Page 49 of Shrapnel

Which is what Noah was bringing to the position. If he had any other blood but Elliott running through his veins, he would be a missing poster by now. As it was, his supporters were dwindling. Despite his best efforts at suppression, rumors were circling.

Noah looked at the victim’s pictures. All lined up along the top of his board. He felt responsible for their deaths. If Jamie was right, they were killed because of him. Getting shot in the line of duty for White Sand Mesa was one thing, being murdered to destabilize the current leader or get revenge for Luther’s death…that was different.

“It’s got to be Hughes,” he mumbled, eyes flicking to the last picture.

“Would you like to read his file again?” Harvey asked helpfully.

Noah had read it. A thousand times. There was nothing in it.

Literally, nothing.

Hughes worked directly for his uncle. Luther had a vast network of people close to him, but there was an inner circle. A sanctum of his closest and most trusted associates. Because he was a paranoid asshole, Luther didn’t leave much trace of justwhatthese people did for him. Whoever they were they would know his secrets and his inner machinations. They probably knew of his plans once he sicced the Weavers and the Wens against each other.

It was brilliant. Rather than using heads to control the various factions of his gang like the Weavers and Vegas did, he had circles of confidants. Those he trusted with everything were closest, and the rings widened out from there.

The inner circle's loyalty would be unquestionable—they would never accept Noah’s leadership. Not when he took it through murder. They were the first he had hunted down. Most of them took their own lives, knowing Noah would have tortured them for information on Luther’s plans.

But a few, like Hughes, had managed to escape his notice. Another failure on his part.

Hughes assimilated himself into the wider ranks of the gang. He kept his head down and pretended to be just another low-level associate.

“You spoke to drugs?”

Harvey nodded, adjusting his seat on the swivel chair he had claimed as his own. “Yes. He was known superficially, but beyond his name, no one knew much about him.”

Ninety percent of the men and women working for White Sand Mesa kept their pasts secret. No one would have questioned his secrecy.

“And our PIs?”

Harvey grabbed a file they both knew by heart. He flipped it open. “They found an address and that he has a sister he hasn’t spoken to in ten years. Financials are all over the place. He predominantly used cash.”

Of course he fucking did.

Noah had been in Hughes’ apartment. The size of a postage stamp with absolutely nothing personal in it. Someone had either cleared it out or Hughes was a big fan of staring at empty walls. Or he didn’t live there.

Dropping his head into his hands, Noah massaged his temples. Hughes was supposed to be the answer.

“Perhaps some of the others…” Harvey valiantly tried to bolster Noah’s spirits.

“Eileen Donahue,” Noah held up his pointer finger. “Our first victim. Forty-five years old, she was a chemist who worked for a local pharmaceutical company that specializes in Migraine medication. She was contracted out by White Sand Mesa to assist with some of Luther’s poison fuckery. With a mountain of school debt, she took the jobs without question. Not married, but she lived with her long-term girlfriend. No kids, but they were discussing IVF. Besides taking money from a gang, she lived a very normal life.”

He held up a second finger. “Second victim, Bryan Dalton. He had a wife and two kids. Owned a painting company. He dropped drugs and listening devices for us in buildings he painted. Took cash and didn’t have anything else to do with the gang.”

Bryan Dalton also played poker with his middle school best friends every Thursday night and liked football. Noah couldn’t forget that. Or the look on his wife’s face at his funeral.

“Third was Colin Koehler. Unlike the other two, he worked for us. Low-level drug dealing on the East side. No familial attachments but he sometimes worked as a prostitute to supplement his drug habit.”

And the last two, Andrews and Hughes they had been focusing on. He stared up at their pictures even though he didn’t have to. Noah saw their faces when he closed his eyes. When he slept.

Hehatedthem.

They haunted him. Tormented him. Reminded him that this was a life he was born for, and he couldn’t do it. His father could. His uncle could. Their blood ran in his veins. Noah couldn’t protect those he loved. He couldn’t do anything but choke down the bitterness and plow forward.

Inhaling, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Using his bedroom was unprofessional. Not what an excellent leader like Grant would do, but his bedroom was the only room in White Sand Mesa he could stand to spend any time in. Noah had closed all the doors and locked himself away. Like a rat in a cage, he refused to explore outside of his safe space. The one filled with light and cheap bargain brand furniture to remind him of the happy times he spent in a shabby apartment with his aunt and uncle.

Noah would give anything to go back to that time. When Kurt would let him put stickers on the bruises from his fights and tell him they immediately felt better. The sight of a cartoon themed Band-Aid trying to hold the swollen pieces of his uncle’s face together should have been horrific, but Noah could only look back at the memory with happiness.