eighteen #3
404 rises from behind a laptop when we enter, his eyes widening at Whitlock's bloodied state. "Jesus, you really worked him over."
"He's still breathing," Ares replies, walking to the open space kitchen sink to wash his bloodied hands.
Whitlock's face now is ashen, his hair plastered to his forehead with blood and sweat.
"Everything's set up," 404 says, gesturing to the cameras. "Signal jammers are active. The only communications in or out are through our secure line."
"Good." Ares walks toward Whitlock like a shark scenting blood. "You and I need to have a conversation about your friend Ashford."
Whitlock's bloodshot eyes follow Ares' movement. "What are you going to do to me?"
"That depends entirely on you." Ares stops directly in front of him, leaning down until their faces are inches apart. "I'm not going to kill you. Not yet."
Whitlock breathes out in relief, but it’s immediately replaced by wariness. He's smart enough to know that him living is only to serve a purpose. Ours.
"Instead," Ares continues, "you're going to help us. You're going to contact John Ashford and arrange a meeting with me. Something private, something he won't suspect."
"He'll know," Whitlock protests. "He'll sense something's wrong."
I step forward. "Then you'd better be convincing. Your life depends on that."
I extend Whitlock his phone while Ares grabs his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"Make it believable," he warns, his tone saying everything the bastard needs to know.
"One wrong word, one hint that something's wrong, and I'll peel your skin off inch by inch. What you experienced earlier was just a warm-up compared to what I’ll do to you if you fuck me over. "
I lean against the wall, arms crossed over my chest, watching Whitlock's face contort with fear. For a politician, this should be his moment to shine. I mean, lying convincingly under pressure is their stock in trade.
"What should I say?" Whitlock finally asks, his voice trembling.
"Tell him you've uncovered something about me," Ares suggests. "Something that requires immediate attention. A vulnerability you need to exploit together."
"Political angle," I add, seeing an opportunity. "Say you need his help establishing a connection with Ares for your campaign. A powerful backer who operates outside normal methods. Say Ares would be useful and that this will get you deeper into learning all of Kharon’s secrets."
Ares nods, approving my command. "Use your ambition as cover. It's believable because it's true."
Whitlock draws a shuddering breath, visibly steeling himself for what he has to do, then puts the phone on speaker.
"John, it's Nathaniel," he begins, sounding remarkably composed for a man in his position.
"Sorry for the late call, but I've had an interesting development.
" He pauses, listening for Ashford asking about the party. "Yes, the party went well. It’s a pity you couldn’t attend.
That's actually why I'm calling. Ares showed up. "
My eyes lock with Ares' across the room. His expression remains impassive, but I can see the intensity in his gaze as he listens to every word, ready to intervene at the first sign of betrayal.
"I think he could be useful to me—to us more specifically," Whitlock continues, fabricating his story with surprising skill. "Ares expressed interest in my campaign. I need your help, I’d like to arrange a private meeting between you two, something off the books. I told him I would talk to you and try to get something on the books, then let him know. It’s a little out of my league, but his backing could be crucial for the campaign.
Besides, this might prove valuable in getting to know everything there is to be known about Kharon for our mutual friends. "
The conversation continues for several minutes, Whitlock keeping the delicate line between providing enough information to seem genuine while revealing nothing of his current situation.
When he finally ends the call, his hands are trembling, and I think he’s close to having a heart attack.
"The Exclusivista, tomorrow at noon," Ares repeats the meeting place set up by Ashford.
The first piece of our plan is in place.
"You did well," he barely admits, like the words cost him, then calls the two guards standing by the door.
"You two, keep him secure. Patch up the worst of his injuries and get him new clothes. We need him functional for tomorrow."
They nod, already retrieving a first aid kit from the bathroom. "What about 404?" one of them asks.
"One of you take him back to the warehouse. The other stays here and keeps an eye on Whitlock," Ares decides. "If he’s setting me up, he’s as good as dead." Then his gaze moves to me. “Let’s go.”
We walk out of there in silence as the most dangerous creature I've ever known is choosing patience over violence once again. The thought should be comforting, but instead, it fills me with a strange unease.
Because when the God of War chooses plans over slaughter, it means he's preparing for something worse than a battle.
He's preparing for fucking war.