by Mara Black
He set me down on the exam table, and I hated the loss of his proximity.
It felt strange on my skin, warm and wet - his fingers were strong and sure, smoothing the layers down to create a cast. Once again, I'd never seen him so peaceful. It was obvious that medicine should have been his calling in life. Putting broken pieces back together again, instead of taking them apart. I wondered if he'd ever treated some of the girls at Stoker. Did he assist whoever their doctor was, back then? Probably the same one who'd branded me.
How on earth did one small group of men convince to many people to do their bidding?
I wanted, so badly, to ask him. When was the first moment he thought better of what he was doing? When was the time he first said no? What did they do to him?
I couldn't ask. Even if I was allowed, I wouldn't. There was no reason to dig up the pain of his past like that. Not just to sate my curiosity. It was unfair.
Even though I felt like I deserved to know, I wouldn't. But I hoped someday he would share it with me.
Someday.
I couldn't think about the future. Not now.
"How does it feel?"
I blinked myself back to the present.
"Fine," I said. "I guess. It feels like a cast."
"You can put some weight on it now," he said. "Just be careful. And it'll probably hurt."
I smiled wryly. "It always hurts."
"Well, it won't hurt forever." He busied himself with cleaning up the remnants of the preparation.
"That's very comforting."
Once it was dry, I took the crutches and walked back into the main part of the house. It was a struggle, and the blood rushing to my leg made me grit my teeth, but it could have been worse.
It had been a long while since I'd been on this level. It looked like Tate had been dusting in my absence, a mental image that made me chuckle a little bit, even as my leg throbbed. Tate the Viper, radiating power and control, his eyes flashing with untold dark secrets. Wiping down picture frames with an old T-shirt.
Except, there were no picture frames. No pictures. No paintings, no drawings - nothing to adorn the dark walls with something other than the grain of polished wood.
I decided that would be the gift I'd get for him, in a world where such things were possible. Something sad and beautiful, to complement this house and the ghost of his memories that lurked the halls.
A noise startled me out of my reverie. A loud thump, thump, thump. Someone knocking at the door. My heart constricted, but when Tate reappeared from the kitchen, he just looked annoyed.
"Not a good time," he said, as he yanked the door open.
"Sorry," said Joshua, cheerfully. "I forget, which one of us owes the other one a huge fucking favor?" He smiled at me. "Anyway, I just came to see how the invalid's doing."
"I'm fine, thanks." It was obvious that Joshua had more than just one reason for being here, but I just smiled as he handed be a bouquet of wildflowers. Tate's eyes spoke of ritualistic murder. "Oh, these are beautiful. You didn't have to."
"This house is glum enough without a get-well bouquet, I think." He grinned. "Actually, Tate, now that you mention it - I think we have some business to discuss."
"Christ alive." Tate slammed a drawer shut, and I wasn't sure why he'd opened it in the first place. "Do you ever stop?"
"No. Never. Actually, that's one of my best qualities." Joshua cracked his knuckles, sitting down on the sofa opposite me. "Unless you plan on plugging your ears and singing 'la la la' for the next hour or so, I think it's time to talk about the plan."
"There's no plan," Tate muttered, still eyeing the flowers.
"Oh, there's a plan," said Joshua. "And if I recall correctly, the last time we talked, you said you'd be more than happy to assist with the preliminary stages."
Tate grimaced. "I only said that because..."
"Because you needed my help," said Joshua. "Because I know how to find people. Right. I remember the little speech you gave. It was three in the morning, and I think we were both a little worse for wear, but at least I didn't have whiskey on my breath."
"You never found me," said Tate, smugly. "You just got lucky."
"Very lucky," said Joshua. "I've heard that before. The point is, I did what you asked. Now, you owe me."
The flowers were starting to wilt in my hand, but I was too captivated by the conversation to care.
"Let's at least discuss this elsewhere," said Tate, rising to his feet.
