Chapter 4
Chapter four
Hayden Herron
Idon’t trust Archibald Franklin and I’m certain he doesn’t trust me. But tonight, trust doesn’t matter. Only results do.
Whitmore paired us up for assignments immediately after the ceremony. New Bonesmen worked in pairs while they established themselves in the Brotherhood. The twins were paired together, and Hudson with an upperclassman, obviously leaving me to the chatty, spoiled Archie.
Truthfully, Franklin has proven himself more than once, enough that I'd probably trust him with my life, though I'd die before admitting it. He’s arrogant, irritating as hell, but damn if he isn't occasionally funny. Not that I'd ever tell him that.
The Brotherhood never assigns easy tasks; if they did, it wouldn’t mean shit.
Meaning is everything, and there's a bigger reason behind every small one, and they quickly become massive responsibilities as they stack up. Every word, every move, every single body that hits the floor is a bloody investment in the world we’re building.
This is the essence of it. We’re given assignments with the clear expectation that they’ll be completed by the set deadline.
That’s the price of being untouchable. Everyone's hands must be covered in blood if you expect to reap the resources and protection of the Brotherhood. Failure isn’t an option.
You either complete the task or offer yourself in penance for falling short.
Franklin lounges in the passenger seat of the black sedan like he owns the space, flicking his cigarette into the darkness of the night outside of the rolled-down window. Burning embers swirl through the cold D.C. air. Arrogance and smoke hang heavy in the car between us.
“You look tense, Herron,” his tone is smooth yet barbed. Archie always seems to be probing for weakness.
“I’d be relaxed if I wasn’t saddled with a walking fucking liability.”
He snorts. “Likewise.”
I glide the sedan silently through empty streets. At this hour, D.C. is a lifeless, rotting corpse, full of secrets hidden in plain sight. The perfect hunting grounds.
I glance at my watch. 1:32 AM. The target should already be home, oblivious.
“You remember the plan?” I ask mostly to irritate him.
“My memory’s sharper than yours.”
“Doubtful.”
But Archie is sharp. It's why he's unbearable and exactly why we were paired. Two predators forced to hunt as one.
I’m not sure if the Brotherhood is just waiting to see who fails first, or if pairs truly are the only way to complete an assignment successfully. I do know, they’ll never tell us.
Tonight's target was a Bonesman, now rogue.
He became greedy, stealing from the Brotherhood, mistakenly believing he had the right to choose his own fate.
The problem with that is the Brotherhood doesn't forgive betrayal.
Instead, it sends other members to gut traitors and hang their carcasses as warnings.
I stop the car outside an unassuming yet expensive townhouse. Archie is already moving.
“I’ll take the front.”
“I'll cover the back.”
He smirks as sharp as a blade. “Try not to fuck this up.”
“Try not to bleed out.”
He slips from the car, effortless arrogance wrapped in violence. I vanish into the alley, picking the back lock with practiced ease.
Once I’m through the back door and walking through the kitchen, I hear footsteps above, followed by a muffled shout and then something heavy crashing to the floor.
Archie.
Silent, I ascend, gun steady. At the landing, Archie grapples with our target—a wiry man past his prime, but desperate strength keeps him fighting. Archie’s got him pinned, but he's struggling, furious, and undisciplined.
“Need help?” I ask, savoring the sight.
“Shut up and fucking assist me.”
I surge forward, slamming my fist brutally into the man's ribs. Bones crack audibly, breath exploding from his lungs. Archie jerks his twisted arm upward, the popping of ligaments sharp and satisfying.
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” Archie growls.
I plant my boot firmly on the man's throat, watching his face turn crimson, veins bulging grotesquely beneath pale skin.
“You...don't...understand,” he gasps pathetically.
I press down harder, driving the heel of my boot into his throat, watching him sputter and squirm like a fish on a dock. “No, you’re the one who misunderstood,” I say coldly and even. “Choices have consequences. I’m yours.”
His hands scrabble at my leg, nails scratching uselessly against leather, trying to pry me off like it’ll make a difference. It’s pitiful. He’s not resisting, he’s flailing. Archie crouches beside him, voice calm and direct. “Where is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just glares, teeth clenched, blood pooling under his cheek.
So I bend down and grab his pinky. Without ceremony, I snap it backward and watch as bone punctures the skin with a sickening crunch.
