by A J Rivers
I try to push past him, but he trips me, and I slam into the ground. Flipping onto my back, I kick him in the stomach and scramble away. Other robed figures coming up the hallway stop my progress. I reach for my gun, and the figure in front of me holds up a hand.
“Emma, stop!”
He pushes his hood fully back and reveals himself.
Warden Light.
“You don't need to be afraid. You have the wrong idea about us. Come in, and we'll explain it.”
Rather than responding, I burst into a run, shoving my way past the group. They're so startled they don't make any move to catch me. I get into the next room and take my gun out. Unfortunately, the man already there waiting for me is faster. His gun is aimed directly into my face as he takes a step closer.
“Bring her into the sanctuary,” he orders.
My hand is still on my gun but now is not the moment to take it out and try to use it. If I'm not fast enough, he'll shoot me dead before I can even draw it. I have to bide my time. Wait until just the right moment.
The group of robes comes in from the hallway, grabs my arms from behind, and marches me forcefully out of the hallway back toward the back of the church. I try pulling away from them, but it’s no use. I’m surrounded.
We approach the altar straight down the aisle. I have two men grabbing my arms, two more behind me, and one in front with his gun trained straight on me. Before me, the rest of the group stands waiting at the front of the altar, their dark hoods pulled low. The men drag me up in front of them, and the man with the gun turns around to stand behind me, still keeping his weapon trained.
I stand there surrounded by over a dozen of them. All faceless men in robes. A rush of anger takes the place of any fear I might have felt.
“What are you going to do?” I snap. “Sacrifice me? I didn't think that was your style.”
“Make no mistake,” a man with bright blue cords draped over his shoulders intones. “We have no problem disposing of you. You have no meaning to us. We only need to find a new place to get rid of you. You might have heard recently that our field was uncovered.”
“Why did you put her in a cage? What was the point?” I demand.
“What cage?” the man asks, sounding genuinely confused.
“Lakyn Monroe. Her body was found covered in a metal cage,” I say.
“That wasn't my doing,” he says. “I don't know why that would have been done.” He steps closer and pauses for a moment. “Make her comfortable.”
The man with the gun presses the muzzle between my shoulder blades while another man steps up and ties my wrists. Pushing me down onto a pew, he ties my ankles.
“It really is a shame,” the man says. “I've admired you. All of us have. I almost wish the circumstances were different. Do you know what we could have done for you?”
“There's nothing you could have done for me,” I fire back.
The man scoffs and pushes his hood back to reveal himself: Sterling Jennings.
“Of course there is, Agent Griffin. Don't you know what we are capable of doing? We control this town, and far more than this. We make beauty from the shadows. We can influence anything. The Order of Prometheus crafts men out of clay and gives them everything. Like the giver of fire himself, we grant beauty and fulfillment to all who join us. But no one knows what we do or how we do it. We remain shielded.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” I say. “Just like Xavier says. He knew.”
“He knows nothing,” Jennings says. “And even if he did, nobody would believe him. He's unpredictable. Rash. Too anxious and reactive. No one believes a word that comes out of his mouth.”
“You make sure of that, don’t you, Warden?” I ask, cutting my eyes over to Warden Light.
“What are you talking about?” Light asks.
“You know, it’s funny, I almost didn’t figure it out. It was right there in front of me. He told me. But I was so wrapped up in what everybody says about him, I just ignored it. Until I remembered the peanuts. He says peanuts love baseball because they are the center of attention, but that he doesn’t like being the center of attention. I think he likes them because they calm him down. Every time he ate the peanuts, he settled down. You know why?” I ask.
“This is ridiculous,” Jennings says. “You’re talking about a raving man who lost touch with reality a long time ago.”
“No, I’m talking about a man who is eccentric to be sure, brilliant beyond description, and more than a little bit off. He struggles with anxiety and has panic attacks, which make people uncomfortable, don’t they? They see him worked up and having even more trouble than usual communicating, and discount him completely. But the peanuts work wonders.”
