Shadow’s Redemption

Chapter Six: The Blood Tie (Part Two)

"I don't care what went down between my mother and him, and I don't want to know! Where was he when she was fading away, and we didn't have a dime for the hospital?"

"As for our connection, yeah, I’ve got a quarter of his blood in my veins, but so what? I have no parents, no one to watch my back. When the landlord was breathing down my neck to pay the full year upfront or get tossed into the street, where was he?"

"I was trying to make the rent. I was trying to leave my report cards in front of my mother's memorial so she’d know I was still grinding, still trying to be someone. But where was he while I was sleeping with one woman after another just to survive—women who made me want to vomit?"

Jax roared, launching a frantic assault on the commander. Kaufman was like a phantom; he hadn't retreated an inch, yet he seemed entirely untouchable, as if Jax could spend a lifetime swinging and never graze his clothes. Jax used every weapon he had—fists, elbows, and raw fury.

Amidst the tears and the desperate cries, years of Jax’s grievances and helplessness finally boiled over. The sudden appearance of an old man claiming to be family had sparked a flicker of hope, but it was immediately smothered by the bitter realization that they had lived in the same city, under the same sky, while his mother suffered. The explosion was total.

"What do you know? My life is already in pieces! Just when I’d accepted the wreckage, a high-ranking General—a 'moral exemplar'—shows up to tell me he can help me find my dignity? Hahaha..."

Jax let out a pale, hollow laugh that chilled the room. He hissed at the commander, "You, sitting there so high and mighty, looking at me like I’m dirt... tell me, what dignity is left for me? What kind of future is there for a ghost?"

Hearing Jax’s raw agony, General Ray Garrison, who had sat as unshakeable as a mountain, suddenly trembled. Through a blur of tears, he saw the face of the daughter who, sixteen years ago, had walked out of this house five months pregnant and never looked back. Jax was her living image.

At that moment, Kaufman’s expression shifted. He realized he had miscalculated on this battlefield that wasn't supposed to be a war.

Eight-year-old Flick Shadow, a boy who knew only the sting of his father’s belt and the coldness of neglect, watched Jax’s torment. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of the moment, or perhaps the two beers he'd shared with Jax had finally ignited his dormant courage, but he suddenly lunged forward. He wrapped his small arms around Kaufman’s leg, holding on with everything he had.

At this critical moment, Flick—who had been trained by "Toad" to perform like a circus animal for his drinking buddies—finally found his own voice. He didn't bark like a dog or crow like a rooster to make men laugh. Instead, he screamed the first real oath of his life: "Jax, kill this son of a b***h!"

"Thud! Thud! Thud..."

Jax’s fist finally connected with the commander’s chest. Almost simultaneously, Kaufman reached down and scooped up the four-foot-tall boy. Kaufman’s brow furrowed again; this timid kid was fighting for Jax with a ferocity that actually created a genuine opening.

Realizing his arms were useless against the man’s strength, Flick bared his teeth and bit down hard on the commander’s thigh.

"Crack..."

Flick would have bet his life that this man was a machine or some alien spy. Why else would Kaufman remain expressionless while Flick felt two of his own teeth shatter against the man's leg?

The "Toad’s" tactic had failed, and it had cost Flick two molars. He felt his body go weightless as the commander uprooted him and tossed him onto a nearby sofa with a movement that was rough but strangely calculated to avoid injury.

Having cleared the distraction, the commander delivered a single, devastating punch that sent Jax reeling. Before Jax could even hit the carpet, Kaufman followed up with two more strikes to the boy’s handsome face—blows meant to end the fight.

The impact was so heavy that Jax’s body actually bounced off the thick rug, hitting the floor with the speed of a falling star.

"Don't you touch him again, or... I'll start a damn revolution!"

A revolution!

Hearing Flick’s high-pitched, desperate voice, and the use of a word so heavy for a child, Kaufman almost smiled. But his face went cold in an instant, his eyes glowing with a lethal, red intensity.

He heard the sound of liquid sloshing.

Even Jax, struggling to breathe on the floor, widened his eyes in horror. "Flick, don't! Stop!"

Flick, perched on the edge of the sofa, was shoving the plastic jug that had rolled under his feet. The pale yellow gasoline was chugging out, soaking the expensive navy carpet. And in his trembling hand, Flick held the silver lighter that had fallen from Jax’s pocket during the scuffle.

A streak of gray lightning blurred across the room!

Before Flick could register the movement, Kaufman’s boot struck his wrist with surgical precision. The lighter went flying ten yards, shattering against the mahogany wall into a dozen pieces of plastic and flint.

The kick’s momentum, though partially pulled, caught Flick in the chest. He felt a wave of irresistible pain and a rushing darkness that swallowed his vision.

As he drifted out of consciousness, Flick felt someone catch him. He caught the faint, familiar scent of cheap beer and sweat. He didn't need to open his eyes to know it was Jax holding him.

"Jax... he’s just baiting you... you can't..."

The warning died in his throat. Just before the blackness took him completely, Flick heard Jax’s primal, frantic roar echoing through the manor: "You lay a hand on my brother, and I'll take us all to hell!"

The silence that followed Jax’s roar was heavy, thick with the smell of spilled gasoline and the metallic tang of blood. Jaxon “Jax” Kane held Flick’s limp body against his chest, his eyes wide and wild, like a cornered wolf staring down a hunter. He didn't care about the General’s power or the commander’s lethal skill anymore. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the small, broken boy in his arms—the only person who had ever stood up for him without asking for anything in return.

Commander Victor Kaufman stood a few feet away, his breathing steady, his hands resting at his sides. He looked down at his thigh, where Flick’s bite had left a deep, purple indentation through the fabric of his tactical trousers. He didn't look angry. If anything, there was a flicker of something resembling respect in his cold, gray eyes.

