Page 71 of Scarred Sins
On the outside it looks like an ordinary factory, but the closer we get to the main door, the less I’m convinced it’s an actual factory. The walls are old, but they’re in great condition, the windows and doors made out of steel. I definitely wouldn’t want to get stuck in here.
Arlo pushes the door open, then steps aside to let me in. With a shaky breath, I enter the building, my eyes roaming all around the spacious interior. Though, it’s not what I was expecting. When Arlo said it was the place where all of the assassins under his father and mother were being trained, I expected… a less homey ambience.
“It’s not what you expected, huh?” Arlo muses, the door closing behind us. He stands next to me, letting me absorb everything.
“Definitely not,’’ I breathe out. “But in a good way.’’
The first floor is just one massive room. There are bookshelves, multiple game consoles, TVs, couches, and everything a normal house would have in a living room. It’s just bigger in size, and everything is at least double, if not in a bigger quantity. The right side is a wide kitchen, filled with many gadgets, two double fridges, and appliances necessary.
There are a couple of smaller tables with chairs neatly tucked under them and a bigger one. All around the first floor are decorations, and it’s been made into something personal, making me wonder if people are just training here or living here as well.
“For a lot of them, it’s home,’’ Arlo answers the unasked question. “The training can last years; hence, Hudson bought this factory around fifteen years ago and turned it into a home for all of them. The second and third floors are just bedrooms and bathrooms.’’
I nod. “So, they’re living here full-time?”
“Some of them,’’ Arlo explains. “Most of these people joined our organization as a last resort. Some were teenage runaways with nothing but a backpack on their shoulders, some were homeless, and others were rescued from abusive families. They can stay here for as long as they please.’’
We continue walking, stepping further into the building. It’s relatively empty, aside from a few people scattered on the couches. They all nod at Arlo in greeting, which he reciprocates, making sure to stand as close to me as possible.
“What happens when they complete their training? It has to end sometime, right?”
Arlo nods. “Once they complete it, they’re obligated to work for our organization for three years. After that, they can leave and work independently, or they can stay. The choice is theirs.’’
“How many people has your father trained?”
“Too many to count,’’ Arlo chuckles, leading me toward a narrow hall.
“Really? I’m surprised that this business never runs out of… well, business.’’
“There are always people to kill, Blair, and there are always billionaires willing to pay.’’
“That sounds about right,’’ I mumble. “So, where are you taking me?”
“The basement. That’s where their physical training is done.’’
I frown. “Physical?”
“Mental training is done elsewhere, in a facility specially conducted for that type of strengthening. Don’t worry, though; I won’t put you through that unless absolutely necessary.’’
He pushes the door of the basement open, and I start walking down a flight of stairs. It does make sense. As contract killers, there’s always a chance of getting caught, and oftentimes, psychological torture is far worse than physical. I’m not surprised they focus on improving their mental strength, too.
If I thought that the training area in Arlo’s building was big, this one is massive. I can’t count the number of weights, treadmills, and boxing rings, and it even has a shooting range far in the back. And amidst it all is Hudson.
He’s dressed in all black, hands clasped behind his back. His broad shoulders are in my view, and although I feel slightly guilty for ogling a man twice my age, I can’t help it. Arlo definitely gets his great looks from his father.
Briefly, I count seventeen people. All seventeen of them, men and women alike, are doing push-ups. Hudson’s counting, correcting, and telling a few selected individuals to start all over again. The most amazing thing is how in sync all of them are. Not a single person moves out of rhythm, and it’s compelling to watch.
Arlo pulls me to the side, and we sit on a small bench, just observing Hudson’s training session. He’s detailed, diligent, and I can tell he puts a lot of effort into turning these people into the most capable, the strongest, and the most disciplined versions of themselves.
“Oh, fuck.’’ Arlo mumbles. “Here we go again.’’
My eyes follow his line of sight. A girl, around mid-twenties, approaches Hudson. They’re too far for me to make out what exactly she’s telling him, but she has this wide grin on her face, while Hudson’s trying his best not to snap. Judging by the way he steps back to create distance between them and the way his shoulders tense when she takes a step forward, I already know that he’s not thrilled by the encounter.
“Who’s that?”
“Becka,’’ Arlo snorted. “Becka’s a nice girl overall, but she has a thing for Dad.’’
I wince. “Really?”