“You might as well give him a pacifier,” the warden sneers. I want to lash out at him, but I don’t.
“Salt,” I say.
“What?” Warden Light asks.
“Salt,” I repeat. “Simple salt. That’s why the peanuts help. It’s one of the recommendations for anyone who lives with mitral valve prolapse or a floppy valve. When Xavier told me his heart was floppy, I ignored him. I thought he was just coming up with a way to describe how he was feeling. But he was actually telling me exactly what’s wrong with his heart. And why he reacted so strongly to his supplements. That often happens to people with MVP who are given high doses of sugar.”
The men look at each other, and I can’t help but smile. “Sounds absurd? Because it is. The facility is not a psychiatric center. They don’t provide drugs to inmates. Only vitamins and supplements. Warden Light wanted to make it even harder for Xavier and keep up the appearances you crafted for him when Lorenzo framed him for the murder of his best friend. He couldn’t use drugs, so he used something far simpler. Sugar pills. For a person with a mitral valve prolapse, high dosages of sugar cause anxiety, heart palpitations, dizziness, clouded thoughts, and even panic attacks. Salt cuts down the effect very quickly.”
My words meet only silence. A long, uncomfortable silence. A silence that lasts too long.
And then, slowly, a single pair of hands clapping. Jennings’ clap rings out in the church. He lets out a low, throaty chuckle.
“Listen to you, Agent Griffin,” Jennings says. “This is why you are adored. Admired. You are brilliant. We could have truly made you into something incredible. But—” he holds his arms open like there's nothing he can do— “it is our tradition to only accept men.”
“Well, that's not completely true, is it?” I ask. “Or, at least, temporarily. Isn't that right, Eleanor?”
I glance toward one of the hooded figures. The smell of the perfume she wore at the bank is unmistakable. It’s faint now, the kind of smell that comes from clinging to skin and hair after being washed repeatedly. After a few seconds, the hood slides back, revealing the still heavily bandaged face beneath.
“Hello, Mason,” I say. His eyebrows lift, and I shake my head. “Don't look so surprised. Did you honestly think I wasn't going to figure it out? You really should be more careful when you're creating your lies. You forgot to sync up all of the different timelines. If it makes you feel any better, I knew about it before I found the murder you committed. Witnesses said they saw a woman running away from the scene. They weren't able to catch up with her, but they were convinced she either committed the murder or saw it happen. Only the DNA left at the scene was male. And, of course, someone else was promptly framed. Just like always.”
“You don't know what you're saying,” Mason says.
“Sure, I do. Your sponsor was Nikolai Greene. How did that work, exactly? Did he only choose who you murdered, or how you did it? It seems to me as if you outdid yourself. After all, you handled two murders. Or was it three? Do you count murdering the old version of yourself? I suppose you should. It's only appropriate, considering you also married yourself. Didn't he, Judge? The entire situation is a pretty disgusting way to commit insurance fraud and avoid being looked at for old charges, isn't it? Don't mess with your face too much. You d
on't want to ruin all that work that was done. How long until you can take off the bandages? Who do you look like under there? Whose face did you steal?”
“Be quiet,” Mason says.
“That's why you're moving. You want to be settled into a new place in time to take off those bandages and show off the new Mason. What's going to happen then? Is Eleanor going to die? You've already gotten to play the grieving widow. Are you going to grieve for her, too? Judge, tell me, how difficult was it to produce fake documentation for a person who doesn't exist? It must have been frustrating for both of you to have to drag this out so long. But Lydia didn’t post the missing report the way she was supposed to. You made sure she had all the information, but she just didn’t put it up. You had to wait until that was in place so the body would be identified and reported. Then you could move and get on with your life with life insurance and the support of The Order.”
“I've had enough of her,” Jennings says, his eyes cold and his voice teetering on anger. “Get rid of her now. We'll figure out what to do with her later.”
