Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 12
I’d like to blame Kate for this. She’s the one who talked to Death, but she didn’t stray beyond the instructions I gave her.
I wanted her to get him talking and give us a chance to trace the call.
She was supposed to insult him by calling him a vigilante.
I expected Death to make threats, maybe even make a move.
It was a gambit. If he refused to be swayed by public pressure, it would reveal his character. If he gave in and called my bluff, it would reveal his plan. Both are useful. However, Death extracted a heavy cost.
My dominance over the Masters and the telecommunications industry relies on having continued access to the KPP exploit. Without the vulnerability built into so much of the Internet’s traffic, I won’t be able to hijack communications of world leaders, surveillance footage from intelligence agencies, e-mails from high-power CEOs… Although I have other means to obtain this information, it will cost more and will take longer. This is like being forced to go back to taking the bus after owning a stealth jet.
I misjudged Death. Timo Thor and Lincoln Waterston were not particularly useful to me, which is why I’d planned to kill them both with Hamza’s missiles. Although their executions demonstrated that Anarchy, Inc. was not a force to be trifled with, the damage to my organization was minimal. Karthik Pai, on the other hand, I’d planned to keep around a lot longer.
Is it premature to worry that I’m losing control? I’ve lost a line on weapons I needed, dozens of my hired guns have been killed and now I’m going to lose a key operational asset. It’s like Death’s taking a sledgehammer to the stone foundations of my castle.
I could accept these losses if we had successfully traced the call, then carpet-bombed everything within a square mile of his location. Instead, we got nothing — and Death isn’t finished.
Who will he come after next? Does he intend to rip my organization apart, like a child tormenting a spider by yanking off one leg at a time, or is he simply weakening me to the point where he can destroy me? Is that even his goal?
If I were my own enemy, how would I proceed from here? I could target Roderick Picot, our premiere investment banker and money launderer. Exposing him to the IRS and FBI would effectively hamstring my operations — the one thing mercenaries won’t do is work for free. I have other unscrupulous accountants I could turn to, so it wouldn’t be a fatal loss, but it wouldn’t end there, of course.
My next move against myself would be Merwin Locke — as prime minister, he could pull strings with any government in the world to shield me or my allies from prosecution or extradition. Would Death have the stones or the ability to assassinate a head of state? Merwin knows he’s on the list. Good luck getting him in the cross-hairs.
Although, Hamza Bin Khaled probably thought he was untouchable as well. Anarchy, Inc. could get Roderick and Merwin if they’re determined enough, and while losing them won’t be fatal, death by a thousand cuts is still death. I have to stop the bleeding.
“Nick, call an emergency meeting,” I say, shutting off the television. “Karthik is on the island, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find him and bring him to the pavilion personally.”
“Understood,” Nick says, nodding and heading off.
I pour myself a tumbler of whiskey and sit. It’s my turn to move a piece, but one never wins a chess match thinking only of the next move. Obviously I need to accelerate my plans to replace all of the Masters. The trick will be keeping them from betraying me in the interim. If they believe they’re going to die, they’ll certainly attempt to take me down with them. Why wouldn’t they?
Speaking a single word would kill them all. Maybe I should just do it and get it out of the way. Death wouldn’t predict I’d do that, and subverting your enemy’s expectations always helps — but not if the price is too high. If I kill all of them now, my empire collapses — and then Death will have won without having to win the hardest battle. That won’t do.
However, if men like Merwin and Roderick want to live, they’ll have to earn it.
—
I’m the last to arrive at the pavilion. Karthik seethes from his seat, Nick standing behind him. The others scowl and chatter angrily.
Only Jamison Hardt watches quietly, his disinterest apparent. Does he think he’s not on Death’s list, or does he not care if he is? Perhaps robbing him of his position also drained him of his passion. He’s lived a long, prosperous life — maybe he’s ready to die. After all, what can he really do about this crisis, besides throw his money around?
I suppose I have to respect the fact that Jamison isn’t letting Anarchy, Inc. scare him. If Death gets his rocks off making men like me squirm, Jamison isn’t giving him much to work with.
