Page 4 of The Hitch
No one fucks with what's mine.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket: a summons from the Consortium. My muddy thumb won't unlock the screen, and I scowl at the damn thing. Fuck 'em. They can wait. I turn back to the pile of rocks.
"Well, Barry, it seems I have to run. It's certainly beenan experience."I tip my metaphorical cap to the dead man in his final resting place. After retrieving my discarded suit jacket and button-down, I turn to head back to my car, hefting the shovel over my shoulder.
I've always liked the Pine Barrens. History, secrecy, and serenity all in one place. Just far enough from the city to feel isolated, but notsofar out that I'm unreachable. There are seldom any hikers or campers in this part of the forest, either. I'm not near any marked trails or parking areas. All I had to do was turn off the road and ease my McLaren behind a few clumps of young pines.
Just as I break through the tree line, I see my car, a 2024 McLaren, waiting for me. The black paint glimmers in the sun as shadows from the brush dapple the rear end. Inside the driver's door sits my water bottle, and I drink heavily, then pour the remainder down over my hair and face. It doesn't fully clean off the muck and grime, but it'll do… for now. Wiping my hands with some tissues, I'm finally able to unlock my phone screen.
Bael's Lackey
You have six weeks or we will be forced to take matters into our own hands. Choose wisely.
"Fuck." Fury burns in my chest again. The Goetic Consortium has been after me for the past six months to follow their goddamned rules. Pick a bride, sire an heir, and only then will they grant me my birthright. The plastic water bottle crumples under my tightened grip, and I throw the piece of shit with a grunt.
Their stables of women are pathetic, clout-chasing whores. If I'm going to follow their fucking protocols, I'm going to do itmyway. And once I'm in power… well, this silly little rule won't matter anymore.
I plop myself into the driver's seat and punch the steering wheel over and over, the car honking back at me. "God damn them," I grunt and turn the car on. The engine hums to life with a purr. England-made luxury engulfs me, but it pales at the prospect of being forced into conforming to GoCon's protocols. This is mybirthright. I became the next generation's Dantalion when I wasborn.How dare they keep me from what's mine?
Shifting the car into gear, I peel out from my hiding place and rage back to the city. Theonlyreason I haven't let my fury loose on Bael and his lackeys is because I have some semblance of self-preservation; they'd put me down like a dog at the drop of a hat.
The silence of the drive taunts me. I punch the radio buttons, looking for anything, but it seems I'm just outside of the city's range. I let my eyes slip from the road for a split second before connecting my phone to the stereo system—
Pop!
"Fuck!" I yell, wrestling with the steering wheel, trying to swerve my way onto the shoulder. I look away for a millisecond and my goddamn tire pops, thunking uselessly against the wheel well and the road, mocking me with each patheticwhump. My heart pounds in my chest, and I huff out furious breath after furious breath, fumbling with my phone. I mash the speed dial and angrily wait for Roman to pick up.
"Sir? What's happened?" Roman, my right-hand man, answers, sounding anxious.
"I've popped a tire, dammit. I'm in the Pines. I need a tow and a replacement car, stat. Do you have my location?" I shift him to speaker phone and selectshare my locationfor his contact.
"Of course. One moment, sir." I can hear him typing furiously in the background, until he softly swears. "My apologies, sir. The nearest tow is half an hour out. Are you safe?"
"Yes, yes, I'm safe. Goddamn it. All this money, and there isn't anything closer?" I wipe my hair back and stare at the rear view mirror. I look like hell.
"Unfortunately not, sir. Would you prefer I stay on the line until the truck arrives? They've just confirmed your location and are on their way."
Everyone needs a Roman in their life. His measured tone brings me down to collected calm. "No, that's fine. I should get caught up with emails, anyway. Your service is appreciated."
"Thank you, sir. I'll await your arrival."Click.
Roman is a goddamn professional. Even in the face of catastrophe, he's ice cold. That's why I pay him the big bucks. Not to say that a popped tire is the pinnacle of chaos, but I'veseen him under literal gunfire and grenades. He never broke a sweat.
I recline my seat and kick my feet onto the dashboard, scrolling through my inbox. Most of the communication doesn't require my direct intervention, but I'd throw a fit and fire someone—possibly out of a cannon—if they left me off of any threads. Accounts payable, accounts receivable. All of it.
One subject line grabs my attention.
Development Opp'ty: Mixed-Use Complex
Investment opportunity on mixed residential/commercial property in upcoming neighborhood. Asking price: $400,000. Projected annual lease revenue: $170k+.
I scroll through the details and photos. The building itself seems to be in poor shape, but nothing a little renovation can't fix. It has several long-term tenants, including a doctor's office on the ground floor.Nice. I forward the email to Valencia, my business assistant, with Roman copied in, and instruct her to put together a purchase plan.
The sun beats down through the windshield, and I start to sweat. Checking the time, it's only been ten minutes. I stifle a groan and open the door, sliding myself out and into the gentle breeze. As I stand, clumps of mud fall from my white undershirt, and I scowl. My pants haven't gotten away clean, either. I look like I fell face-first into a swamp and just barely clawed my way out. The tinge of red staining my leather shoes doesn't help, either.
In the distance, a car rumbles over the horizon, coming towards me. I frown at it, wondering who the hell is drivingaround out here. This is a barely inhabited stretch of land on a back road, not a turnpike. As it gets closer, I see it's a late '90s era sedan. The mismatched hood is obviously from a scrap yard, and there's a hairline crack in the windshield glinting in the sun.
The car slows as it approaches me. A woman with shoulder-length, curly brown hair stares back. She's dressed like a slob, from what I can see. A stained ratty T-shirt sits tight over her ample breasts and soft, round stomach. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are bloodshot, like she's been crying. I scowl at her, but she doesn't drive away. She rolls the passenger window halfway down.
