Chapter 252

Siron, crawling near the stage, snagged a black shawl someone had left draped over a chair. Hoping the dark stage would camouflage him like protective coloring, he threw the shawl over his head and vaulted up. He hid behind the lectern and checked the trapdoor’s position. Someone must have gone out ahead of him—the center of the stage already gaped with a square opening. Without another second of delay, Siron crawled to the edge and dropped into the hollow.

Bent at the waist, he sprinted through a low passage that ran one way. With tension wringing his lungs, he reached the metal door between backstage and the machinery room. He eased it open: an empty corridor. The far end led to an emergency stairwell, and the stairs connected all the way down to the underground parking lot. Killing his footsteps, Siron carefully descended. In the suffocating silence, only his heartbeat thudded clear as a drum.

At the bottom, a door marked CONVENTION HALL LOADING ROUTE waited for him. He pressed his ear to it. The scrape of a car pulling out across concrete, the uproar of voices. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed through; damp, stifling basement air washed over him.

B2, Zone A: a black Chevrolet Tahoe SUV with a temporary plate. If he’d escaped the hall by the normal route, he could have stepped off the elevator and gone straight into the car. But damned if he wasn’t in Zone Y. From Y to A—he had to run end to end.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Siron drew a .22-caliber Glock from the ankle holster. He dropped his profile and slipped into the narrow lanes where rear bumpers faced each other. From Y to X, to W—he backtracked a long way, lungs burning at his throat—until he hit Zone B.

Just then, a vehicle barreled toward him from the direction of Zone A. A black Chevrolet Tahoe with a temporary plate. In one smooth motion it swung into a handicapped space and stopped. Siron didn’t have time to think—he sprinted flat out and yanked the passenger door.

The driver, unbuckling his seatbelt, jolted and stared as Siron climbed in. It wasn’t Baekgyeong. A middle-aged Black man. From the back seat, a dog erupted into savage barking; a brown chihuahua bared its teeth at Siron.

“Wr—wrong car—!”

Half out again, Siron hesitated and glanced back.

“...Malcolm Knox?”

“Mm?”

“I was looking for you!”

“A—ah! Point that gun somewhere else!”

Malcolm Knox shook his head and raised both hands. The surrender said he wasn’t resisting—and only then did Siron realize he still had the pistol trained. He had no time to explain. He kept the muzzle steady on the man.

“Hybris is on me. Please—help me.”

“What?”

Malcolm stared, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Siron’s mouth clamped shut, unsure how to lay it out. Handing him the prepared note now wouldn’t send him to Room 460 to meet journalist Spencer’s husband—Isaac would have been the one waiting there anyway.

And the chihuahua shredding the air from the back seat wasn’t helping him think. Without the luxury of deliberation, Siron just blurted it out.

“Let me meet Gezar Bazelli.”

Fear drained from Malcolm’s face in a blink, and a flash of sharp vigilance lit his big eyes. He fixed Siron with a cold, resolute stare and reached fast for the door handle. Siron reached to grab his arm—when the driver’s door suddenly flew open from outside and someone lunged in.

“Hey! Fuck! Are you out of your mind? Why the hell are you in someone else’s car!”

Baekgyeong, leading with a snarl, seized Malcolm’s suit and tried to haul him out. Just before Malcolm was thrown to the concrete, Siron shouted,

“It’s Malcolm Knox!”

“What?”

“The warden!”

Baekgyeong flicked his eyes between Malcolm—half dragged out—Siron’s face, and the chihuahua howling itself hoarse in back. Realization twisted his features.

“Ah, fuck!”

Stuffing Malcolm back in like luggage, Baekgyeong climbed into the rear and pressed a gun to the side of the warden’s head.

“Shut up and drive.”

“P—p—put the gun down first—”

“Just go!”

At Baekgyeong’s thunderous bellow, Malcolm broke into a cold sweat and fumbled the ignition to life. It wasn’t the time to be picky, but Siron couldn’t help feeling a sting of pity seeing Malcolm Knox—old enough to be their father—get bullied by a kid the age of his son.

“Gyeong-ah, don’t swear at the elder—”

Baekgyeong cut him off like he hadn’t heard a thing.

“The entrance you came in—were there armed men posted there?”

“W—what are you talking about?”

Malcolm’s eyes went wide, as if he’d been asked something absurd.

“Shut up and answer.”

“N—no one.”

“Then head there.”

“But that’s an entrance—”

“Don’t make me say it twice. Move now!”

Grinding his teeth, Malcolm had no choice but to go. Siron understood why Baekgyeong had picked the “entrance.” The Elm Hotel’s underground lot had six ramps in total—three exits and three entrances in different directions.

