eighteen #2
Ares walks as if he’s still debating what weapon to choose first as he approaches the first glass case.
He punches through it without a second thought, not bothering to ask for a key, glass shards slicing his knuckles as he extracts a slender knife with a curved blade.
He’s so set on getting revenge that he doesn’t even care.
Blood drips from his hand onto the floor, but he doesn't even seem to notice. Maybe because the cuts are already healing, skin knitting itself back together in a way no human ever could. Not that Whitlock would notice. He’s too busy focusing on finding a way out of here.
"You stole from me," Ares says as he examines the blade.
"Not objects, but information. You corrupted my game.
" He turns to face Whitlock, and even from where I stand, I can see the slight dark haze beginning to build behind his eyes.
"I want to know how. I want to know why.
And I want to know who else is involved. "
Whitlock's face turns pale, but his chin lifts with surprising defiance. "I have nothing to say to you."
The first cut comes without me expecting it. Ares slices a straight line along Whitlock's forearm, just deep enough to bleed without hitting anything vital.
Whitlock gasps but doesn't scream, which surprises me. Politicians aren't typically known for their pain tolerance.
"Let's start simple," Ares continues, wiping the blade clean on Whitlock's expensive shirt. "How did you access my system? Who helped you get information on Kharon?"
Whitlock's lips press together as if he’s trying to silence himself.
His eyes are fixed on some distant point over Ares' shoulder, and I must admit, his resistance is unexpected.
I study his face, wondering what could possibly frighten him more than the God of War standing before him.
He might not know Ares is actually the God of War, but his presence would definitely get him the lead in any Mythological Greek Hollywood productions.
That could only mean one thing. "He's protecting someone," I say, pushing away from the display case. "Someone he fears more than you."
Ares smiles, a little unconvinced that this is actually possible. His ego is still something he needs to work on.
"Interesting." He makes another cut, this one along Whitlock's other arm, mirroring the first. "Let's explore that fear, shall we?"
What follows is a masterclass of torture. Ares works like an artist, each cut with the intention of inflecting maximum pain, but with minimal permanent damage.
Next on his list, he breaks the smallest finger on Whitlock's left hand with a quick snap, the sound filling the quiet room.
I muffle Whitlock's scream with the hand I clamp over his mouth. We can't risk alerting what’s left of his security, even with Ares' men handling the situation outside. But to our surprise, he resists; his body is shaking with pain, but his mouth stays sealed shut whenever we allow him to speak.
“He once cut a man’s dick off,” I shrug like it’s not a big deal, like he could definitely do it again. Even right now.
A devious smile spreads on Ares’ lips. “More than once, actually,” he says, looking at me with a certain pride. “But I’ve only done it as a gift once,” he whispers, just for me to hear. And yeah, he’s that fucked up.
“I should feel honored,” I fake a smile, slightly taken aback that he considered that a gift. I’m definitely not telling him when my birthday is.
Not that I know for sure when it is, anyway...
After almost half an hour, Ares' patience wears thin. I’m impressed Whitlock lasted that long, especially since we’ve left him only in his underwear, and Ares has made a red canvas out of his body.
But enough is enough. I can see that Ares will bring things to an end soon enough.
He selects a different blade and heats it using a windproof torch lighter.
"Last chance," he says, the heated metal casting an orange reflection across his face. "Who are you working with?"
When Whitlock remains silent, Ares presses the hot blade against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. The smell of burning flesh fills the room, almost nauseating, and Whitlock's scream tears through his throat before I can silence him.
"The skin there is particularly sensitive," I say, detached enough to seem like a psycho as I watch tears stream down Whitlock's face. "Try the one behind the knee next. Maybe cut out a tendon. You know… to leave a signature."
Ares glances at me, enjoying my little psychological game before he returns his attention to our captive. "You heard the lady."
The blade moves lower, finding the tender spot where I suggested. This time, Whitlock breaks.
"Stop! Please stop," he sobs, his body convulsing against the restraints. "I'll tell you what I know."
Ares pulls the blade away but keeps it in sight, just to remind him what awaits if his answers prove unsatisfactory. "Start talking."
"I didn’t hack into your system because I wanted to," Whitlock gasps between ragged breaths. "John Ashford. He's the one who made me do it."
"One of the Valiants." Ares' expression darkens, and I know they’re talking about the man in the picture. “Why does he need access?” Ares continues with the questioning.
"I don’t know. He reports to someone else," Whitlock continues, words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. "Someone higher up. I don't know who. They keep their identity hidden. I only do minor tasks for them for now."
"Why?" I demand, stepping closer. "What did you stand to gain from this?"
Whitlock laughs a little hysterically, but I can’t help but sense that he considers me a little slow for not seeing things for what they are.
"Power. Access. Do you have any idea how politics really work in this city?
In this country?" Blood drips from his chin as he speaks.
"I needed their backing to secure my Senate seat.
They promised me protection, influence...
a place at the table where real decisions are made. "
"What kind of table?" Ares asks, his voice too quiet to bring anything good.
"I don’t know," Whitlock whispers, eyes darting nervously across the room. "But they’re higher than me, higher than you. It’s like an exclusive circle you join for life.
Business, politics, law enforcement, they've been operating for generations, pulling strings from the shadows without our laws applying to them. "
“Like a secret society?” I ask, still not as surprised as I should be by the revelation.
"And infiltrating my game was your admission price," Ares states rather than asks.
Whitlock nods without too much strength. "I needed to prove my worth. I'm not high enough in their ranks to know everything. Just enough to complete my assignment."
"Which was what, exactly?" I press.
"To get the names of the potential players selected for the game." His eyes move to Ares. "To gather data on how Kharon operates. The weapons you use. The advantages it creates."
Ares freezes, and I recognize the stillness of a predator before it strikes. "And how deep does the digital infiltration run? Did you deliver information about Kharon, or about all my activities?"
"Everything," Whitlock admits. "My background before politics was in cybersecurity. I just needed the right access point, which wasn’t that difficult to get.
I uploaded the SSL certificate onto my phone and then uploaded it into the wifi router four years ago when I first came to Elysium to register as an Observant. "
"You have no idea what you've done," Ares roars so loud my blood freezes. "Or who you've tangled with."
Whitlock's bloodshot eyes fix on Ares. "No, you don't understand who you're dealing with. They're more than you think. More powerful than even you realize."
He doesn’t give us much else, mainly because we don’t think he knows much else. No one could keep quiet through that kind of torture, and since he already started talking, he wouldn’t hold back anything.
So Ares decides it’s time for us to leave. With Whitlock, of course, who we get out of the house through the back, with Ares’ men keeping watch for any prying eyes.
The drive across the city feels endless. Whitlock lies in the backseat with zip ties cutting into his wrists and a black hood covering his face. We got him dressed again, but blood seeps through the fabric of his clothes, staining the leather seats beneath him.
Ares drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against my dress.
Neither of us speaks. We don't need to. A plan is forming between us without words, and we both have one thing in common.
We need to get to the bottom of this and find the ones responsible.
We pull into an underground garage beneath an apartment building in a neighborhood that’s just somewhere between wealthy and working-class. The kind of place where people mind their own business, and security cameras mysteriously malfunction every time it’s convenient.
Ares hauls Whitlock from the backseat without effort, carrying him into a service elevator that takes us straight to the fifteenth floor.
I walk in front of them, making sure no one is in the corridor except for two of Ares’ men positioned in front of door 1507.
The place looks like a normal apartment, except for the reinforced doors, covered windows, walls thick enough to muffle screams, and cameras positioned in each corner of the ceiling.
Ares carries Whitlock inside and throws him on the sofa, his body slumping the moment he lands.