Joshua shrugged. "I'd rather not. This affects Autumn too. She might have some thoughts on it."
"Autumn has been through too much," said Tate, firmly. "She needs to rest."
"I've been resting," I cut in. "Please. I want to hear what you're planning."
Tate's eyes bore into me like daggers, but I didn't care. I had to know. What was the Syndicate going to do about Stoker? And more importantly, could I help? I knew I wasn't much use with my leg in a cast, but hopefully this was a long-term game. Stoker hadn't risen to power overnight, and it wouldn't be dismantled that way, either.
Joshua produced a folder, seemingly from nowhere. Quickly, methodically, he laid out a series of grainy pictures on the coffee table. My heart plummeted. I recognized every single face.
"You know these men," he said. "Right?"
"Of course," I said, leaning forward as far as I could. "They run Stoker."
He nodded. "We call them the Seven Devils. Charles, Lambert, Jones, Eberle, Ramsey, Burns, Shawcross. Lambert is the youngest, and the loudest. If there's trouble, he's the instigator. The rest of them mostly stay in line. They rarely disagree. Charles controls everything, of course. He was hand-picked by Holland as a replacement. But almost nobody dares to argue with him. Lambert's his nephew - so it's different."
I nodded along, absorbing the information as quickly as he could lay it out.
"They're well-protected, and they're very smart. But we're smarter. We're flexible. We know where they spend their days, and we know where they live. Without the Devils, there's no Stoker. The rest of them only follow orders."
"No."
I looked up. Tate was shaking his head.
"That's not true," he said. "There's a deputy. Whoever replaced me. Someone in the ranks who will make decisions in a crisis."
Joshua smiled. "That's the thing," he said. "There is no you. Mr. Charles thought that Holland's fatal mistake was trusting one of the headhunters. And, well - he was right. Now, everything comes directly from on high. There's no power structure in the ranks anymore. It's the only way he feels safe."
Tate smiled tightly. "You are willing to bet your life on that?"
"I already did." Joshua stood, shucking off his jacket. "I'm not the only mole. We have someone still, in the technical department. He was able to arrange for a power surge that knocked out everything for just long enough. Communications, elevators, lights. And the doors, of course. Everyone was trapped where they were. No one could even get word to the Devils. And I picked that moment to disobey an order."
Tate's forehead creased slightly, but he didn't give a noticeable reaction.
"How do you know the deputy would've been with you?"
"I had a few candidates," said Joshua. "It's easy to tell who it's not. I made sure that anyone who might be in tight with Mr. Charles was there. Trust me, there's no deputy."
He unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and began unrolling it, to the elbow. "However, there were quite a few tattletales."
There was a series of angry red lashes along his forearm. They looked to have healed some already, and might one day disappear entirely. But for now, they still told a litany of pain. I winced, just looking at them.
"First offense," he said. "As you can see, they're still running on the good old system."
Tate's jaw twitched. "Is that supposed to impress me?"
"No," said Joshua, simply. "Just prove a point. I know you think I'm some pissant kid who doesn't know how to take on an organization like Stoker. But trust me, I've done my home
work. I know I'll never hold a candle to you. You're still the only headhunter on record whose disciplinary file has a sixth offense. Most people don't make it past three."
Tate's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I'm stubborn," he said.
"I know what you are," said Joshua. "Even if you'll never admit it."
Tate made a small noise of disgust. "If you're so clever, I don't see why you need me."
"Because. We've got all the intel. What we don't have is a plan to get to them."
"So you could cut the power, but you couldn't squeeze off a few shots in the boardroom?" Tate finally sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I'm not sure I follow."
"You know that would never work." Joshua sighed. "In fact, the system's even more regimented than the last time you were there. The work schedules are randomized and completely un-hackable. There's never fewer than ten guards at a time, in the boardroom - usually more. It was hard enough to get two moles in, let alone stack the deck like that. Most of them will be loyal, and they'll act fast. We might be able to take out one or two of the Devils, but that's not enough. And then, they'll know. Once their suspicions are raised, we've lost our chance forever."