“Enough!” a stern voice echoes loudly from behind me.
Everyone turns to it. I even turn my head, but I can’t see anything past the men behind me still holding a gun to me.
But I see who it is soon enough. Dean strides confidently through the group of men until he stands in front of Jennings.
“What do you think you're doing?” the judge asks.
“It's time for you to let her go,” he demands.
The judge lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “And why would I do that?”
“She is already owed to someone. She's a debt, and you can't destroy her,” Dean says. “I've been sent to reclaim her. You are not to hurt her.”
“Who sent you?” Jennings asks.
“I was sent by the Dragon. Emma was promised to him as a favor done many years ago. It's time for repayment. You will release her immediately,” he says.
An immediate cacophony of whispers sets off. From what little I can see of the hooded faces, I can see fear and nervousness in their eyes. Everyone looks up at Jennings, who is staring daggers into Dean. Dean meets his gaze with an icy stare of his own.
My stomach turns, and it’s all I can take not to heave right there.
“Why should I trust you?”
Dean doesn’t flinch. “Do you want me to tell the Dragon what you did to her?”
That sends a shiver down Jennings’ spine. He takes a long moment, looking over to Light, and then finally nods to the men holding me.
The man behind me finally removes the muzzle of his gun from my back, unties me, and pulls me to my feet. I want to run, but I can't. Dean takes a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and latches them to my wrists. Holding onto the chain between the cuffs and my shoulder, he leads me out of the sanctuary.
Some of the men follow as he escorts me outside. The car is now positioned just in front of the door. He must have left to get it almost immediately after we split. I bite so hard into my bottom lip it starts to bleed, but I stay stoic.
“I will send the message to the Dragon that you were cooperative,” Dean says as we stop behind the car. “I am sure he will look kindly on that.”
Opening the trunk, he gestures inside. I shake my head, pulling to try to free myself from his grasp. But he's holding me too strongly. His history as an Army Ranger means his body is trained to exacting standards. He's larger, stronger, and more powerful than I am. If my hands weren't cuffed, I would fight back. But as it is, I'm helpless.
He pushes me into the trunk and closes the door. I hear him say good night to the men and get in behind the wheel.
Chapter Fifty
Dragon
Six years ago…
It was finally time.
For months, he lavished Ariella with everything. He introduced her to the life he built for himself and watched her revel in it. She was perfect. Everything he could ever have imagined, and even more. She still kept him captive. She had an effect on him like no one ever had, and it didn't lessen, no matter how long they were together.
If anything, it only grew stronger. The closer he got to this moment, the more he fell for her. For all that he had resisted at first, now he was willing to give himself over completely. He wanted her as his wife, the mother of his children, the queen of his empire.
Over the last several weeks, he had been making preparations. The house was the most important. He couldn't find one readily available that was good enough for her. But when he found one with an acceptable foundation, he bought it and immediately hired the professionals who had the skill to create exactly the home he envisioned for them, and the motivation to get it done quickly.
It was finally there. Every detail exactly what he wanted it to be. He couldn't wait to show her. There was just one more thing he wanted to add. A surprise he hadn't even shown to those closest to him.
He waited all day, excitement and anticipation filling his belly. But it wasn't all happiness. His men still pushed back against it, questioning whether he was sure about this decision.
“I don't want to hear any more about it,” he said. “This is what I want. And I always have what I want. You know that by now. I want to live with Ariella, and this house is the perfect home for us.”
He wanted everything to be a surprise for her, and he didn't want to spoil it by having the driver bring her to the house. Instead, he arranged to close the club for the evening. For all except the two of them. He would meet her there, then tell her he had a surprise for her.
She was waiting at the bar when he arrived. Just like the first time he saw her.
He was alone when he walked in. The men weren't needed, so they stayed outside, ensuring no one came in. As soon as he saw her that night, he knew he couldn't wait. He reached into his pocket and took out the diamond he’d designed for her.