“You know why we’re all here,” I say, taking my seat. “What are we going to do about Anarchy, Inc.? But first, Karthik here can explain how his undetectable back-door can be detected?”
“There was always a risk someone would stumble onto it,” says Karthik. “The more you make use of it, the more you increase the chances of that happening.”
“Excuse me, am I hearing you properly?” I snarl. “Are you blaming me for this?”
“We’ve been using the KPP exploit for ten years,” says Jamison. “You’ve been in charge for eight months and now it’s been exposed. Who else would we blame?”
I should have brought a baseball bat with me so I could smack all the teeth out of his jaw before bludgeoning him to death. Triggering his implants will make his death too quick.
“Or perhaps you’re conspiring against me,” I say. “Maybe you’re sabotaging me out of spite.”
“We haven’t had to,” says Franco Silvestri, prompting a round of laughter. “You’ve got it covered.”
In eight months since I took over, none of them have dared speak to me with such cavalier disregard for the fact that I could kill any of them at any time. I see what’s happened: they’ve decided that I need them, and that I can’t just slaughter them for their impertinence. They’re not totally wrong.
There is also one other possibility: they simply don’t care. They’ve made peace with imminent death and are living their final days on their own terms. It’s what I would do, in their position.
“We could have told you eight months ago that you’re not qualified to lead,” says Umberto Diaz. Skin leathery from age and cigar smoke, he looks already dead and decaying. The oil magnate has lived on one Caribbean island or another since his twenties. According to Jamison, Diaz has fucked a courtesan every day without fail since he joined the Masters, despite his advanced age. “Five of us have died since you showed up — Victor, Sidney, Ingram, Timo and Lincoln. They’re all dead because of you, Anton.”
“Do you think we’re all just members in this club?” says Merwin Locke. “Before you took over, we were powerful because we were more than the sum of our parts. Now we’re less than the sum — and we’re missing several of our key parts, thanks to you.”
“Did you think we didn’t matter? You’re failing because you’re failing us,” adds Lewis Croft.
“No,” I say. “You’re failing me. You grew so used to your own power that you left yourselves vulnerable to attack. You didn’t think anyone could, so you didn’t think anyone would.”
“And you did?” counters Jamison. He rises from his seat and strides over. “Maybe you’re right, and we grew complacent in our power. But if we did, then so did you.”
I glower at him, but don’t interrupt. He can speak his piece if he wants.
“Did infiltrating our ranks and taking us over in one masterstroke make you think you were invincible? You planned for years how to take your revenge on Ingram and steal his position at the same time, and it worked. Bravo. How much thought did you give to what would come next?”
Admittedly, not much — once I’d taken over, it would mean I had won. What’s happening to us now shouldn’t be possible.
“Were you under the impression my job was easy?” Jamison asks. “Did you think that my role here was to sit on the throne? We have faced challenges before, though none like this. Do you know why this is different?”
“Educate me,” I say.
“Because, until your coup, we were a brotherhood,” he explains. “When a challenge arose, we knew we could trust each other. If one of us needed a hand, we all helped. Between all of our abilities and resources, we solved every problem that came our way. But you can’t trust any of us, not truly. You can threaten us into obedience, but that’s not the same.”
“Does that mean it was one of you who betrayed me?” I ask. I have to. It’s the obvious question, even though none would come forward. Of course, they’re not the ones behind this anyway. They weren’t informed about my visit to Saudi Arabia. They’re under my surveillance — if they had passed any information to someone else, I would know.
Jamison laughs.
“Us? We’re the ones being targeted!”
“Then who the fuck is doing this?” I roar. “How is this possible? How can anyone be capable of challenging us? What’s the point of being the most powerful organization in the world if someone can show up out of nowhere and kill us, one by one?”
No one replies at first. My chest heaves. I release my fists. I shouldn’t have lost my cool in front of them. It’s a failure of discipline, a byproduct of losing control.
