Page 2 of The Chameleon

You’re getting old, old man, that pesky inner voice told him as he struggled to see the time on the watch. Back in his youth, he would have been able to see the tiny digits even in the faintest of lights.

Fuck, he was only forty-seven. Hardly an old man. Still decades away from his retirement—if he didn’t get taken out before then—and still able to beat a man to death with his own two hands.

That last one he had accomplished only two short weeks ago.

Young punk didn’t like taking orders and thought he would mouth off behind Ares’s back. Little did the mouthy shit realize, but Ares had cameras everywhere, including the back of the bar Ares used to clean his dirty cash.

An example had to be made of the mouthy little prick, so Ares took him down to the basement and showed him what happens to people who disobey Ares. He brought hellfire down on their punk ass. He was thegod of warafter all.

Okay, perhaps he didn’t kill the mouthy shit—he wasn’t that psychotic—but he did beat the little shit within an inch of his life. By the time he was done with the kid, his jaw was broken, his face was all puffy and bleeding, and he had at least one fractured rib.

The kid ended up spending a week in the hospital, and everyone else was reminded of what happens when you disobey the boss.

Staring at the numbers, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the tiny digits circling the edge of the surface.

Five minutes.

It was almost time.

Holding the elegant object in his hand, he was reminded of the one who gave it to him—someone who exuberated elegance, class… style… and a warm heart—well,mostof the time. Lately, it was only frostbite and daggers directed his way.

But could Ares blame him? Ares had done this to himself.

No. This wasn’t the time for examining his fucked-up life. He had a job to do anddeathto deliver.

Ares snapped the watch shut and slid the treasure back into his Armani suit jacket where it would be safe.Yes,even when it was time for murder, Ares liked to dress with style.

“You boys almost ready?” Ares asked, glancing over at his crew as they worked quickly to set up their trap.

“Yes, boss. Just setting the last charge.”

Nodding, Ares took a step back and stared up at the tiny explosives that had been strategically placed in the rock just above their heads.

The gadgets formed a perfect circle as if they were attempting to open a portal to some other dimension. Well, they kind of were. One could argue they were opening a gateway to death and destruction.

Ares smiled.

Most people would think they were insane for setting off explosives right above their heads. Knowing that—thanks to gravity—rocks fall downward and hurt like a bitch when crushed under. Most people would tend to avoid what they were about to do.

But Ares was not most people. He was a god among men—well, at least when it came to the criminal underworld. Most men feared him, and rightfully so. If one disobeyed him or didn’t deliver on promises made, they suffered a wrath that made him famous.

Yes, hearing Ares’s name instilled fear in those who heard it.

Being in Ares's position limited the number of people he could trust, which meant that there were very few people he considered as friends. But there were a small few, like the ones he was here to help tonight.

Above them, voices shouted, muffled by a thick layer of rock and clay—a barrier that was not long for this world.

They were standing below what remained of an old bar that also doubled as a theatre in the early 1900s. The establishment was built into the side of a stone wall along the Seine River in Paris. The location was perfect, as it allowed the owners to smuggle in booze and other contraband while avoiding French authorities and pesky taxes.

Known only to a few, which included Ares, was the network of tunnels running beneath the bar and under the streets of Paris.

When running a criminal enterprise, having hidden passageways and escape routes readily available meant the difference between breathing fresh air and chewing on a metal bullet.

This was one of the reasons he had been able to avoid being arrested or captured by his enemies for so long. He always had an escape plan. He was like a rat, able to maneuver through any tunnel, any dark place, and any hostile environment. His need to survive made mucking around through sewers or old freight liners bearable.

“Here, take it. No one has to die,” a distant voice shouted from somewhere high above their heads.

Beside him, Elijah’s watch beeped. “It’s time,” Ares’s head of security announced, turning off the alarm set on his watch.

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