Before he could say anything, the door opened, and Kenton ran in.
"Sir, stop," he said.
Dragon turned around to face him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.
"You need to leave," Kenton pleaded. "You need to go now."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to be with Ariella."
"Sir, that's just it. She's not who you think she is."
Everywhere he went, people noticed him. She noticed more than he knew.
He heard the click behind him, and he turned slowly.
She stood with her gun in both hands, pointed at his face. His hands went up, the diamond dropping to the floor as the back doors to the club smashed open, and officers streamed in. He hit the ground, and she slowly lowered her gun. As the officers dragged him to his feet, he watched someone hand her a jacket to slip over her chest.
FBI.
Chapter Fifty-One
The ride down the uneven, bumpy dirt road seems like it takes forever, but it's probably only a few minutes. The car stops, and I roll over to prepare for the trunk to open. It does and I glare up at Dean.
“I swear to god, if you ever pull shit like this again," I spit.
"It got you out of there, didn't it?" he asks.
Another car door closes, and I run for Sam. He scoops me into his arms for a tight hug.
"Did you really need to put her in the trunk?" Sam asks.
"They were watching," Dean explains. "It wouldn't exactly look convincing if I put her in the front seat with me and offered her a Slurpee and a Slim Jim."
"They're always watching," I say, the phrase making my skin ripple. “How did you know that would work?”
“A guess,” Dean shrugs. “I went into the office. I found ledgers and a couple of documents that don't exactly make The Order look good. They already saw you as valuable. They would believe you had already been claimed by somebody else.”
“You are lucky as hell that worked out,” I tell him. I look at Sam. “Is White on the way?”
“Yes,” he says. “As soon as Dean called me, I called them and the Bureau.”
I nod. “Good.”
"You need to tell me what's going on. Why did you come here?" he asks. "And why didn't you want me to come with you?"
“I needed you to stay near the police station in case I had to call and have you look at my web. I came here to prove my theory was right.”
“And was it?”
“I think so,” I say. “There’s still investigation to be done to make sure everything falls into place, but I think I understand what happened. Those pictures Lakyn took were of The Temple of The Order of Prometheus; a secret society made up of extremely influential, wealthy men. That's where I was tonight. I needed to check the plaque she took a picture of. It was the last detail I needed. I knew the murder cases Lakyn mentioned in those messages weren't just random. They had to be related. Even if I couldn't figure it out immediately, they had to be linked together. That's why I researched each one of them so extensively.”
“And you realized there were overlapping people,” he notes.
“Yes, a few key figures kept showing up. But not in ways that were immediately incriminating. These were all murders that happened in the Harlan and Salt Valley area. It's not that vague when you really think about it. Having people connected tangentially to other people involved in crimes isn't that out of the ordinary. But there were too many overlaps.”
“Too many coincidences?” he raises an eyebrow with a smirk.
“Just like you say. There are no coincidences,” I tell him. “These things didn't just happen. They were orchestrated. When Millie told me to look at the alibis, I didn't think there was more that I could do. I had already looked at the reports a thousand times, it felt like. I read the interviews and witness statements. I traced locations and followed paper trails, making sure I traced each one of the alibis for everybody involved for every one of the murders. And you know what I found?”
“What?” Sam asks.
“Perfect alibis. Seamless, airtight, heavily publicized, and verifiable alibis. Which immediately said to me they were bullshit. Not that they were made up. Obviously, those people were in those places and doing those things. But you know as well as I do how rare it is for somebody to actually have a firmly verifiable alibi ready to pull out of his hat during an investigation. More often than not, you're going to hear things like, ‘I was at home alone. I was in bed reading. I was driving around.’ Things that these people were actually doing but can't be verified. Unless you're walking around with a video camera strapped to you or keep meticulous records of every single cent spent and the second of the day it was spent, most people have considerable amounts of their lives that aren’t accounted for.”