Chapter 14 Julian
The moon is rising quickly above the parking lot. Everything is in place and all I feel is a numb acceptance that we are finally enacting our plan. There is no wind, only the low hum of blood pressure rising as we stand in a circle, a mess of hardened faces, ready.
Bam stands fingers in his pockets, casually, knuckles already sheathed in brass. He wears black jeans, a hoodie, and a belt with various knives attached to it. Next to him, Colton blends into the night—tactical fleece zipped to his chin, black gloves, a gun in the back of his jeans.
Caius flicks a cigarette onto the ground, and sweeps the assembly with a single, perfect glance.
His hair is tamed by product, his jawline knife-edged, his coat tailored in a way that says he expects to be photographed at the scene of the crime.
He carries a duffel bag. The bag hits the ground and nobody flinches.
Rhett closes the back of the truck bed, takes a swig of some energy drink, and gestures us closer.
Caius clears his throat. No one speaks, not even Bam. Authority runs like an electric current from him, a voltage that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with inevitability.
"Bam. Julian. You take the first house." His voice is velvet over steel. "Harrington sleeps with his alarm on but never arms the interior sensors. Hit the side door by the pool, cut the master to the security panel, and don't kill the dogs. He likes them more than his children."
Bam grins, teeth shining under the streetlights. "Copy."
"Colton, you and Rhett take Ellis and Roth, Slade will go with you."
Colton nods, silent. Rhett just rolls his neck, bones popping.
Caius steps in, standing in the center, and opens the duffel.
He hands each of us a radio, pre-tuned and labeled.
Mine is set to channel 2, with a spare battery taped to the back.
He tosses out gloves, headsets, black balaclavas.
"No names on the comms. No fingerprints. Slade has men on perimeter; if you need extra muscle, just call. The rest of you, take the Board, find Steele and Marcus and bring them all to the ritual site. There’s burlap sacks in the duffle that you need to bring for your targets, use them. "
Slade stands at the edge of the lot, leaning against the fender of a Ford truck, massive arms crossed, face like a meat grinder, but his attention never drifts from the mission. He’s surrounded by men of his own, all ex-military types.
"We clear?" Caius asks, but it isn't a question.
Bam grabs his gloves. "Clear.”
The plan unfolds in three lines, four vehicles, and the perfect confidence that nobody will stop us. Bam and I pile into the black Land Rover, windows already tinted, plates swapped for the night. I drive, because Bam is a weapon, not a tactician.
The streets are empty, the world reduced to a grid of security lights and wet asphalt. Bam hums under his breath, sometimes pounding the dash in time with the music playing in his head.
"You think they know we're coming?" he says.
"They know they're not safe," I answer. "That's enough."
The Harrington house is a contemporary sprawl in the far west subdivision, all windows and angles and blue-lit landscaping.
We park two blocks down and cut through the hedges.
Bam vaults the gate with the joy of a kid at a playground.
I follow, counting the motion detectors—every third pillar, just as our intel said.
The pool is covered, a blue tarp stretching like a body bag across the water. The side door is glass. I hold up my gloved hand and Bam freezes.
He kneels, inspects the lock, then leans back. "Go," he whispers.
I slip the bump key in, twist, and the door clicks. We step into a kitchen that smells like citrus and Pine-Sol. There is a bowl of fruit on the counter, a half-empty bottle of white on the table. I scan the sight lines, trace the security panel on the wall, and pull out the circuit tracer.
"Give me thirty seconds," I say. Bam prowls to the next room, soundless except for the soft shush of his breath.
The panel is standard, old code. I kill the power, yank the battery, and set a loop on the line so it will show green until dawn. I check the windows—none armed, all closed. The dogs are behind a baby gate at the end of the hall, two poodles, staring at us with intelligent, uncaring eyes.
Bam whispers, "Upstairs."
We ascend the staircase in perfect silence. The carpet is white, plush, absorbs every footfall. The master suite is at the end. Door closed, not locked.
Bam goes right, I go left. He listens at the door, then signals two fingers. I count to three, then twist the knob.
The man is asleep on the bed, back to the door, breathing slow and even.
There is a woman next to him—trophy wife, early forties, face frozen by too many needles, eyelids jittering in REM sleep.
Bam moves to her first, hand over her mouth, other hand clamping her wrists behind her.
She wakes with a start, tries to scream, but only chokes.
I go for Harrington. I roll him onto his back, pinning his arms to the sheets. His eyes open, and for a second there is no recognition. Then he sees the balaclava, the gloves, the line of Bam’s knuckles raised in the light.
