moving, flanking left, eyes narrowing as he placed my face.

"Don’t move." The younger one’s gun trembled slightly. "Hands where I can see them."

I raised my hands slowly, palms out, measuring the distance between us. Twelve feet. Maybe fifteen. Too far to close before they fired — close enough to see the sweat beading on the younger one’s upper lip.

"You’ve got this wrong," I said, my voice wrecked from the smoke. "I’m not who you think I am."

"You’re Lucian Moreau." The older one’s voice was flat. "Under arrest for the murder of Alpha Bastien Beaumont — among other crimes."

"I didn’t kill anyone," I lied smoothly. "The Alpha was already gone when I got there. Someone else set that fire."

The younger one barked out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Save it for the council."

He stepped closer, gun steady now, confidence returning as he took in my state — soot-streaked, wearing stolen clothes two sizes too small, hands shaking from exhaustion and smoke. I must have looked pathetic.

"Turn around," he ordered. "Kneel. Hands behind your head."

The voice came from behind me, sharp and commanding. I turned.

Two sentinels stood at the mouth of the alley, with their weapons drawn, and their bodies silhouetted against the smoke-stained sky. The younger one, the one who had spoken, had his radio in his left hand and his gun in his right. The older one was already moving, flanking left, his eyes narrowing as he recognized my face.

"Don’t move," the younger one snapped. His gun trembled slightly. "Hands where I can see them."

I raised my hands slowly, palms out, calculating the distance between us. Twelve feet. Maybe fifteen. Too far to rush them before they fired, but close enough that I could see the sweat beading on the younger one’s upper lip.

"You’ve got this wrong," I said, my voice rough from the smoke. "I’m not who you think I am."

"You’re Lucian Moreau," the older one replied, his voice flat. "And you’re under arrest for the murder of Alpha Bastien Beaumont, among many other crimes."

"I didn’t kill anyone," I retorted smoothly. "The Alpha was already gone when I arrived. The fire... This fire was even set by someone else."

The younger one laughed, a short, disbelieving bark. "Save it for the council."

He stepped closer, his gun steady now, confidence returning as he saw my state. I must have looked pathetic. Covered in soot, wearing stolen clothes two sizes too small, my hands shaking from exhaustion and smoke inhalation.

"Turn around," he ordered. "Kneel. Hands behind your head."

I didn’t move. "You don’t understand what’s happening here. Bastien faked his death. He’s alive. He used the fire to escape."

"Turn around," the older one repeated, his voice harder. "Now."

I turned. Slowly. My eyes scanned the alley, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. A loose brick. A length of pipe. Anything. There was nothing but broken pavement and the rusted hulk of a dumpster shoved against the wall.

I knelt. The grit bit into my knees through the thin fabric of the stolen trousers. I laced my fingers behind my head, the position of submission, of defeat.

"Good," the younger one said. He stepped closer, his boots crunching over broken glass. "Stay still."

I felt his hand reach for my shoulder, felt the brush of his fingers against my collar , and that was when I moved.

I twisted, grabbing his wrist with my right hand and yanking him forward, off-balance. It worked. He stumbled, his gun firing wildly, as the following shots cracked off the brick walls. I drove my elbow into his throat, felt the cartilage collapse beneath the blow. He gurgled, dropping the gun, and I caught it mid-air.

The older sentinel fired.

The bullet took me in the shoulder, a hot punch that spun me around. I returned fire without thinking, three shots in quick succession. The first two missed. The third caught him in the thigh. He went down screaming, clutching his leg, and that sent his weapon skittering across the pavement.