"What about a grenade?" I asked, softly. "Or...something."
Joshua smiled at me. "I like the way you think. But there's just no way to smuggle anything into Stoker. We don't even bring our own clothes. Everything gets left behind before we go through the third and fourth sets of doors."
I chewed on my lower lip. "But those doors are inside the building."
"Of course."
"On the ground floor."
Joshua nodded.
"You could still do some damage," I pointed out. "If you just dropped something there."
"Some damage," he conceded. "But this has to be a clean break. All the Devils in one fell swoop, or there's no point in doing it at all."
My heart throbbed in my chest. I loved the idea of taking them down. I was still afraid for Nikki, still wondering where the hell she was - what had happened to her. Maybe, if we could get into their files, I could find her. Rescue her.
If there was still anything left worth rescuing.
"I want to help," I told him.
"No." Tate's voice was firm. "There's nothing to help with. There's no plan." He glared at Joshua.
"I've got half a plan," said Joshua. "I just need some help filling in the details. We have to lure them out of their nest. That's the only way. So long as they're inside Stoker, they're basically impenetrable."
"Good fucking luck," said Tate. "They live there, they eat there, they fuck there. Most of them have no reason to leave. You'd be better off having someone pose as a guest and just take out as many of them as you can."
"Now, you bring up an interesting point." Joshua nodded. "Guests aren't subject to the same scrutiny as we are. But we've done some experiments. It's nearly impossible to get a weapon past that checkpoint, either. It's also far enough from the boardroom and the living areas that I doubt it would make a difference. I haven't seen all the schematics, but I have reason to believe the whole place is basically built with blast-proof walls."
Tate's mouth twisted into a cold smile.
"I'm assuming that's a confirmation," said Joshua. "No - we can't fight them on their turf. We have to charm them out of their holes. I think you might be surprised. In their course of business, they are worried. They know they're a giant, gleaming target in the heart of the city. They know the basement's full of people who want them dead. But once they step outside, things are a little different. They're still careful, but they're less careful. It's hard to trace them - they all leave through underground tunnels, and those were very carefully designed. Anyone but the Devils would get lost in them forever. False doors, hallways leading nowhere, and even a simple compass won't work. But if you can find them on the outside..."
"That's right," said Tate. "If."
Joshua sat forward, his arms folded across his chest. "That's the thing, Tate. My people, at the Syndicate, we're not giving up. We're not taking no for an answer. You can join us or not. But if you want the Devils to face retribution - if you want to take this whole thing down, right to its rotten foundation - you'll have to help us."
"What I want," said Tate, "is to be left alone."
Joshua stared at him, and for a moment, they were locked in a silent battle of wills.
"I promised you advice," Tate said, at last. "And now you have it."
Another long silence stretched. "Fine," said Joshua, his eyes blazing. "But this isn't over."
"Not exactly your decision." Tate was pointing him to the door. "Best of luck storming the skyscraper."
Joshua smirked as he stepped out onto the threshold.
"Oh, by the way," Tate said. "If you bring her flowers again, I'll make sure to personally lay them on your shallow grave."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Choice
I felt furious.
Clutching the wilted flowers, I glared up at Tate. I ached to jump to my feet and meet him, toe to toe. I hated my immobility, my helplessness.
"You have no right to talk to him like that," I snapped. In the back of my mind, I knew I was just making this worse. But I couldn't stop myself. "He's trying to do something you couldn't. That's why you hate him so much."
His eyes glinted. Without speaking, he told me I was playing a dangerous game. One that he had no patience for. And with the tilt of my chin, I told him that I didn't care. I was out of patience, too.
"You don't know a God damn thing about me," he said, quietly. "And neither does he."
"I know you're afraid." I stared at him, heart racing. "I know you hate that he's not afraid of you."
