Wrath Read online

  Wrath

  A Deadly Seven Novel

  Lana Pecherczyk

  Prism Press, Perth Australia.

  Copyright © 2019 Lana Pecherczyk

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © Lana Pecherczyk 2019

  Cover design © Lana Pecherczyk 2019

  www.lanapecherczyk.com

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  WHAT’S NEXT?

  Characters & Glossary

  Also by Lana Pecherczyk

  About the Author

  CARDINAL CITY MAP

  "Whatever is begun in anger, ends in shame.”

  – Benjamin Franklin

  Prologue

  In the darkness of a thirteenth floor in Cardinal City, Julius Allcott stared out over the destitute south-side, contemplating, calculating. Despite being the one who started the Syndicate, he was no closer to being able to replicate the original experiment that created the warriors of sin. This lack of progress was beginning to grate. He barely heard the steps of his most trusted darling as she approached him from behind.

  “We have news,” she said in a dull voice. Her favored bird mask covered her eyes and nose. Off-white leather hugged her body. A fine mist of red on her collar echoed the same on her fist. She’d come straight from work, then.

  “Go on,” he prompted, and locked eyes with the city once more.

  “One of them has separated from the flock.”

  He arched an eyebrow, curious. “Which?”

  “The one affianced to the Faithful named Sara,” she elaborated.

  Sara. Julius tapped his chin, trying to remember. A member of the Syndicate’s Faithful… named Sara. Of course. The one they’d coerced into working undercover for them. She’d gathered important biological samples. “I remember her,” he said. “You eliminated her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remind me why.”

  “She was becoming a liability.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Recently we learned she failed to disclose the importance of the life-mate to each of the Deadly Seven.”

  A memory sparked. A conversation he’d had only a week prior. “The surveillance notes we found recently. She’d surmised a woman triggered Envy’s full potential.”

  “Yes. During her time with the warriors, she’d heard rumors that a person embodying the exact opposite of their sin would cancel out the effects of the sin itself, thus helping each warrior resist the dark murderous pull.”

  Julius turned back to the view of the decrepit streets. But that dark murderous pull was what they needed to destroy all the sinners in the world, leaving it cleansed and free for innocents. Innocents like his wife and daughter.

  “First Envy’s powers manifesting after meeting someone, then Greed’s. Two could be a coincidence.”

  “But three could be a pattern.”

  “This warrior who separated from the family. It was Wrath, was it not?

  “Correct.”

  Wrath. Interesting.

  “And where is he now?”

  “There have been reports of a dark rider haunting the streets at night. He’s left a trail of bodies around the country, but has been spotted close to Cardinal City in a small town called Weston Park.”

  A trail of bodies—the man was slipping then, and sin was taking hold.

  Initially, the Deadly Seven were born in a lab—the Syndicate’s creations. His creations. He tore his gaze from the sinful city and went to his lone desk at the center of the room. Nothing adorned the surface except a family photograph taken almost forty years earlier. His wife and daughter. Both dead from corporate negligence—Sloth. It was for them he fought this battle. For them, he had joined forces with military cells around the world to create the Syndicate, and for them, he financed the lab that created the warriors of sin.

  “Weston Park,” Julius mused. “So close to Cardinal City. Perhaps the prodigal son is flirting with returning to the fold.”

  “I have ties with a man in Weston Park.”

  “Of course you do. Tug on the string. Pull tighter and see what information we can squeeze free.”

  “And if it is the outlier, Wrath?”

  “Then he is alone, desperate and falling under the influence of his sin. Opportunity has never been so ripe for us.” He turned to his darling. “Give your man support to stoke the fire. I want this city in flames before the month is out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, darling? Never forget our priority.”

  His darling bowed. “To complete the puzzle.”

  One

  After six months on the road, Wyatt Lazarus had returned, circling Cardinal City like a hungry shark.

  He hated himself for it.

  No matter how much distance he’d put between him and his family, he was right back where he started—somewhere between fucked and a place called the Pierogi Palace, about forty clicks from the city where the air smelled like burned oil and garlic.

  He polished off a questionable burrito from the Mexican joint across the way while straddling his motorcycle, admiring the tank’s glossy shine under his torn jeans and army-grade boots. The black and chromed out vintage ’79 Ducati was low slung, sleek and powerful for her age. A badass cruiser that gave him more love than he’d received in years. She outran the cops in Cooperville and helped him evade a disgruntled bar owner in Vegas. After that last one, he’d decided to give her a name: Betty. No reason. He just liked the name.

