Chapter 11
Lincoln
It’s been three days since I got back. Three days of her scent lingering wherever she’s been—citrus fruits and the subtle
hint of wildflowers—and three days of me trying not to be alone with her, at least not in close proximity. I almost crossed
a line with her that night in the library. I almost touched her skin, and it would have been so easy to let myself feel the
soft silk of her cheek, especially when it seemed like she wanted me to. But then where would that have led? For surely one
touch would never be enough where she’s concerned. And doing anything with her is monstrous and unthinkable. I’m heinous for even considering it.
I drop into the chair in front of the bank of screens in my basement lair. Eight of them attached to different computers which run endlessly. Two monitor security and heat detection cameras. Two
monitoring my investments and programmed with a code that buys and sells stock based on the market fluctuation. It’s a program
I should probably have patented, except it would get me into a whole heap of trouble with Wall Street if I did. No need for
brokers when a simple program can do the work of one hundred of them—not to mention it’s faster, smarter and free from human
error.
And while it would please me to no end to piss off all those rich entitled men in suits, I’m not in the habit of drawing unnecessary attention to myself.
I exist in a state of nonexistence. The reclusive billionaire.
Disfigured. Psychotic. Driven mad by the loss of his good looks and locked away in his secret hideaway, far from the prying eyes of the world.
There are plenty of rumors out there about me, some so ridiculous they could have come straight from the mind of a horror fiction writer.
And I’ve heard them all—from slaughtering my entire family in the house fire that scarred me, to being a devil worshipper.
I do nothing to quash any of them, because for the most part they serve me well.
The other four screens run different kinds of programs. One is still tracing the money I paid to the Brotherhood, but every
time the trail stops, it bounces and picks up somewhere else. The others are primarily focused on finding people—specifically
members of the Brotherhood and the women sold at their auctions. The only way to ease my conscience is to try and rescue as
many of the women as I can find, while also trying to take down as many of the sick fucks who ply this trade as possible.
The Brotherhood are an elite organization made up of only the finest and cruelest minds in the world. Insidious and ruthless.
They are masters of disguise, who have infiltrated every major institution and influential government in some way. They are
ghosts, like me. Their ranks are organized like a game of chess. They have many Pawns. Soldiers who are dispensable and never
provided with information other than that which is absolutely necessary to the task. I expect some of them don’t fully understand
the organization they’re working for. They mostly do it for the kudos, the hope that one day they may rise through the ranks
and become untouchable too. And some of them simply do it for the thrill, because the words the Brotherhood, spoken only ever in the ghost of a whisper, give them a boner.
Then there are the Bishops. The respectable faces of the organization—politicians and businessmen who further the Brotherhood’s agendas through any means at their disposal.
Ruthless and cruel, but with the charisma of a beloved dictator. And of course there are the Knights—the protectors. The generals
who are the link between the Pawns and the power. The Knights report to the Rooks, and the Rooks to the Queen, the highest
rank before the King himself.
Each level is closely guarded with minimal interaction. Every single member has a single handler who they communicate with.
I’ve met many Knights, killed plenty too. I’ve only ever met two Bishops. The first was on the day my sister died, and I beat
him to death with my bare hands. The second one was fifteen years ago. I killed him too. Slipped digitalis into his martini
and watched him slump face forward into his date’s ample breasts. I was blinkered back then. Focused only on wiping out as
many of them as I could, until I realized my strategy was all wrong. Kill a Bishop and there are dozens waiting to take his
place. Like a snake, the only way to take out the Brotherhood is to sever its head. Take its King. Bloody vengeance used to
be the only balm to soothe the constant rage, fueled by my crushing guilt, yet now I find myself with another, altogether
more effective and more pleasant, form of solace—and that is simply her presence.
I glance at the screen on the top right and frown. This one is focused on tracing the other women from the auction last week.
But there is far too little progress and it’s happening far too slowly. I roll my neck, trying to keep a lid on my frustration.
Pierre’s footsteps alert me to his presence and I’m thankful for his company.
This basement has always been cold and clinical, and that’s how I like it.
Or how I used to like it. But the blandness of this space feels a stark contrast to the color and texture of life above me in the main house.
There’s a brightness and a warmth there now that has nothing to do with the fire Pierre has started lighting in the library every evening, and everything to do with the person he’s lighting it for.
“Have you found anything yet?” Pierre asks, wheeling over the spare chair and then sitting beside me.
“No. Everything is frustratingly slow,” I grumble.
“It is always slow, mon ami. The Brotherhood are not fool enough to allow the girls to be traced so easily, for it would undermine the integrity of their
entire structure, non?”
I grunt in response. He speaks the truth. As far as money goes, the auctions are pocket change for the revenue they bring
in. Held every two years, they’re not run for profit. No, their existence serves a much more sinister and important purpose.
An auction is a breeding ground for future marks, already corrupt or primed to be corrupted. Full of arrogant, powerful men,
who are so morally bankrupt that they would buy a woman from a fucking brochure where her primary selling point is how used she is. And as such, the Brotherhood go to great lengths to protect the identities of their customers, and what they do with
the goods they buy. They also have a bunch of men who are as smart as me, running programs just like mine, who work just as hard to
keep me out as I work to get in.
“I need a lead, Pierre.” I run my hands through my hair. “Eighteen years and I’ve never come close to finding a Rook.” The
Rooks are the key. The keepers of the secrets who are trusted above all others.
“Your day will come, Lincoln. I feel you getting closer.”
I close my eyes and sigh, wishing I could believe him.
Eighteen years of taking souls and exacting vengeance and I never make a dent in their organization.
Because every time I take out one of them, it seems two more take their place.
They continue growing stronger and richer and more powerful.
But if I could find one of them. If I could spend an hour alone with a Rook, I’m sure I could get the information I need to find the King.
The man responsible for taking the only people who ever meant anything to me.
My mind wanders as it often does to the only Rook I ever met. I knew him very well. His name was Luca DeMotta. He was Imogen’s
father, and I was one of the many Knights who served him. He was calculated and shrewd, and brilliant and loyal. The Brotherhood
say I killed him—identified him as a traitor and exacted my just revenge. And every single day I feel the weight of his death
on my conscience.