He tries to speak, but I press my hand over his mouth, fingers tight enough to crush his lips to his teeth.
"Don’t bother," I whisper. "You’ll be done soon."
I reach into my jacket and pull out the sack. It’s coarse burlap, reeks of fertilizer. I jam it over his head, cinch the drawstring, then yank him up by the collar of his robe. Bam has already zip-tied the wife and set her gently on the floor.
Harrington struggles, but there’s no leverage. I twist his arm behind his back, force him to his knees, and bind his wrists. The zip tie bites into skin, blooming purple almost instantly.
Bam leans in, voice like a dare: "You make a sound, I break your jaw."
Harrington shakes.
Bam hustles the wife back onto the bed, tucks her in, and tells her not to bother with 911.
"Phones don’t work tonight," he says, and winks.
We move fast—down the stairs, out the door, past the dogs who watch, mute and judging. The garden path is slick. I let Harrington stumble, his knees scraping the flagstones.
I haul the man to the car, prop him against the rear tire while I open the hatch. Harrington whimpers. I crouch and put my mouth to the sack, letting my voice sink into him.
"Tonight it all ends."
He pisses himself, hot ammonia seeping through the silk of his pajamas.
I load Harrington in, rolling him onto the floor mat, hands still tied, the sack covering his sight.
“Next up, good ole dad.” Bam says.
Mr. Ellis lives on a street where the driveways are heated and the mailboxes cost more than a freshman’s tuition. The house is three stories of colonial pretension, every window aglow, not a curtain drawn.
The driver drops us two houses down. Bam cracks his neck left, then right, and wipes a speck of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"You want point?" he asks.
I shake my head. "He’ll expect you."
Bam grins. "Good. I love a challenge."
We move quick—over the fence, through a privet hedge, onto the rear deck. No dogs this time, just a cold slab of brick and a locked French door. Bam unlocks the door with his key, then lets me step through first.
Inside, the place is a ridiculous array of luxury and wealth. There’s a piano in the foyer, a bar in the parlor, and a long run of stairs leading to the master suite.
We move up in silence. The carpet is a Persian red, dense enough to swallow the sound of our boots. There are photos along the wall—Ellis in the Bahamas, Ellis with the Governor, Ellis in a football uniform, cleats digging into the neck of a rival. Ellis, Colt and Bam.
I hear snoring, low and rhythmic, behind the door at the top.
Bam raises a fist, then counts down from three.
We kick in the door.
Ellis is out of bed before we cross the threshold. He’s bigger than I thought—six-three, maybe, all shoulders and fists. He’s in boxers and a wife-beater, white hair wild around his head, eyes bleary with sleep but full of violence.
“What the fuck, Bam?” He roars, hurtling right towards him, fists ready.
“Sup, dad?” Bam chuckles, dropping into defensive stance.
He swings at Bam, catches him on the chin with a right hook that snaps his head back. Bam’s grin only widens.
"Fuck yeah," Bam says, and tackles Ellis onto the bed.
They thrash. Sheets rip, mattress springs groan, the two of them rolling off the edge and onto the floor with a sound like thunder. Ellis manages to pin Bam, forearm to throat, but Bam just laughs and bites the man’s wrist, hard enough to draw blood.
I circle the fight, looking for an angle.
Ellis is screaming now—not words, just fury—and he flings Bam off. Bam slams into the dresser, cracks the wood with his back, and comes up giggling.
"You hit like a bitch," he says.
Ellis charges him, but I catch him mid-stride. I jam a knee into his ribs, then wrap my arm around his throat. He bucks, elbows me in the jaw, and the taste of copper floods my mouth. I hold on, squeezing tighter, until his face goes purple.
"Stop," I hiss into his ear. "Stop, or you die right now."
Ellis thrashes, then collapses to his knees.
Bam picks up a lamp and smashes it across the back of Ellis’s head. The man drops, groaning, barely conscious.
I fish the sack from my belt and haul it over his head.
Bam zip-ties his wrists, this time pulling hard enough to break the skin.
"Board’s not so tough in their pajamas," Bam says, panting. God, I can’t fucking tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Ellis tries to rise, but Bam plants a boot in the small of his back and grinds him down. I kneel and slap the side of his face, sharp and stinging.
"You’re done," I say. "No speeches, no final words. You’re just a delivery."
Ellis moans, the sound ugly and wet.
Bam wipes sweat from his brow. "That was better than sex."