Page 5

5

NATHANIEL

I see right through her, but I will allow her to continue to think otherwise.

She loved giving me that blowjob as much as I enjoyed getting it. And no fucking chance she hates me; the wet puddle left behind by her pussy would beg to differ.

Chuckling to myself, I lean back in my chair, sucking back on my cigar, and check my phone to see who felt the need to annoy me this evening. Before I am able to, Rogers pokes his head in. “Sir, I have the information you requested.”

“Email me everything,” I instruct. He responds with a curt nod and walks away.

Rogers is family; he has been the estate manager since I bought the place. I trust him with everything. He has never betrayed me or the family.

Picking my phone up, it goes off displaying his email. I ignore it for now, instead finding the mystery caller and dialling them back. It rings four times before a younger man's voice answers. “Duke, we need a cleanup crew. Dalton, he just fucking lost it. So many bodies, blood everywhere. The chief of police among them. Duke, what do we do?”

Keeping my tone calm, I say, “Where?”

“Hell Fire cabin,” the kid stutters in response.

Confused, I reply, “What are people doing at the cabin?”

The line goes quiet; heavy breathing only remains, so I ask another question. “Is he still there?”

“Yes.”

Shit.

“I’m on my way,” is all I say being hanging up.

On Hell Fire Night, we were told the King was dead—Dalton’s father, Brad. Then conflicting information followed through stating otherwise. None of us have seen Brad, so to say I was suspicious would be a fucking understatement at this point. The fucker has been peacocking around town for weeks; this is the first town official he has taken out. What in the hell is he thinking?

Slamming my hands down on my desk, now is the only time I allow my frustrations to show. In the privacy of my home, in my office.

Next, I message Delacroix.

Me

Need you at the Hell Fire cabin. Call the crew. I’ll call E.

D

Understood.

I dial Elijah next; he picks up after the first ring. “What?”

“Son, I’ve missed you too. How’s Rain and the baby?” He hates small talk; it only drives my need to do it more knowing that.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“Can’t a father call to check in on his son? I am so proud of you. I don’t tell you enough.” He is gearing to punch me through the phone; I can feel it with the lack of response. Faintly, I can hear Rain laughing in the background. I really like her, love her even, for Elijah. She helps balance him, if that’s possible.

“Apologize to Rain for me, I need you at the cabin… Dalton,” I explain. And saying his name is all I need to do. My son isn’t one for formalities; the call ends, and moments later I hear him revving his engine from across the street and squealing his tires as he takes off.

Elijah has been keeping an eye on him casually since his cock-up at The Ranch. He tried to rough up one of the girls when they became uncomfortable, then he wouldn’t leave after the session was completed. Dalton pinned her against the wall, but she was able to reach one of many panic buttons calling for help. Security rushed in and threw him out immediately.

That little shit thinks too highly of himself.

And the police is my fucking territory, along with judges and hits.

After the incident at Greta’s, I asked if the Antichrist could do some digging, low-key. The King's son has always been an arrogant prick, but since Hell Fire he has amped up all efforts, which makes me believe that his father is truly dead.

Not many are aware Greta runs the rebel group; I don’t think her granddaughter is even privy to such information. For her to complete surveillance on him is a lot easier than it is for Elijah and I. We can observe, but she can get deeper. If we get close, red flags would go up immediately and would impact any efforts from the Antichrist.

Standing up, I turn around and pull on one of the bookcases. It swings open like a door, revealing a wall of weapons and a change of clothes. Quickly I switch out my sweats for black trousers and throw on a white button-up dress shirt and black jacket. Reaching for my Glock, I slide that into the back of my pants and close the case.

Then, grabbing my phone, I send Greta a text before heading out.

Again. Tomorrow.

Pulling up to the cabin, my brother from another mother is waiting outside, looking thrilled. He and my son are so fucking similar. Yet they couldn’t be more different. It truly is an interesting dynamic to observe.

Parking the Range Rover, I jump out and meet Delicroux around the other side.

