Chapter Twenty-Six
Kill
Wallstreet had taught me something invaluable.
A lesson I’d never thought to consider. Cleo was dead and I was all alone. I drowned in guilt, festered in heartache. I was weak.
But in Wallstreet’s eyes, I wasn’t weak. I was perfect. Because without pain, I couldn’t be strong enough to do what he truly needed me to do. He’d said I was the Armageddon that he’d been waiting for. And it was up to me to use my pain to deliver others’ happiness. —Kill, age eighteen
Sometimes ignorance was easier than knowledge.
I’d been that way once upon a time. I’d been a child, believing in fairness and truth. I’d been a teenager, believing in togetherness and love. And I’d been a man, stripped of all hope by lies.
I’d witnessed what fellow humans would do for power. I’d grown up.
But despite what had happened, Cleo didn’t see the world the way I did. She still believed in fairness, truth, and love. She was still gullible at heart and I envied her.
I envied her acceptance of a world steeped in deception. I wished I could relax. Just stop chasing this need to fix and tweak and change.
But I knew too much. I’d dug too deep and seen things I couldn’t unsee. I had to do this. I had no choice.
Because if I didn’t do it, who would?
It wasn’t that I wanted to become someone I wasn’t. It wasn’t that I wanted public recognition or entitlement that came with my future placement. But I did want to right my wrongs—and this was my path to forgiveness.
All this time, Cleo thought I was the same math-obsessed boy from Dagger Rose. The same boy betrayed by those most dear and corrupted by a prison inmate.
True, parts of that boy survived, but the years had changed me, turned me into an entirely new man.
Tonight, she would see everything. She would finally know all of me. She would hear what I’d been working on. What the lawlessness, the trading, even the trafficking had been building toward.
I wasn’t just a man with a vendetta. If I was, I would’ve killed my father years ago.
I was a man with a mission. A mission to eradicate this world of filth. To stop corruption. To end those who lie and cheat and steal.
I wasn’t a vigilante.
I wasn’t a crusader.
But I was a United States citizen and had a responsibility to deliver the truth.
Unfortunately, my eyes had been opened. I saw through bullshit and incorrect leadership all thanks to my father’s treatment of his president and peers. He made me see. And he made me understand that he was nothing compared to the men in power. Lies were the backbone of our country. Men passed bills with no votes, they discarded doctrines, and shredded rules that had the potential to stop their reign.
My father was nothing in my overall scheme.
I was after more than just him. More than just Clubs who broke the faith of their brothers.
I was after the fucking top dogs. The men who ruined so many people’s lives with no thought and decimated entire generations with a single signature.
That was my true purpose.
And when Cleo found out that I could never walk away from what I’d promised, then she would have to choose.
Choose to accept me and tolerate my obsession for equality.
Or steal the only happiness I’ve ever had and leave.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cleo
I don’t remember.”
It used to be such a flippant phrase. But now it was as if I scraped out my soul and handed it bleeding and screaming to whoever asked: Who was I? What’d happened? Who’d done this to me?
I hated those three little words. “I don’t remember.” I hated my brain for holding me hostage. But most of all, I hated being so empty. Memories were my enemies, judging me to solitary loneliness. —Cleo, diary entry, age sixteen
Arthur guided me across the large lounge. The house was pristinely decorated. Everything—from doors to trim—was lacquered in high-gloss white. Lights glittered with crystals and threads of a symphony orchestra dripped from ceiling speakers, sewing with the voices of expensively dressed guests.
“Who are these people?” I ducked around the train of a silver gown and smiled at a bushy moustached gentleman.
“People who run this country,” Arthur said, never breaking his stride.
Government officials?
My eyes focused, searching strangers with deeper clarity. I didn’t recognize anyone.
I couldn’t align the two worlds correctly in my head. Here we were brushing shoulders with liberals and democrats, yet back at home we were the law. We penned rules and carried out justice—we were our own government.