He lets out a high-pitched, ragged scream, the kind of sound that fills a room and hangs there.
His body convulses from the shock, but he still doesn’t talk.
I watch as his face pales to grey, but he is still holding out.
I sigh, then reach for the knife I keep tucked at the waistband of my trousers, knowing it’s time for some more substantial efforts. It’s not a flashy knife, just a simple carbon steel blade sharp from use.
“You think pain makes you brave?” I ask, gripping his wrist. He starts thrashing again in an absolute panic, but I don’t stop.
I press the blade just below the base of his palm and start sawing through the flesh.
Blood pours fast, hot, and dark, splashing across the marble as he howls, his legs kicking wildly.
I keep going methodically, carving through tendons and muscles like I’m slicing meat.
“You’re going to tell us,” I mutter more to myself than him, “it’s just a matter of how much of you’s left when you do. ”
He breaks before I hit the bone.
“Second—row—bookshelf!” he screams, voice cracking, soaked with spit and blood. I stop, wipe the blade on his coat, and then dust off my slacks before standing. He’s shaking uncontrollably, his face a mess of snot and tears and terror staring at me like I’m something he didn’t believe could exist.
He tries to get up and make a run for it, so Archie shoves him violently into a desk, splintering wood. Straightening myself, my eyes find the shelf, and I pull away books, exposing a safe.
While I’m focused on the task at hand, a greater responsibility looms in the back of my mind, and something about this situation seems like it may be of help to me. It looks like the Huntington-Russells are all around me, and it’s a convenience I can’t deny.
Something about this man tells me he’s about to share information I didn’t know I needed.
“Combination.”
Silence.
Archie doesn’t hesitate, snapping the man's forearm with a visceral crunch. The scream is wet and raw, blood dripping from bitten lips.
“9-1-7-3,” he wheezes through agony.
The safe opens easily, and the files are neatly arranged. I collect them swiftly.
“Time's up,” Archie shouts coldly as he throws the man to the floor.
“You...don't know what you've done,” he sobs weakly.
I grin cruelly. “Neither do you.”
We leave with fast adrenaline pulsing through both of us. But as we reach the street, the deadly click of weapons echoes through the silence, making both of us straighten up quickly and sharpen our senses.
“Move!” I shove Archie to the side of the house, up against the wall, as bullets rip the air where he'd stood moments before. Professionals in black descend from the side of the townhouse, and I take stock of how precise their aim is.
“Fuck,” Archie snarls, returning fire from the gun he keeps in a holster against his chest, as we attempt to run from the side of the house and duck behind a car, we both nearly miss being shot.
Who the fuck would send guns for hire?
“Plan?” He demands breathlessly.
“Don’t die.”
Bullets shred metal and asphalt. We sprint for the alley, gunfire whistling past. Archie stumbles over uneven pavement, and without hesitation, I seize him, wrenching him forward as bullets shatter brick inches from his skull.
He stares at me in disbelief, momentarily breaking his arrogance for a moment of genuine fear.
“Move,” I bark.
We plunge into shadows, hearts pounding. Silence settles thick and oppressive.
He laughs a low sound tinged with grudging respect. “Didn’t peg you for sentimental, Herron.”
“I don’t enjoy breaking in new partners,” I growl. “Don’t push your luck.”
His smirk returns, but there's something new behind it. Something dangerously close to trust.
“Hurry up,” I say darkly. “There's somewhere else I need to be.”
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Present Day
I don’t remember changing for dinner; all I know is that by some miracle, I’m ready, and I stand in our grand entry room, clutching a glass of champagne, uncertain how I got here.
The scent of white lilies and roses is suffocating. It clings to the air, making it thick and oppressive, mingling awfully with the candle wax and woodsmoke curling from the hearth. The weight of past expectations consumes my body, yet I stand unmoving in the center of the grand hall.
The chandeliers flicker above their dim candlelight, stretching long shadows across the black-clad figures around me.
This is no funeral, but every guest is dressed as if in mourning.
I’m not surprised I was the last to find out about my mother's death. I wonder how long she’d been cold before they started trying to pick her societal bones.
Of course, my brothers knew, making Ford's odd behavior last night all the more obvious.
I know my Father is capable of more evil than even my well-read mind can comprehend, but would he kill her? What could have driven him to do such evil? She’d always behaved as the perfect host, the perfect wife. So perfect she even struggled as a mother in her quest for perfection for him.