Entrance Gate A, the one Malcolm had used, connected closest to Zones A, B, and C. It was meant for entering the garage from outside; wrong-way traffic was prohibited. Baekgyeong didn’t give a damn about rules. The three exit gates were already gridlocked. They didn’t hesitate—wheeled for Gate A, smashed the barrier, and shot out beyond the hotel boundary.

Siron let his head drop against the headrest and exhaled. He was glad to have linked up with Baekgyeong alive, but being reduced to just the two of them was alarming.

They’d never discussed what to do if the plan went completely sideways like this. Isaac was always the one who read the field and commanded.

“What do we do now?”

Siron asked in Korean, eyes anxious on Baekgyeong. After a beat, Baekgyeong answered in Korean too.

“What else? We do what we came to do.”

“Hybris killed Catherine Choi? And I’m supposed to believe that?”

Warden Malcolm’s hands clamped the wheel like he might snap it. Conversations went smoothly when he knew some piece of Hybris, but every time something new came up, a weight settled on Siron’s chest.

Siron managed a wry smile and gently petted the chihuahua on his knees.

“It’s all true. This little guy is the proof.”

His voice trailed off into an awkward look.

Malcolm blew a short sigh and turned his head. From the rear center seat, Baekgyeong leaned forward between the driver and passenger.

The chihuahua on Siron’s lap sprang up and started barking with bulging eyes the instant Baekgyeong’s face came close.

“It’s me. Baekgyeong, youngest son of Vile Group. My face is plastered all over the news. You really didn’t— Christ, that pea-sized thing is loud.”

With a tired look, Baekgyeong sank back against the rear seat. With distance restored, the chihuahua settled itself, scraped Siron’s knee as if to make a bed, then curled down again.

Watching him through the rearview, Malcolm said,

“I’m sorry about your mother. I never imagined Hybris might be behind that.”

Baekgyeong parted his lips like he had more to say, then shut them. He’d gone feral in the garage, but after they cleared the hotel and no tail appeared, he cooled down.

As they drove, Baekgyeong laid out how they’d zeroed in on Malcolm Knox. With a muzzle resting on the headrest by Malcolm’s skull, the warden looked half out of his mind the whole time, but Baekgyeong kept it to a concise brief.

He began from the point he’d had brain surgery and become an alpha. He described digging into his mother’s death and discovering the group called Hybris behind it; being abducted to an island and forced into shady experiments with homeless men; and escaping with two men—Siron and Isaac. No fluff.

When he got to how they’d come to the warden, he sprinkled in a little drama. Swept up in events that turned his life upside down, Baekgyeong started asking why any of it had happened. As he probed the faceless organization called Hybris, he ended up planting a bug at the governor’s mansion; in the process he began watching Malcolm Knox and journalist Spencer.

It was explanation built loosely on facts, with hazy lies mixed in—no mention whatsoever of omegas or imprinting. If Malcolm thought hard, he might have spotted the lies. But with too much information pouring in at once and the threat to his life, he didn’t seem to have the space to judge truth from falsehood.

“I’m not like you. What I know is simple. Men like Gezar Bazelli—the alphas—go into rut and exhibit physical abilities beyond ordinary humans, along with violent tendencies. That’s all. What I know about Hybris, I heard from Spencer. The shocking part was the indiscriminate trafficking to slake alpha sexual urges.”

“I thought you were clashing with Hybris because you wanted to expose the alpha cohort to the world.”

At Baekgyeong’s words, Malcolm shook his head.

“You’re mistaken. I never intended to cross those Hybris bastards. My only aim was to make the world know about Gezar Bazelli. The first evolved of a new human race is about to end his life in prison—who wouldn’t want the world to know? Once upon a time, I’d have burned to expose Hybris on principle. But the way things are going, they’d just gag me. I’m sixty. My term ends this year.”

He sighed heavily and went on.

“The feds sent a scarecrow like me because they know a retiree can’t do much.”

“You mean Hybris has a line into the federal government?”

“Likely so. Hearing they murdered the Vile Group chair only hardens my conviction. With friends in the federal ranks, they’d strut around like this.”

“Who?”

“How would I know? Even in Corrections, a warden’s chair isn’t much. Just a petty administrator.”

When he finally drew breath, Malcolm asked,

“How do you know Gezar Bazelli?”

“One of our team is Gezar Bazelli’s son.”

A distant surprise rose on Malcolm’s face, then faded. Baekgyeong continued.

“Well—strictly speaking, uncle and nephew.”

“Where is he now?”

“The Elm Hotel. He was supposed to meet you tonight, but with gunmen storming the place, he’s probably having a rough time.”

Baekgyeong flicked a glance at the back of Siron’s head.

“Or he’s already dead.”