“We were the most powerful organization in the world,” Jamison says at last. “Then you took over. If you hadn’t betrayed our trust and plotted your way to the top, we never would have put you in charge.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. My hand shakes as I do. My jaw hurts from gritting my teeth.
The Masters glare at me, but stay silent, knowing what I can do with this phone. One word for one life — or one word for all their lives, and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it. But, if they no longer fear death, then what power do I really hold over them?
I know I shouldn’t kill them all now. They still have their uses. They’re not wrong in their assessment of what happened. This is my failure. Eliminating them wouldn’t fix my problems — it would only ensure they can’t betray me in the future, but that’s not enough. For now. I put the phone away.
“Jamison,” I say, “take your best guess: who is doing this?”
“If I knew, we’d have done something about them before it got to this point. We wouldn’t have let them kill Timo and Lincoln.”
Logical. Not helpful, but logical.
“If I were in your position, Anton,” Jamison continues, “I would try to figure out Death’s real endgame. Is he really trying to destroy us, or is he after something else?”
“What do you think?” I ask.
He sighs.
“In my experience, people with power seek to gain more power. They take it from others, they don’t destroy it. What did Death gain from killing Lincoln and Timo? He didn’t take over Timo’s construction empire, for example. What he gained was fame. Notoriety. But to what end? Perhaps someone told him how easy it was for you to take over and wants to try for himself.”
It was easy, wasn’t it?
Grinning, I say, “Tungsten.”
Everyone flinches, then glances at each other. I wish I could read the thoughts going through their minds in this moment of truth. Are they afraid? Is their ambivalance performative? Their expressions betray little.
After a second, Karthik lurches forward, spraying vomit. His face reddens, hands holding his chest. The next paroxysm knocks him out of his chair. He tips himself over and coughs out a bloody mass. The pressure around his heart must be unbearable, like his organs are being squeezed from within. His body spasms as if he’s been kicked when he pukes again. This time it’s more blood than anything else. Karthik tries to inhale one last breath, but he can’t even expand his lungs. He collapses, and dies.
“Don’t any of you forget: killing is easy, too. Tighten up, or it won’t be me you’ll have to worry about.”
I leave, headed for the harem to unwind. The courtesans snap to attention when I enter, likely aware that there’s trouble within the organization, even if they don’t know what.
“I’m having a bad day,” I announce. “Who would like to help me feel better?”
“I will!” one of them replies, stepping forward, a tall, skinny blonde I’ve not bothered to fuck yet. Not my type. I recognize her as one of the fashion models I brought to the Enclave as a gift to the Masters, back when I was on the cusp of my induction. She’ll do.
“Good. Come with me,” I say, leading her to a private room. “What’s your name again?”
“Angela,” she replies, adding a seductive, playful lilt to her voice.
“Angela. That’s lovely. How about you show me that beautiful body of yours?”
“It would be my pleasure, master,” she says.
She must have wanted something from me if she volunteered: protection, freedom, privileges… or maybe she’s attempting to earn my trust so she can betray me too. Get revenge for her abduction… or for Madeleine’s death. That’s what Kate would do, isn’t it?
Fucking shit. Death has me seeing daggers in the shadows everywhere I look. Angela’s just a whore.
When we get inside, I take a seat in the room’s padded wooden chair and direct her toward the bed.
“Let me see you dance.”
She smiles, gyrating her hips and shoulders. However, when I lift my gaze from her figure to her eyes, I don’t see pleasure or excitement — they stare back at mine, frozen in fear. She turns around but looks back at me, biting her lip as she twerks.
What if she tries to bite my cock off? If she thinks she’s never escaping this place…
Dammit. Dammit fucking dammit!
I let her go on like this for several minutes. As sexy as she is, my cock fails to rise. I lean back and cross one leg over the other, hiding my crotch. This isn’t her fault. I’ve never had this happen before.
“Get out,” I say.
“Master?” Angela whispers. “I can keep going…”
“Get the fuck out! Now!”
She speeds away, practically falling off the bed as she runs.
This shit with Death has to end, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.