With the last of her failing strength, Sarah brought the blade around and drove it upward into his abdomen, beneath the ribcage, twisting the steel as deeply as she could reach.
Thornwood’s grip slackened instantly. A soft, wet sound escaped his mouth. His eyes widened—not with fury now, but with profound, uncomprehending terror. He staggered backward, clutching his stomach as dark blood welled between his fingers. He dropped heavily to his knees, then pitched forward onto his hands.
Sarah stood braced against the wall, chest heaving, coughing as air rushed back into her burning lungs. She looked down at him. The man who had reduced human lives to entries in an experiment, who had methodically dismantled her identity, lay bleeding onto his own hardwood floor.
Thornwood raised his head slightly, blood staining his chin, his gaze locking onto hers with a final, desperate recognition.
“Sarah,” he rasped.
It was his final word.
Sarah looked at the blade in her hand, then at the dying man before her. A terrible resolve took hold of her mind. She would not merely leave him dead; she would undo him as he had undone her and the others. She would reduce the master to components, just as he had attempted to reduce her to an empty mechanism of obedience.