“Check him,” General Garrison commanded, his voice echoing in the vast study.

Kaufman stepped forward. Jax instinctively pulled Flick tighter, baring his teeth, but Kaufman was faster. He knelt, his large hand moving with surprising gentleness to check the pulse at Flick’s neck and the dilation of his pupils.

“He’s out cold. Shock and a mild concussion,” Kaufman reported, looking back at the General. “The kid’s got a heart of a lion and the brains of a suicide bomber. He actually would have lit this place up.”

General Garrison walked over, his boots crunching on the shattered pieces of the lighter. He looked down at the two boys—the bloodied teenager and the unconscious child. The "Diamond Palace" was now a crime scene of its own making.

“Mace,” Garrison called out.

Colonel Reed stepped into the room, his eyes widening as he took in the gasoline-soaked carpet and the c*****e. “Sir?”

“Get the medics in here to patch them up. Then, get a transport ready. I want them out of the city before the sun comes up. If the Deputy Mayor’s people find out they’re still within the metropolitan limits, they’ll bring a literal army to my gates.”

Reed nodded. “And the destination, sir?”

Garrison looked at Kaufman. The commander stood up, wiping a bead of Jax’s blood from his knuckle. “Blackwood. They’re ready for a new intake. I’ll personally oversee their initiation.”

Three hours later, the world was a blur of gray shadows and the hum of a heavy engine.

Flick woke up to the rhythmic jarring of a vehicle. His chest felt like it had been crushed by a hydraulic press, and every time he breathed, a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He groaned, his eyes fluttering open to see the dark interior of a military transport truck.

“Easy, kid. Don’t move too fast.”

Flick turned his head. Jax was sitting opposite him, his face a mosaic of bandages and bruises. His arm was in a sling, and he looked older—years older than he had just a few hours ago.

“Jax?” Flick’s voice was a dry raspy whisper. “Did we... did we kill him?”

Jax let out a short, painful puff of air that might have been a laugh. “No, Flick. We didn't even scratch him. That guy... Kaufman... he’s not human.”

Flick tried to sit up, wincing as his head throbbed. He looked around the cramped space. There were two other boys in the back of the truck, huddled in the far corners. One was a burly kid with a shaved head who looked like he’d been in a dozen street fights; the other was thin, with eyes that moved constantly, scanning the shadows.

“Where are we going?” Flick asked, fear finally beginning to override the pain.

“To a place where we disappear,” Jax said, his voice dropping. He leaned closer, his gaze intense. “Listen to me, Flick. From this moment on, we don't have names. We don't have a home. You’re my brother, and I’m yours. That’s the only truth we’ve got left. If anyone asks, you don't know who your father is. You don't know where you came from.”

Flick nodded slowly. The memory of his father—the "Toad"—drinking himself into a stupor felt like a scene from a movie he’d watched a long time ago. It didn't feel real anymore.

The truck suddenly lurched, the tires transitioning from smooth asphalt to rough, uneven dirt. The incline grew steeper. Flick could smell the scent of pine needles and damp earth through the air vents. They were heading deep into the mountains, far beyond the reach of the city’s lights.

The truck stopped as the first light of dawn began to bleed over the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and cold oranges. When the heavy rear doors swung open, the air that rushed in was freezing, biting at their skin.

“Out! Move it!” a voice barked.

Flick and Jax stumbled out of the truck, followed by the other two recruits. They found themselves in a clearing surrounded by ancient, towering black pines. In the center of the clearing was a sprawling complex of low-slung, concrete buildings topped with rolls of razor wire. There were no signs, no flags, and no warmth.

This was Blackwood.

Standing in the center of the yard was Victor Kaufman. He was dressed in black fatigues now, a silver whistle hanging from his neck. Beside him stood a woman with short-cropped blonde hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from ice.

“Welcome to the end of your lives,” Kaufman announced. His voice didn't need a megaphone to carry through the mountain air. “The world thinks you are dead. Your families have been told you perished in a tragedy. As of this moment, you are property of the 541st Blackwood Initiative.”

He pointed to the woman beside him. “This is Instructor Quinn Hale. She will be your mother, your father, and your god for the next six months. If you survive her, you might actually get to see a weapon.”

Quinn Hale stepped forward, her eyes landing on Flick. She walked over to him, her boots crunching on the frost-covered dirt. She reached out and tilted his chin up, examining the bruise on his chest.

“You’re the one who tried to burn down the General’s house?” she asked, her voice surprisingly soft, yet carrying an edge like a razor.

Flick swallowed, his heart racing. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Stupid,” she remarked, letting go of his chin. “But brave. Brave is easy to kill. We’ll see if you’re smart.”

She turned to the group. “Strip. Everything. Clothes, jewelry, memories. If it wasn't born on your body, it doesn't belong here.”

As the boys began to shiver in the biting cold, discarding the remnants of their old lives, Flick looked at Jax. Jax was staring at the dark treeline, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked like he was already dead to the world, focused entirely on the path ahead.

Flick realized then that the "Diamond Palace" had been a test, and they had barely passed. The real trial was just beginning. In the shadows of Blackwood, they weren't just training to be soldiers. They were being forged into something much darker—a brotherhood of ghosts, bound by blood and gasoline, ready to be unleashed upon a world that had already forgotten them.

As the sun fully rose, illuminating the harsh concrete of the facility, the gate behind them hissed shut. The sound of the lock engaging was final. There was no going back to the city, no going back to Sierra, and no going back to being "Toad’s" son.

Flick took a deep breath of the freezing mountain air. His ribs hurt, his teeth were broken, and he was terrified. But for the first time in his eight years of life, as he stood beside Jax in the shadow of the Blackwood pines, he didn't feel like a victim.

He felt like a weapon being loaded.