  A few towns back, he’d rescued Betty from some dirtbag owner who’d been wailing on a skinny-assed woman in the bar’s bathroom. The fucker wasn’t even sorry he’d broken two of her ribs—as if Wyatt would leave Betty in his incapable hands. Since that dirtbag was… well, fuck. He couldn’t remember what happened to him. He’d blacked out. Whatever. Point was, Betty was his now.

  Wyatt pulled a hip flask from his back pocket, giving it a shake for measurement’s sake. Almost empty. Just like his wallet. As he took a burning swig of whiskey dregs, he eyed a commotion brewing at the Polish place. It was a small restaurant. Glass door. Red and white flag in the window. Potted flowers around two empty sidewalk dining tables, each with a little vase holding a poppy. The “Help Wanted” sign in the window looked like a five-year-old drew it, or he supposed, someone who spoke English as a second language. Someone like the st
ocky gray-haired man getting pushed around by two men in business shirts and long black coats. Two young men against a fifty, maybe sixty, year-old—not exactly fair.

  After being shoved, the old man crashed into one of the tables, upending it. Wyatt sent his sin-sense roaming to test for deadly levels of wrath, but found none. He checked the Yin-Yang symbol on his inner wrist. The ancient symbol had been tattooed using a special bio-indicator ink, meaning the more wrath in his system, the blacker the tattoo looked. Today, it was almost black.

  Wyatt darted a glance to the Polish restaurant and dismissed the idea of intervening. Any attempt to help would involve his fists, and inevitably wrath. With his blackouts getting more prolonged, and the bodies left in his wake, he couldn’t afford attention. Sorry Polish dude. Not wrath, not my problem. He put away his hip flask and donned his black helmet, snapping the visor down. He didn’t know where he was going at five in the afternoon, but stepped on the kick-starter all the same. It clicked, but no engine fired.

  Wyatt exhaled slowly and rubbed Betty’s tank.

  C’mon, baby. Fire up for me.

  He stomped again. Nothing.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  She normally purred like a kitten in his hands, but today… Shit.

  He pulled his helmet off. He’d have to find somewhere to lie low for a few days until he figured out what was wrong with her, but he knew next to nothing about bike repair. Never needed it with the newer model the family had supplied.

  The small amount of tinkering he’d done over the past few months had kept her running, barely. But he was more like a blind man in a china shop where Betty was concerned. It was time to give her a proper service, except… he had no money. No transport. No place to stay.

  Only a few minutes away in the city, his family would jump at the chance to rescue him from his self-imposed banishment. But the thought of looking his brother Evan in the face, after what Wyatt had done, still made him sick. Admitting he’d been wrong made him feel worse.

  The shouts from the Polish restaurant grew louder, and the sense of wrath tickled Wyatt’s skin but, fuck it, he didn’t want this. Never asked for it. The only thing his sixth sense had been good for lately was giving him an avenue to let his demons out. When all he’d wanted to do lately was rage and scream, he didn’t feel so guilty afterwards knowing the people he’d put in the hospital were the worst kind.

  Someone had to pay.

  It wouldn’t be his two brothers with their perfect fucking relationships.

  It wouldn’t be the Syndicate. They were just as invisible as they’d always been, and Sara was dead in the ground.

  And it wouldn’t be the rest of his righteous family.

  It sure as hell wasn’t going to be him. Not after the raw hand he’d been dealt. Nah. Fuck that shit.

  The sense of wrath stabbed him like a knife in the gut. He doubled over, clutching Betty’s handlebars. Damn, if it didn’t feel like a hit of heroin; he was already high on the sick sensation—on the promise the pain made. Release. Punish. Hurt. The agony was welcome. It made him feel something other than hate, something other than self-loathing, something more. It meant someone out there was a bigger bastard than him.

  The thugs hadn’t noticed Wyatt sitting there. Too engrossed with their prey… or, more likely, they assumed they were kings of the little town and didn’t expect to be challenged by a newcomer on an old motorcycle. A quick glance around the cultural food center’s lot showed most restaurant owners and patrons had shut themselves inside the protection of their establishments, as though they were used to this sight.

  Wrath wriggled its fingers in his gut and eased its way into his chest, tightening, coiling, ready to release. Release. Punish. Hurt.

  The two men roughing up the old man, strong-armed him with classic intimidation tactics. But that wasn’t where the intense wrath came from… it came from the Polish restaurant as a teenage boy exited. He was tall, lanky, and had longish blond hair. Dressed similarly to the old man in the apron.

  Something about the boy reminded Wyatt of his younger brother Evan at that age. An incorrigible fierceness glowed in the teenager’s eyes as he defended the older man. His gaze screamed obscenities. With no visible weapons, he approached the men and waved his hands in their face. What the hell was he doing? Realization hit him. The kid was signing.