But here, Arthur straddled two existences effortlessly. Why?
Last night we’d been around a campfire eating pork ribs, dancing in leather, and being entertained by awful ghost stories and cheap booze. Now I tottered on exquisite stilettoes, mingled with fashionistas, and became invisible at an exclusive cocktail party.
It doesn’t make sense.
It was an eternity as we navigated the room and advanced on a small group of men by a bay window. The glint of a chandelier bounced off Arthur’s wrist, revealing cuff links designed with the tiny skulls and abacas of the Pure Corruption logo.
Every step I fretted about what I would say and what was expected of me.
I don’t remember.
Those three hated words from my past sat heavily on my tongue—just waiting for the questions to begin. My gut clenched. Cold sweat drenched. And I struggled to remind myself that I did remember. That I had nothing to fear. Nothing to forget.
The crowds parted, letting us cut through the masses of sequins and silk while they milled around like fattened carp. Bookshelves held treasured vacation artifacts, and the walls were adorned with family portraits of the man we were heading toward: the senator and his pretty wife with dark brown hair and two young boys who looked identical to their father.
I swallowed as the senator looked up. He paused mid-handshake with another gentleman and bent in to say something. A moment later, he excused himself and crossed the small distance to intercept us.
Without a word, he walked past, narrowing his eyes at Arthur.
Nodding at the unspoken instruction in the senator’s gaze, Arthur turned inconspicuously and followed.
We chased Mr. Samson from the congested party, down a short corridor, and into an office painted in maroons and dark greys. The ceiling had been decorated black so it pressed like a toiling storm—or a lid perhaps, a cap on all secrets and gossip shared.
The moment Arthur and I stepped inside, the senator locked the door, then made his way to the mirrored bar and topped up his goblet with amber liquor. Eyeing my half drunk champagne, he stole Arthur’s empty flute, replaced it with a tumbler filled with what I assumed was whiskey or cognac, then clinked his glass to ours and smiled. “Welcome to my home once again, Kill.” His hazel eyes landed on mine. “And you must be Cleo. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I froze, my glass half raised to my lips. “Very nice to meet you, Senator. Forgive me, but I’ve heard nothing about you.”
But I’m beginning to suspect I’ve been stupidly naïve where Arthur is concerned.
Who was I kidding? Arthur was too complicated to remain fixated on revenge for so long. He would’ve grown bored. He would’ve set his targets higher.
But just how high?
Samson laughed, revealing a gold cap on his lower incisor. “That sounds about right.” Cocking his head at Arthur, he grinned. “Secretive fellow, isn’t he?”
I glanced at Arthur who sipped his drink. “If I’m so secretive, how do you know so much about Cleo, then?”
Samson toasted Arthur again, ice tinkling in his tumbler. “Got me again. Too smart for your own good.”
I guessed the senator was in his late fifties. Trim body, stocky legs, haircut reminiscent of a soldier, hair flecked with grey.
> Frowning, I asked, “Pardon my slowness, but if Arthur didn’t tell you about me … then who did?”
Beaming a pearly white smile, the senator laughed. “From Wallstreet, of course. He keeps me up to date on all the latest chin-wagging.” He tilted his thumb in Arthur’s direction. “Wallstreet told me Kill had found something he’d lost long ago. That the main reason for the start of this campaign had reincarnated and that we were to work doubly hard to ensure the future is wiped clean of evil.”
Is that supposed to make sense?
Patting my hand, Samson moved toward a cluster of chocolate-leather couches in the center of the room. “Besides, I’m trustworthy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be told shit. And yet another reason why I do what I do.”
Drifting forward, caught up in his reticulation, I completely forgot about Arthur. “What is it that you do, Senator?”
Sitting heavily and almost disappearing in the supple leather of the couch, he smiled. “I like to think of myself as a fixer.”
“A fixer?”
