Chapter 26 #2
His voice drops, becoming flat and cold, all traces of the offer gone.
“Or, you can choose to walk away. I won’t stop you.
But the rule of silence is not optional.
It will apply to you for the rest of your life.
In that scenario, the video becomes an insurance policy.
A guarantee that you will take our secret to your grave.
If you ever speak to anyone, for any reason, you burn. ”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper, unfolding it with deliberate care.
“What is that?” I ask, though I already have an unsettling suspicion.
“Your contract with the devil, meaning us.” He hands me the paper. “If you choose to accept it.”
I take it from him and scan the document, my eyes narrowing at the five numbered items.
“Rule One,” Thorne says, tapping the page like a teacher catching you cheating. “The Society doesn’t exist. Not to the police, not to your diary, not to your pillow at night. If you get caught, you keep your mouth shut and take the fall. Alone.”
My eyes flick to Calloway. He meets my gaze, his expression grim, and gives me a single, tight nod. It’s the only way.
“Like Fight Club?”
“Rule Two,” Thorne continues, ignoring me. “When a member calls, you answer. No excuses.” He taps the page again. “Rule Three: No innocents. We are executioners, not psychopaths. We only take out the trash.”
That, at least, I can agree with.
“Rule Four. This is not about ego. If another member is better suited for a target, you defer. It’s about the result, not the credit. And Five.” He looks up, his gray eyes pinning me in place. “You do not get paid. The moment you take money, you’re just a contract killer with a god complex.”
He produces a heavy, crimson-barreled pen. “Sign.”
I hesitate, the pen hovering above the paper. “What if I want to leave?”
A smile touches Thorne’s lips. “You can leave whenever you like. We’re not the mafia. But the secrecy rule is for life.”
I sign my name. The red flows onto the paper, shining wetly under the soft lights.
“Where are we going?”
“To play,” Thorne says, leading us past the perfect kitchen to a door I hadn’t noticed before.
It’s flush with the wall, a seamless panel of dark wood that looks like all the others.
He presses an invisible indentation, and the door clicks open to reveal a vast room with a high ceiling.
This space is decorated more like an exclusive gentleman’s club.
Dark wood, leather furniture, and a massive black obsidian table at the center.
“So this is where you hold your club meetings?” I ask.
Thorne shakes his head. “No. The meeting place is downtown at Beacon Hill. This is for special occasions only. It’s a lot more dangerous to bring the members here every week.”
“Dangerous how?”
“The Beacon Hill has over five hundred members,” Thorne explains, straightening a crystal decanter on a nearby shelf. “They come and go regularly. It doesn’t raise any suspicion if we go to the club.”
The sharp angles of his face look even more severe in the room’s dramatic lighting. His expression remains neutral, but there’s an undercurrent of tension in his voice.
“But coming here...” he continues, gesturing around us, “if someone follows either member, they will identify all the others.”
I glance at Calloway. He stands apart from us, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression.
“So what happens here that can’t happen at your downtown club?” I ask, turning back to Thorne.
“You’ll see.”
On the far side of the room stands another door, this one even more heavily secured than the first. I notice a keypad, another biometric scanner, and what appears to be a voice recognition system.
“What’s in there?” I ask, nodding toward it.
“Bowling,” Xander says.
“I’m starting to think you guys don’t actually mean bowling with pins and tacky shoes,” I say, trying to mask my growing unease with sarcasm.
Thorne presses his palm against the scanner beside the imposing door. The system emits a soft beep, followed by the hiss of an airlock releasing. The heavy door slides open with surprising silence, revealing darkness beyond.
“After you,” Thorne says with a sweep of his hand.
I hesitate at the threshold. Calloway’s fingers press against my lower back. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I step forward into the darkness, my other senses compensating. The air smells faintly antiseptic with undertones of polish and oil.
A soft click echoes behind me. A row of fluorescent lights flickers on, then another, and another, illuminating the space in a cascading wave of sterile, white light.
I blink, my eyes adjusting. It’s…a bowling alley. Two pristine lanes, polished to a mirror shine. Scoring screens above, dark and waiting.
“You meant bowling,” I say, a laugh of pure relief bubbling up in my chest. “You magnificent, dramatic bastards, you actually—”
My words die in my throat. My gaze has fallen on the ball return.
Three balls rest in the cradle. But they’re not the usual marbled plastic. They’re a pale, waxy, mottled color. My brain tries to make sense of the texture, the faint patterns of veins, the strands of dark, matted…hair.
Recognition hits me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
They’re not bowling balls.
They’re heads.