Page 47 of The Chameleon

“Fine. We never had this conversation,” the man muttered before stepping back into the shadows and disappearing into the night.

Ares flipped open the file and began scanning the documents. The first item was a bank account statement showing a wire transfer of ten thousand euros into the account of a Mr. Miller from a holding company registered in the Cayman Islands.

He didn’t know any Mr. Miller.

He flipped to the next document and stared at the schematics for his jet.

What the…?

A thick black circle had been placed directly over one of the engines of the plane. That was where the bomb had supposedly gone off.

Heart pounding, he flipped to the next document.

His heart stopped in his chest.

“That little bastard,” Ares whispered.

Blood rushed to his ears, and the world around him went silent.

It was just Ares, alone in a black space.

His mind pulled away, digging through a dark chest that he kept buried deep in his subconscious. He didn’t like to acknowledge that this box of darkness existed. His mind sifted through the contents, trying to decide what the most appropriate course of action was. What punishment fit the ultimate crime.

Then, a smile crept slowly across his face.

His mind closed the treasure chest of darkness and fastened the lock on the box once again.

Snapping the file closed, he turned and walked back down the dark alley.

There was a man whose bones needed breaking.

Two days later, Ares stood in the basement of one of the abandoned houses he had purchased only a few short months ago. He figured that with his line of work, he was going to need secluded, private locations in which to conduct his… business.

Sliding the stone against the knife, he savored the sound the object made as it gently sharpened the knife he was holding.

Swoop.

Each stroke getting closer to its end goal.

Behind him, the man dangling from the ceiling let out another whimper as he, too, listened to the sound of the stone gliding against the blade.

Swoop.

Another sob escaped the man’s terrified lips.

One. Two. Three. Four.

He counted the strokes it took to get the blade nice and sharp. He wanted it to cut through his guest’s flesh like a hot knife through butter.

Yes, that was a perfect analogy.

Ares smiled.

Another sob behind him and muffled pleas for mercy.

Holding the blade up to the light, he loved the way it shimmered as the lights from the overhead lamps caught the sharp edge of the blade.

Yes, that would do.

---