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Shooting the infernal girl, Sabina Pleasure, was easy. She had spewed worthless guttersnipes, like the clanging of an empty can, and was irritatingly coy around Alex. A simple spit from his pistol, and she was silent, blood trickling down her nose, from a neat hole between her eyes.
He turned his gun towards Alex. Cray sat to the side, with a listless smile twisting ominously at his lips. And wasn't it strange how it almost seemed that Hunter was staring from the other end of the barrel, like a deer in headlights? That familiar fury, like warm, scalding water dripping, soaking into every cranny of his mind took complete control of him. This was the man who stole his life, his innocence, and so much more.
The same devouring wrath had consumed him just before he killed Ian. All he could see was Hunter in them, infuriatingly triumphant, because even in death, Hunter always won, Hunter was ahead of him, Hunter could suppress his emotions, his inhibitions better. He would do everything better; he would be the unreachable goal. The person Yassen wanted to be.
Now, instead of the young 14-year-old spy, all Yassen saw was his old mentor with fear in his eyes, finally a weakness, and the vindictive murderer inside him bayed for blood.
Yassen Gregorovich had often stalked the Rider house, even before Ian's death, and the sheer normalcy had stabbed at him. The youngest Rider had been watching a movie with a friend Yassen didn't care about, but all he could think of was how he could've been normal too. Even after losing everything, he was pure and naïve, young and hopeful. Maybe he could've had a child, maybe that was what had twinged when he looked at Alex and Ian, because Hunter lived through both of them, and embodied everything Yassen yearned for but could never have.
Hunter had stolen everything from him, lied to him and hurt him. He had forced him to sever every thing remaining of his childhood. His beloved watch, his memories, his name, his accent. Everything that defined his person was criticised, bashed away and altered. He was never an equal, never a peer, nor a friend. But now, he held the power. A heavy pistol in his hand, loaded. Teeming with power, he could release with a simple tug. And he would be triumphant.
He squeezed the trigger thrice, aimed at the Rider's chest, expecting completion. To feel better. But as the boy, now himself in Yassen's eyes, was thrown back, he felt the same emptiness he did after killing Ian. After killing. Alex was not John. No matter what his mind said, they were different people. Worse, Alex was a child. The exact age he was when his own life was taken from him. But wasn't Yassen worse than Hunter now? He had snuffed out a young life, two young lives in cold blood. He had killed them.
And this return of emotion was a reminder he'd never be good enough. He sat down quietly as the plane cruised towards Russia. His home country, the one he no longer loved.
The world had failed him, and he had failed Hunter; because no matter what he made himself believe, he still loved him. But Hunter never would.