Arthur’s body heat tingled my arms as he moved closer. “Samson has been a contact ever since I got out of Florida State.” He gave one of his rare trusting smiles. “He’s been crucial in getting our goal realized.”
My high heels pinched as I moved forward, itching for information. “And what is the goal?”
Why do I feel as if this has all been there … in the background, only I’ve been too blinded to see it?
Samson placed his tumbler on a glass side table. “The one that’s about to be put into execution due to the recent events, that’s what.” He waved at the extra chairs. “By all means, have a seat.”
I turned to the locked door. “What about your party?”
Samson snorted. “Screw ’em. Only here for the free booze and to kiss my ass. They can do that without me in the room.”
Arthur placed his hand on my lower back and guided me forward. “Sit, Cleo.”
The atmosphere in the room thickened with mystery. These men were schemers. Meeting in their private rooms, concocting plans as if they were princes rather than a politician and biker.
What the hell is going on?
Obeying Arthur, I sat stiffly. Biting my lip as the scratchy tulle of my skirts puffed around me in a loud rustle.
Arthur glanced over, settling into his own chair. His eyes trailed to my tattooed and burned legs, and for a fraction of a second they blazed with lust, then business and plans hijacked his mind and the lust was gone.
Spreading his thighs, Arthur leaned forward and nursed his drink between his knees. “Has the bill been drafted?”
My ears perked.
I’d been thrown in the deep end and left to swim in whatever information these two conspirators divulged.
Senator Samson nodded. “It’s been drafted and delivered. I’ve enlisted the help of some local and stateside politicians. I see no reason why we won’t be able to launch our attack full force.”
“And the campaign? The advertising is all planned like we discussed?”
I kept quiet, nursing my warming bubbles.
Samson grabbed his drink, finished it, and discarded the empty glass. “The one-minute television advertisement is in place and ready to air. The radio, newspaper, and online targeting are also done. However, if you wish it to run frequently with a lot of impact to ensure people’s attention, then we need more funds.”
Arthur didn’t hesitate. “Done. Email me the figure and I’ll pay it. I told you before money is no object.”
My mouth hung open. Only a few years ago this man had been a boy swatting me for incorrect decimal placement on my math homework. Now he was in league with millionaires and men who ran our beloved country.
I’ve been left behind.
My heart panged to think I might not be enough anymore. That soon Arthur would find me a novelty rather than precious treasure. What exactly could I contribute to this strange new world?
What exactly is this strange new world?
Samson ran a finger over his mouth, deep in thought. “In that case, I believe we’ll be staring at a politically unrest nation by the end of the year.”
Arthur shook his head. “I don’t want unrest. I want reform.”
Samson shrugged. “You can’t have reform without unsettling them first. We need to make them think. Use their brains for once. Show them alternatives. Promise better solutions. Only then can they be open to new suggestions.”
Arthur grunted in agreement, his mind taken hostage with whatever complications and issues he might foresee.
“Once we launch and offer transparent data on what we propose, then it’s up to the public. We can only do so much before it’s all up to them.” Throwing me a glance, Samson pursed his lips. “The law can’t be changed overnight.”
“No, but it does need to be changed,” Arthur grumbled. “And fast. I’m sick of living with the level of corruption. It’s fucking insulting to think we don’t see the level of cover-ups and bullshit they spread.”
I swallowed, dying to ask questions but unwilling to interrupt. Am I even privy to ask?
Technically, I was in the private meeting at Arthur’s request. Surely, I could ask—otherwise, what was I doing here?
Opening my mouth, I tried to formulate an intelligent question. But what could I say? What were the television campaigns on? What transparent data would they reveal?
However, just like so many times in the past, Arthur sensed my curiosity and twisted to face me. The simple act of turning his body to mine welcomed me into the conversation. “Cleo, I need you to understand what is about to happen. I need you to be on board because this rests on you, too.”
I gripped my nearly dry glass. “I would like to understand.” What rests on me? “I want to know.”
