I'll Make Them All Pay; A General's Revenge

Chapter 13. Back In Goma

Videl..

The crossing felt like driving into the mouth of a storm that refused to break. The amphibious Breakers—low-profile, heavy-armored vessels designed for stealth—cut through the black water of the channel with a predatory hum. Inside the lead vehicle, the air was pressurized and silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of Oliver’s keyboard. For thirteen years, this stretch of ocean had been a graveyard. The energy field used to scramble navigation systems and shut down engines, leaving anyone who tried to cross to drown in the dark.

But tonight, the sensors remained steady. The "Void" was quiet.

"Approaching the perimeter," Oliver whispered, his face lit by the blue glow of his monitors. "Three minutes to the Goma shoreline. The alloy gates are... they really are wide open, Videl. It’s impossible, but there they are."

I stood behind him, my hand gripping the back of his chair, my eyes fixed on the forward viewport. Outside, a thick, unnatural fog clung to the surface of the water, a remnant of the cooling energy field. Then, like a ghost rising from the depths, the island began to take shape.

Goma Island.

It loomed out of the mist, a jagged silhouette of black rock and ancient forest. As we drew closer, the massive Southern Gate became visible. It was a marvel of engineering—a towering wall of reinforced composite alloy that had stood shut for nearly a decade. Seeing it now, with its two halves parted like a giant's wound, felt wrong. It felt like a trap waiting to be sprung.

"All units, stay sharp," I said into my comms, my voice steady despite the roar of blood in my ears. "We don't know who or what opened that gate. Do not engage unless fired upon, but keep your fingers on the triggers."

The Breakers hit the shore with a heavy, grinding thud. The ramps hissed open, and the Vanguard Warriors poured out in a silent, synchronized wave. I stepped out onto the sand, the crunch of shells and black gravel beneath my boots sounding like thunder in the absolute silence of the island. The air here was different. It tasted of salt, old iron, and something metallic—the lingering scent of the seal that had finally snapped.

I walked toward the opening of the gate. Up close, it was even more imposing. The edges of the alloy were scarred, as if the energy field had burned into the metal over the years. Beyond the gate lay the main road that led to the heart of the island—to the Citadel, and to Atticus.

"Videl, look," Priscilla said, pointing her tactical light at the ground near the gate's mechanism.

I knelt. There were no signs of forced entry. No explosives. No scorch marks. The manual override panel was open, and the internal lights were glowing a soft, steady white.

"It wasn't a malfunction," Leonard said, his medical bag slung over his shoulder as he joined us. "Someone opened this from the inside. Someone with a high-level clearance code they shouldn't have."

I stood up and looked into the dark interior of the island. The trees were overgrown, the structures we once knew reclaimed by vines and shadows. Somewhere in that darkness, Atticus was waiting.

"Jeff," I called out.

"General?"

"Establish a perimeter at the gate. No one enters or leaves this island except us. Alexa, get the drones up. I want eyes on the Citadel within the minute. If a single blade of grass moves on this island, I want to know about it."

The transition from the gate to the heart of the island was a trek through a nightmare reclaimed by nature. We moved in a diamond formation with the Vanguard Warriors fanning out into the dense overhanging canopy that choked the main road. The silence was unnatural. It was broken only by the synchronized crunch of our boots and the low mechanical whir of the drones Alexa had launched into the dark sky above us.

The foliage was thick and aggressive. It felt as though the island had been trying to swallow the Citadel whole while the world was locked out. We were halfway up the winding ascent when the absolute stillness shattered. From the shadows of a stone watchtower that had seemed abandoned a flare hissed into the sky. It burst in a shower of crimson light that bled over the jungle.

A voice harsh and frantic tore through the air from a hidden intercom system. It was the sound of the enemy realizing their grave was no longer empty.

"INTRUDERS. SOUTHERN PERIMETER BREACHED. WAKE THE WATCH."

A split second later the siren began to wail. It was a deep rhythmic throb that vibrated in my very marrow. It was the exact same alarm I had heard thirteen years ago on the night the sky turned red with the fire of my parents’ home.

"They know we are here," Oliver shouted over the noise as his rifle came to his shoulder.

"Good," I roared back. The adrenaline was finally snapping the last of my restraint. "Let them see exactly what is coming for them."

From the brush Atticus’s guards erupted like hornets. They were not the standard security of Greeneland. These were Goma loyalists. They were armored in grey and wielding high caliber rifles. The air was suddenly alive with the searing lines of tracer rounds and the smell of ozone.

"Videl move," Leonard yelled as he shoved me toward a stone outcropping. A spray of bullets turned the dirt at my feet into dust.

"Jeff. Suppressive fire on the towers," I commanded. I leaned out to return fire with precision. My first three shots found their marks. The recoil of the pistol was a familiar grounding kick against my palm. "Everyone else advance. Clear a path to the palace."

I did not wait for a response. I broke into a dead sprint. My heart was a hammer against my ribs. Around me the world was a blur of chaos. I saw the flash of muzzles and heard the guttural shouts of the Vanguard as they engaged the enemy. My siblings were a whirlwind of lethal efficiency. Priscilla moved like a shadow with her blades finding the gaps in armor while Oliver used localized electronic bursts to short out the guards’ communications.

But I had only one destination in mind.

"Atticus is mine," I screamed over the din of the gunfight. "Kill the rest but leave the monster to me."

I tore through the courtyard while a guard lunged at me with a combat knife. I did not slow down. I caught his wrist and snapped it before sending a round into his shoulder and spinning to kick another man into the stone fountain. I was a vessel of pure unfiltered rage. A decade of waiting was distilled into every strike I made.

The grand staircase of the palace loomed ahead. I sprinted up the marble steps while dodging a hail of bullets that sparked against the stone balustrade. The Vanguard held the line behind me. They formed a wall of fire to keep the reinforcements at bay.

I reached the massive ornate doors of the inner sanctum. I threw my entire weight against them. The heavy wood groaned as it swung open. Then I stopped.

The air inside was cold and stagnant.

I stepped into the Great Hall and for a moment the General vanished. I was seven years old again standing on this very rug and watching my mother laugh. But the palace looked different from how it was thirteen years ago when I was still a kid. It was stripped of its warmth. The vibrant tapestries were replaced by cold grey banners bearing his sigil. The gold leaf was tarnished and the air smelled of dust and stale wine.

Flashes of memories started playing in my mind. I saw my father’s hand on my shoulder. I heard the sound of the piano in the afternoon. I pushed them off with a growl. Atticus was my main target now. I could not afford to be a child again.

I fought the guards who rushed me in the foyer. I hit them with a series of brutal strikes until they were unconscious on the floor. I did not want to waste bullets on the help. I wanted my magazine full for the man on the throne.

I reached the final set of big doors to the palace throne room. They were ten feet tall and forged from the same composite alloy as the island gate. I pushed the door open with a force that sent a boom echoing through the rafters and walked in.

The room was vast and draped in shadows. At the far end sitting on the throne that had belonged to my father was a man in his sixties. He was lean and skeletal but his presence filled the room like a poisonous gas. His hair was a shock of white slicked back from a high aristocratic forehead. He wore a high collared tunic of midnight silk. His hands were long and thin with fingers adorned by a single heavy signet ring.

My face darkened in raw hatred. The air around me felt like it was boiling.

"Atticus Goma."

The man did not flinch. Instead a slow thin smirk spread across his face. It was a look of genuine and terrifying amusement. He leaned back into the shadows of the throne while his cold pale eyes bored into mine.

"Hello niece," he drawled. His voice was a smooth cultured rasp that made my skin crawl. "I have been expecting you. Finally."