After unfolding the thick parchment, I smooth it out. The message is written in code, a series of symbols and numbers that would appear nonsensical to anyone not versed in our type of communication. It’s a language taught to recruits during the first three years of training, ingrained so deeply that by the time we receive our first summons, we can read it as easily as our native tongue.
This code is a safeguard against prying eyes. Our allies are few, but our enemies are many. It’s why we stick together.
As I reread the message, the reality of the task ahead crystalizes, making my objective clear. The Order has commanded me to act with secrecy and urgency, which is the standard. I know without a doubt that this mission is nothing more than my father trying to reestablish his dominion over me. Something he hasn’t had since he stabbed me and I returned the favor.
The coded words provide a location, a time, the name of the target, and my objective. But between the lines is a message all of its own. The threat to myself and Delilah if I choose to ignore the call. Or don’t complete the task to their specifications.
I twist the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life, breaking the silence around me. I drive out of the garage, through the iron gates, and onto the main road that leads to the highway. As the landscape blurs past my window, I find my thoughts consumed with Delilah instead of the mission at hand.
The long drive gives me too much time to think, to brood over the complexities that have arisen from a woman with green eyes and a mouth that could drive a saint to curse. Or groan with pleasure.
I knew the moment I met her that my obsession would only grow. And it has. I didn’t know that it’d consume me until the mere thought of losing her makes me want to fucking die.
Every time I touch her, a thrill shoots down my spine. Every kiss makes me fucking hard until my balls ache. I wait with anticipation for every word that comes out of her smart mouth. Rumor has it girls refer to me like a narcotic, but she’s my drug of choice. And I’m a junkie that’s fucking desperate for my next fix.
I rid Delilah from my mind before I pull over to the side of the road and fuck myself while fantasizing about her.
With my mind clear, I focus on the upcoming task, the type of job I know well. Unlike most recruits, the Order summoned me before my senior year. I’m not sure if this was my father’s doing or if the council saw potential in me. Either way, I’ve spent the last two years hunting men and taking their lives.
Before meeting Delilah, I would’ve been eager to carry out my assignment, to prove myself to the powerful organization. However, the prospect no longer excites me. I’m more motivated to prove myself to her—to gain her trust and the unwavering loyalty she’s capable of giving—than I am to kill another spider in my father’s twisted web. I’m entangled in his weapons trafficking empire more than those that answer to him. I suppose I do too, just not in the same way.
My father’s influence has loomed over me my entire life, dictating my actions and shaping my future. I live for the day when my choices aren’t tied to furthering his legacy of violence and power. Maybe that day will never come, but it won’t matter once he’s dead.
Daylight gives way to night. My surroundings shift from the monotony of the highway to the more varied scenery of rural backroads. The target’s location isn’t far, but that’s after nearly twelve hours on the road, going over the speed limit. My grip on the steering wheel is steady and my resolve firmly in place.
The sooner I get this shit over with, the sooner I can return to Delilah.
As I near the dirt road leading to the abandoned steel factory, the night deepens, enveloping me in a veil of darkness that mirrors the one within me. The headlights illuminate a narrow path, but I cut them off. I can’t afford to be spotted, or it’ll fuck this entire thing.
Slowing the vehicle to a crawl, I drive under the cover of night, my irritation growing. Patience has never come naturally to me, but I’ve learned its value, especially when dealing with high-stakes situations. It doesn’t get any more critical than life or death.
When I finally catch sight of the abandoned building, I turn off the road, using the trees to conceal my vehicle. The engine of the SUV dies down to a whisper, and I’m left in the quiet, contemplating my next move. Before me, the steel factory stands like a relic of a bygone era, its metal skeleton rusted and windows shattered, bathed in moonlight.
I take a moment to survey the area, searching for any signs of movement belonging to a guard on duty. Finding no one, I retrieve my bag and unzip it, revealing my choice of firearms. One thing’s for sure: being the heir to an arms trafficking empire lends itself to providing you the best shit when it comes to weapons.
The familiar shape and weight of my favored pistol keeps my hands steady. I insert the clip, and the routine check that follows is more muscle memory than conscious thought. After that I secure my holster and place the gun there. Then I reach for another firearm that’s similar in power and accuracy. A pair of knives are secured to my ankles, hidden in my boots, in case I have to engage in close combat.
Always prepare for shit to go wrong, and you won’t get caught with your dick out when it does.
My target is called “The Broker,” known for his ability to arrange massive arms deals. This man has been orchestrating one for months, but without my father’s knowledge or approval. It’s a clandestine operation on a monumental scale, involving the exchange of high-caliber weaponry, possibly including unmanned aerial vehicles. My father loves technology infused weapons, but only if they’re under his command. If not, they’re a threat that must be eliminated.
I’m sure he’s thought of me in such terms more than once.
The Broker has managed to bring together rogue states and terrorist organizations as key players in this deal, offering them access to military capabilities previously out of their reach. This deal is a bold move that signifies a shift in loyalty and power. In the underworld of arms trafficking, structure and control is everything. If this man thinks he can dictate the terms and bypass my father’s power, then it’ll weaken his position.
This Broker is either stupidly brilliant or brilliantly stupid to challenge my father.
With my weapons in place, I exit the vehicle and secure my mask. The target doesn’t need to know my identity, just the identity of the one who sent me.
I make my way through the shadows, seamlessly blending in. My footsteps are muffed against the overgrown grassy floor, while I strain to pick up any noises, all my senses heightened by adrenaline. I inch closer to the side entrance, and the low murmur of masculine voices reaches me, a confirmation that my intel is solid.
A quick glance through the broken window reveals a vast space, a cathedral of industry. Rust clings to furnaces and cobwebs trail along the chains and hooks dangling lifelessly from the high ceiling. The air is thick with a metallic tang. Piles of scrap metal litter the ground, alongside tools and pieces of equipment, and possibly hazardous materials.
I head inside through a busted door, plastering myself to the wall while staying within the shadows provided by the machinery. In a control room stand three men, their heads bent over a table. Maps and documents are scattered across the wooden surface. The Broker jabs his finger on the papers, his scarred face twisting with a scowl. The two other men are of little consequence in this mission, but the guns on their hips make them important to my self-preservation.
I watch them through the grimy window, biding my time and refining my strategy. Three versus one basically guarantees a favorable outcome. Only when the number surpasses seven do I start to be concerned.