“Your kid is ready to slaughter. His pacing is making the cleaners uneasy,” he explains as we walk into the cabin.

“Is he still here?” I question, taking in the sight before me. It’s fucking carnage. What in the hell went on here?

“Negative. The commoner who called you said he left shortly after his call to you.”

Walking through the entrance and past where goblets of blood would be resting on Hell Fire, we follow the sound of the commotion.

Elijah is pacing, twisting his bat with his wrist, and only stopping when he spots me enter.

He points to the wall and shouts, “The asshat is taunting us.”

My eyes go to what he’s focused on.

Fuck.

KING is written in capital letters using blood on the white wall.

Is he confirming our beliefs? Does he know we have other eyes on him? Are we being bugged?

All questions that I need Rogers on because this isn’t a coincidence.

My face is neutral as thoughts race frantically through my mind. Casually I shift my eyes, examining the room and the other members in attendance; anything and everyone here is significant.

Ignoring my son, I command the room, “Anyone left alive?” not wanting to draw further attention our way.

“Just the one who called you,” an eager member speaks up, wanting to show his worth using his knowledge.

Turning my head to the bloody scene before us, I ask, “What are they still doing here?” while walking over to the now deceased chief of police. Kneeling, I take in the body, a single close-range gunshot to the back of the head, dead instantly.

Executed.

“We didn’t want to move them until you got here, Duke,” the member continues. My eyes continue to surveillance the area, noting that the blood has already begun to dry on the floor. “What’s your name, kid?”

You can hear his chest push out with confidence. “Thomas.”

He’s one of Greta’s. I knew he looked familiar. She has Antichrist members all over. Faces who blend in, never raising suspicion, are easier to insert, like Thomas. He’s never been to Hell Fire, nor to a meeting, but no one in this room is challenging whether he belongs.

She isn’t doing this to spy on us, but to gather intel on the increased events and fucking chaos since Hell Fire Night.

Giving him a curt nod, I command the room as I rise, “Clear the room!” Everyone scurries except for Elijah and Delicroux.

Once everyone is gone, my hands rest in my trouser pockets. Walking up to my best friend, I whisper in his ear, “D, call Ryder. Tell them we are going to leave the body in plain sight. We have an internal situation but can’t have the town suspicious. They need to believe this is between us and them. Corrupt chief. Uneasiness brings unpredictability. We need to portray that we have this contained. They’ll understand. This kid is taunting us, there is no longer a doubt in my mind that Brad, our former King, is dead.”

If the other members of The Exiled have suspected, none have been vocal about it. Fear is most likely fueling their silence.

Turning to my son, my tone is firm when I say, “Not. Yet.” His chest heaves, hungry for bloodshed. His tongue moves across his teeth and newly implanted sharp canines, which Rain got him as a gift that he made permanent.

Elijah craves blood and inflicting pain. Withdrawal hits hard when he can’t get it. But soon, son, soon, I fucking promise.

Stomping out of the room, he purposefully steps in the pool of blood that’s not yet dry as he goes to leave.

“He’ll survive,” I mumble to myself. I hate having a leash on him. I never want to hold him back, but we have to be smart.

Clapping my hands together, I call out to the banished team. “Clean this shit up. Leave the chief's body in Ryder’s territory. The others, unmarked graves. Understood?”

As they hustle back into the space, “Yes, Duke” is said quietly as they scurry to get to work.

Thomas is standing just in my peripheral view. “Supervise the cleanup, kid.” I trust my cleanup team, but I need to make sure I truly can. Thomas will tell me if my gut is right.

Before turning to leave, I see D casually pass Thomas and whisper something I can’t hear, but see the kid say, “Understood.”

Leading the way, I take in the bloodied KING scrawled on the wall one last time. He knew I could barely tolerate his father, and him, nothing more than a fucking immature peacocking child, not equipped to run a fucking billion-dollar organization.

If he wants to play, I’ll fucking play. And I’ll win because I’m better at this game than he is.