With a snarl, Tate ripped the flowers out of my hand and dropped them in the fireplace. Moments later, the sickly-sweet smell of burning greenery filled the room. "That little prick doesn't know a thing about you, either."
I didn't even care about the flowers, but it was the gesture. Tears welled in my eyes. "Why do you have to take away everything good? I like flowers."
"You don't give a shit about flowers." Tate paced the room like a wild thing. "You like fear and pain and dominance. You like knowing that I own your body. You like torturing me by walking around the house with nothing on under those dresses - oh, you think I haven't noticed?" He let out a harsh burst of laughter. "I gave you so many opportunities for a clean break, and here you are. You won't stop trying to tempt me. I get so fucked up on painkillers I almost rape you, and you just fall in deeper. You want something twisted and dark and wrong. That boy just flirts with the darkness, and he thinks that's enough for you."
Tate was jealous.
I felt a surge of power. "It's nice to be treated like a normal person, once in a while."
"Is it?" Tate snarled. "I wouldn't know. How do you think it makes me feel, that you actually believed I was capable of selling you out to the man who killed your parents?" His eyes fixed on mine, searching, demanding. "That you ran away, because you feared I already had? Leaving my protection, a warm bed, good food, comfort." He let out a bitter laugh. "That's how it is, living with me. Even with all the commodities, it's still a fate worse than death."
I swallowed hard before I could speak. "That's not it," I insisted. "I was just afraid."
"Of me," said Tate.
The clock ticked loudly, echoing in the silence.
"Yes," I said, finally. His reaction was minuscule, but unmistakable. His chest expanded slightly, his eyes narrowing at the pain of my words.
"I was afraid of you," I went on. "I walked through these doors afraid of you. At Stoker, they called you a cold-blooded killer. I didn't know who they were talking about at first, but I knew I was being sent to you. One of them said he thought I should be warned. The moment I woke up in your barn, I was terrified for my life. Even worse than I would have been otherwise.
"But when I looked at you, I saw something I didn't expect. You weren't really cold. You wore it like a mask. You
were hiding so many things from me. You still are, but I've managed to convince myself that I'm a little closer to the answers now."
His jaw clenched. "There are no answers," he said, quietly. "I'll save you the trouble of wondering."
"That's not true. I already understand you so much better than I did before." Feeling bold, I took a step towards him. "I'm not looking for excuses. Justifications. Reasons to nominate you for the sainthood. That's not what this is about."
I took a deep breath before I spoke again.
"I want to understand you," I said. "Is that a crime?"
Expecting more of his cold, hard detachment, I was astonished to see a flash of actual pain on his face.
"No," he said. "The crimes are all mine."
Frustrated, I tried to think of something that would actually get through to him. He needed to understand that nothing was worse than wondering. I ran away because I didn't understand how his mind worked. If he would just open up those dark corners of his past, I could at least learn to read his motivations.
He'd finally stopped pacing, hurling himself down on the sofa to stare into the fire. I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
A flash of inspiration struck, and I acted on it, before I had a chance to re-think.
"I know what happened," I said. "With Daniela."
His head snapped up, and I thought for sure I'd pushed him too far. Eyes so dark he looked possessed, as if there was any demon in the ranks of hell who could be a match for Tate.
"How?" he demanded, and I realized something - he wasn't just angry, he was wounded. Like just hearing her name was enough to hurt him.
I swallowed. In a moment, he was going to call my bluff, but I could keep this going for a while. "Does it matter?"
Tate let out a little snort of bitter laughter. "Joshua," he said. "The little prick. I should've known. I suppose they still tell that story. I suppose they're still using it to frighten all the headhunters into submission."
Suddenly I felt afraid for Joshua. "I made him tell me," I said, quickly. "Please don't be angry with him."
Tate rolled his eyes.
"I just wanted you to know that..." I hesitated. What did I want him to know? "I wanted you to know that I understand. You know I lost my parents. It takes a long time to..."