  Shock reverberated in Wyatt’s chest.

  Can’t speak. Like me.

  His gloved fingers touched his scarred neck. The hard ridge stretched almost from ear to ear.

  Sara. At the thought of her name, acid hit the back of his throat.

  The brown-haired thug in a navy shirt backhanded the teenage boy, sending him head first into the thick paned glass behind him. The reflection wobbled from the impact, but didn’t break. The boy’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the ground, stunned.

  A raspy snarl ripped from Wyatt. His fingers twitched for his knife but no, he wanted to feel the pain of those fuckers on his skin. He tugged his gloves off and then stalked toward the fallen kid.

  Ignoring the men ranting with thick Russian accents—time for you later—he crouched and checked on the boy. Two fingers to the carotid told him he was alive. No blood at the back of the head, just a small bump forming. He wore a hearing aid in each ear. Basic model.

  “Alek,” the old man cried. “Alek. Ci nie jest?”

  “Shut up, starikan,” said the youngest Russian. “You need only worry about the money you owe us, old man. Boy’s lucky to be alive.”

  “He is my son. You don’t touch him.”

  “We touch who we want to touch.”

  “Oi,” the second Russian snapped at Wyatt. This thug was older—maybe thirty or so—with a scar running down his face that caved and pulled his lip awkwardly like a one-sided Joker smile. He opened his coat to show Wyatt his concealed weapon, then jerked his head toward the road. “Leave. This is none of your business.”

  Still crouching, Wyatt gave him a dismissive snort and then patted Alek’s face gently. Alek’s blue eyes opened and focused on Wyatt. Wyatt pointed with two fingers at the boy’s eyes and then back to his own. Watch me.

  Alek’s brows drew together. His attention flicked to the thugs, then back to Wyatt.

  Watch me, Wyatt mouthed, hoping Alek understood.

  He nodded and Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder. Good boy.

  Wyatt unfurled himself, straightened to his full six-foot-three height, cracked his neck, and then turned to the Russian thugs. One held Alek’s father against the window. Scar-face watched Wyatt with incredulous eyes, as if he couldn’t believe someone had the balls to ignore him. He didn’t even reach for his weapon.

  Fool.

  Staring at his opponent, Wyatt exhaled slowly. When all the air was gone, he entered his calm space. The space where wrath dominated. The space where death lived. He pounced. Took the gun from Scar-face. Emptied the magazine clip. Punched his throat with a satisfying crack, then jabbed his face. The man went down, blood spurting from his nose. Wyatt turned to the next thug who came at him with brass knuckles.

  He could move out of the way, could step to the side and avoid the hit, but… pain burst in Wyatt’s cheek as the Russian connected. Wyatt’s head whipped to the side. Tasted blood. That warm, metallic tang—his bitter friend come to make him smile.

  Wyatt spat out a wad and, for a moment, his gaze caught on the red splash over the pavement. A memory flashed before his eyes. Blood in the street, Sara’s blood, his blood—all mingling. She reached for him. She said she was sorry.

  No.

  Wyatt shook the memory loose, then his small smile turned into a toothy grin, and he let his feral beast out to play.

  He must have blacked out. Must have lost time, or something, because the next thing he remembered was the Russian’s bloody face beaten to a pulp, and his fist soaring down for another hit.

  “Enough!” The old man shouted behind him. “You will kill him.”

  With incredibl
e restraint, Wyatt bit the inside of his cheek and stepped back, scrubbing his face. His hands came back covered in tacky dark red. Second-hand blood. Shit. The wrath inside had taken over, poisoning his instincts.

  He refused to look at the bio-controlled Yin-Yang tattoo on his wrist. He knew it would be entirely black, indicating wrath had intoxicated his bloodstream, making him do evil things. Yeah, sure, blame the wrath.

  He forced himself to calm. Had to keep control, or else the next time he blacked out and went berserk, he might not come back. Worse—his gaze flicked to Alek—he could take out innocent bystanders.

  Scar-face was coming to, and every atom in Wyatt’s body wanted to crush him, but he held back and watched the thug help his bloody friend up.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Scar-face said, sputtering through a bloody mouth.

  Wyatt arched his eyebrow. Why’s that, asshole?

  “Dimitri will hear about this,” was his only reply.

  It was then Wyatt noticed the man had a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Points of a star. Bratva. The Russian Mob.

  Like he gave a shit. He waited for the two men to drive away in their shiny Volvo Passat, gave them a mocking finger wave, and then walked back to Betty.