Marius
Miles away from the laughter that had found its way back into the Myles family home, I sat in silence inside my safe house.
Hidden behind layers of reinforced steel, blackout curtains, and enough security measures to keep most people from ever finding me, the only light inside the room came from the flickering glow of the television mounted against the far wall.
The soft amber liquid poured effortlessly into my crystal tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass before I set the bottle aside and reached for the small listening device resting on the table beside me.
The faint red light blinked one last time before disappearing altogether, indicating the recording had ended.
Turning the device over between my fingers, I couldn’t help but let out an amused chuckle as bourbon swirled inside my glass.
Every word between Bree and Kade had been worth listening to.
Listening to them convince themselves they were finally getting ahead almost made me feel bad for what was coming next. Almost.
Every news station in Memphis was covering Chief Elias Valecrest’s homegoing, replaying footage of patrol cars stretching for blocks while officers stood shoulder to shoulder in salute beneath gray skies.
The anchors spoke so respectfully about his decades of service, fading from one photograph to another as though a lifetime of good deeds somehow changed the fact that the old bastard ended up exactly where everybody else eventually does. Dead.
I leaned farther back into my leather chair, watching the coverage with satisfaction as the camera drifted away from the cemetery and reflected against the dark television screen.
For a brief moment all I could see were my own eyes staring back at me beneath the brim of a smile that hadn’t carried warmth in decades.
“Beautiful service...I wonder what they’ll wear to the next one.
” I lifted the glass to my lips, taking another slow sip before sinking deeper into the chair.
My gaze drifted toward the listening device resting beside my drink before returning to the television, where the folded American flag was being placed into Cazmir’s trembling hands.
The smile never left my face. Most men looked at families and saw love.
I looked at them and saw leverage. I tipped my glass toward the screen in a silent toast, turning over my next move with the same patience that had kept me alive all these years.
They still hadn’t figured it out yet. They kept believing this war was about killing people. It never was.
The easiest way to destroy a family wasn’t by killing everyone at once. It was by making sure they never stopped burying the people they loved.
Waking up in a different house every few days had become second nature.
The second safe house wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the first, but comfort had never been high on my list of priorities anyway.
Survival was. Every wall had been reinforced, every entrance monitored, every inch of the property covered by enough cameras to spot a squirrel before it made it halfway across the front yard.
If a man planned on making enemies the way I had throughout my life, then sleeping with one eye open stopped feeling like an inconvenience and started feeling like common sense.
***
The following day, I rolled out of bed just after sunrise, tugging on a black T-shirt before wandering barefoot into the kitchen.
The coffee maker had barely finished brewing when I reached for the remote and switched on the television mounted above the fireplace.
Every station in Memphis seemed determined to spend another day talking about Chief Elias Valecrest. They replayed footage from the funeral, interviewed officers who’d worked beside him for decades, and spoke about his accomplishments as though the man had single-handedly carried the entire city on his back.
The anchor called him a hero. Another reporter referred to him as one of the finest law enforcement officials Tennessee had ever produced.
I leaned against the counter, listening to every glowing word before a laugh escaped my chest.
“Weak.” The word rolled off my tongue with disgust.
The problem with men like Elias wasn’t that they lacked intelligence.
Hell, I’d give the old bastard that much.
He was smart. The problem was somewhere along the way he started believing rules protected people.
They didn’t. Rules created hesitation, and hesitation got people hurt.
Every badge, title, and medal pinned across a man’s chest at some point became meaningless the second he convinced himself decency was stronger than fear.
I muted the television, pouring myself a drink far too early for any reasonable person to justify.
Then again, reason had never built empires.
Carrying the glass with me, I crossed the room toward the oversized corkboard mounted against the far wall, stopping long enough to admire what had become my favorite piece of artwork.
Every face that mattered stared back at me.
Kade, Ysis, Yayo, Cassian, Masina, Yuki, Majeston, and Emory.
I had photographs, notes, addresses and timelines.
Connections woven together by red string until the entire board resembled the inside of a madman’s mind.
Looking at it, most people would’ve seen obsession. I saw strategy.
Every war needed a battlefield, and every battlefield required a map.
My eyes drifted toward one photograph in particular.
Elias Valecrest. I stared at it for several quiet moments, swirling the bourbon around inside my glass before reaching forward and pulling the picture free from the board.
Holding it between my fingers, I studied the expression frozen across his face.
Funny how photographs had a way of convincing people moments lasted forever.
They didn’t.
Every picture eventually became a memory.
Every memory eventually became a ghost.
Walking over to the fireplace, I struck a match and watched the flame dance before touching it to the corner of the photograph.
The fire spread slow at first, curling the edges inward until the image blackened and disappeared beneath the growing flames.
I stood there without speaking, watching the last traces of Elias Valecrest crumble into ash before letting what remained fall into the fireplace.
“Loose ends,” I murmured, taking another sip of bourbon as the final ember disappeared. “They always get cut.”
I turned back toward the board, my eyes immediately settling on the faces still staring back at me.
One by one, I studied each of them, allowing my gaze to linger just long enough to imagine exactly how the next move would unfold.
Kade still believed money could solve anything.
Yayo thought loyalty alone would keep the wolves from his door.
Cassian carried enough guilt to bury himself without anybody else’s help.
Masina still believed love healed broken people.
Emory was foolish enough to think second chances came without consequences.
Then there was Yuki. A smile found its way across my face.
Everybody else saw enemies. I saw weaknesses. And the beautiful thing about weaknesses was they almost always introduced themselves long before you ever had to go looking for them.
The news continued cycling through coverage of Elias Valecrest’s funeral long after I’d grown tired of looking at it.
Every station seemed determined to remind Memphis what a great man it had lost, replaying the same footage of police motorcycles leading the procession while officers stood shoulder to shoulder beneath gray skies saluting a folded American flag.
Eventually the coverage shifted away from the funeral and back toward the explosion at the Peabody, where reporters updated viewers on the surviving victims. Two familiar faces appeared beneath bold white lettering as the anchor spoke.
Judge Emory Lennox.
Masina Myles.
“Tough bastards.” I’d give them that much.
Most people wouldn’t have walked away from an explosion like that.
They had. Looking at the two of them smiling through staged hospital photographs almost amused me.
They thought surviving meant they’d won.
They couldn’t have been more mistaken. Wars weren’t decided by one battle, and I was nowhere near finished writing this one.
Setting my glass down beside the listening device, I reached for my phone and scrolled through a contact list that had once represented influence.
Every name stored there belonged to somebody who’d benefited from knowing me at one point or another.
Men I’d made rich. Men I’d protected. Men who’d happily accepted favors when my name still opened doors instead of closing them.
Funny how quick people rediscovered their morals the moment being associated with you became inconvenient.
The first call rang until voicemail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
The second redirected me before the first ring had even finished, letting me know I’d been blocked without ever having to say the words out loud.
I laughed to myself, moving on to the next.
Another voicemail, another unanswered call, another man too busy to answer the phone of someone he’d once sworn unwavering loyalty to.
By the fifth attempt, I stopped expecting anyone to pick up.
Instead, I found myself wondering which excuse each one of them would eventually come up with to justify disappearing when things became difficult.
Fear had a remarkable way of exposing character.
It stripped away all the expensive suits, polished speeches, and fake loyalty until all that remained was self-preservation.