Samson steepled his fingers, looking from Arthur to me. “What you’re about to hear is top secret. I don’t need to ask if you can be trusted.” Pointing at Arthur, he smiled fondly. “He’s proved himself time and time again. So I know you will as well. But until this begins you can’t say a word, understand?”
I nodded. It wasn’t a hard promise to make. My mind was a vault—even a master at hiding my own secrets from myself. Keeping them from others wouldn’t be hard at all. “I give you my word.”
“Perfect.” His face was open and eager. The feathering lines around his eyes spoke of stress but also laughter and happiness. He looked stern but kind—the same type of look in Wallstreet’s eyes and Arthur’s. Wallstreet and Samson had taken a biker rapscallion and turned him into a precise weapon. I just hoped it was for good and not for wrong.
Samson settled into the comforting leather of his chair. “I’ll just start from the biggest point and answer any questions you might have.”
“Okay.”
Cocking his head at Arthur, he smiled. “Kill here approached me a few years ago with a proposal to reinvent the United States government.”
“What?” I blurted, my head whipping to face Arthur.
What the hell does that mean?
Arthur snorted, throwing back the rest of his drink and disposing the empty glass onto the coffee table. “That’s not quite how it happened.”
Samson laughed. “Fine. You want the complete story? I’ll tell ya. About three years ago, Kill broke into my house with two of his biker buddies. Scared the living shit out of me and my wife.”
My eyes narrowed.
He did what?
“Logistics,” Arthur said, linking his fingers. “I did it for a reason.”
Samson stole me away with his tale. “Instead of holding us at gunpoint and demanding money or favors or anything else you’d expect from a damn biker at three in the morning, he dumped copious amounts of paperwork at the end of my bed and made himself comfortable in a chair. He said something along the lines of—”
“ ‘Excuse the intrusion; it’s not my intention to scare you—only for you to take me seriously. Something drastic has to be done and someone has to have the fucking ba
lls to do it,’ ” Arthur interrupted. His eyes danced with mirth. “Poor guy almost had a fucking heart attack, especially when faced with a night of paperwork in the form of every cover-up, scandal, and wrongdoing committed by the government since 1995. I could’ve gone further back, brought more evidence to light, but what would be the point? There was more than enough information to prove insane levels of corruption and put together a viable case for a revolution.”
My eyes widened. The intrigue in this single room consumed me. “But how can you hope to take on the largest power in the world?”
Arthur sat back, his long legs spread before him. “Easy. We inform the people who gave them the power in the first place.” Clearing his throat, his passion rose until the air vibrated with injustice.
This was what Arthur believed in. This was what he’d been working on. Not just revenge or thirsting for death of those who wronged him. This. He’d become a vigilante, trying to bring down a crooked government—the same government that’d sent him to jail for a crime he didn’t truly commit, all the while letting the real sinners walk free. He’d been a victim—just as much as me.
I … I get it now.
It all suddenly made a lot more sense.
I trembled in my chair. “This … it’s incredible. You’re taking on something huge.”
“Somebody has to,” Samson said. “Why not us?”
“Why not people who made the government what it is? Don’t they hold some responsibility?”
“Yes, but most don’t want to change, and the others are happy with the way things are. It needs an outsider to begin something new. It needs someone like us,” Arthur said.
“Someone like you?” My brain scrambled. “Why?”
Instead of answering my question, Arthur asked one of his own. “What draws people to bike Clubs? Why do men willingly turn their back on the law and embrace illegal acts knowing it could get them hurt, thrown in jail, or worse—killed?”
I shrugged, my skin prickling with chill. The tulle and corset of my dress imprisoned me, forcing me to listen to his huge ideals. Arthur’s green eyes pierced mine, waiting for a reply. I tried to recall why men had begged for the opportunity to become a Dagger. But everything was polluted by Rubix and the lifestyle they preferred over the one Arthur granted. “Um … the love of lawlessness?”
Sin & Suffer Page 28