Page 5 of Make Me Hunt
If that’s true, I’m in deep shit.
This isn’t just any name on a list. It’s a man feared and respected across the entire city. Seattle’s merciless crime lord—Ares.
three
-Brynn-
A month has passed since I buried Elias. A month where I don’t remember sleeping or eating. Just crashing on the bed from exhaustion and shoving food into my mouth so I wouldn’t die of starvation. But that wasn’t sleep, and it wasn’t really eating. It was just my body trying to survive the madness that took hold of my mind. A dormant instinct that kept me in standby mode while I tried to deal with the loss.
I lost my job. But that was small compared to everything else. Because I lost everything anyway. At least everything that mattered to me.
I couldn’t cope with Elias’s death, so I just shut down, constantly tormented by the idea that I hadn’t made the one who did this pay.
But to get there, I needed to stop grieving, to stop running myself into the ground, because I had no chance of ever avenging him like that.
So, I started training. Both Elias and I took a self-defense course a year or so ago, but I got much more invested in it than him.
I love being in control of my own life, and that made me take things a little further. I didn’t sign up for martial arts or the kung-fu moves you see in movies. I chose something closer to street fighting. Something to keep me ready, if I ever get into trouble. And I was in deep shit right now—or at least was going to be in the near future.
I contacted the instructor who first taught me to fight, asking for something more this time. I needed to learn how to handle a sword. Not exactly common these days, since it’s a lot easier to solve things with a gun. But I found it only fair to end Elias’s killer the same way my friend died. By sword.
Turns out he knew a guy who knew a guy who was teaching actors how to handle a sword. Not ideal since real life doesn’t follow a script, but it’s the best I’ve got.
It took another month of daily training to get into fighting shape. I had to adjust my diet to keep my body going since I’ve lived for a whole month on Coke… and, I think, Pop-Tarts. Can’t really remember. Still, with some considerable effort, I was getting closer to what I was aiming for.
Sure, I knew how to fight before, knew how to defend myself, but now I’m reaching a whole new level. Because I have one advantage over everyone else. I’m fearless. Like fucking insane fearless. That’s because I’ve got nothing to lose. The only thing I truly fear is not avenging him.
My old job paid more than decent, so I had enough money to pay for training and to last me a couple of months afterward. But I needed work, and since I also needed information, the best place to do both was at The Breach, the bar of which I’d found a photo in Elias’s files. The bar owned by Ares.
It wasn’t hard to get a job there. The place is huge, and they’re always in need of staff, so I started helping behind the bar. I didn’t want to draw attention just yet, so that position was perfect—for now.
I’ve been working here three days, and though the place is constantly packed, I’m already seeing patterns. There’s another section of the club—like an inner club—where only a few people have access, and only the old staff serve. They call it Elysium, a cruel irony mocking its very purpose, because I’m sure it’s nothing but a sanctuary of sin.
For now, I don’t stand a chance of getting near it. There’s always a bodyguard at the door who looks suspiciously at me, even just for pushing crates toward the bar.
It will take longer than I expected to get access, but I’m prepared to wait. I can’t mess this up.
For now, I hide my long black hair under a cap and don’t wear any kind of makeup, trying to blend into the crowd of nobodies. I’m pretending to just serve drinks and wipe tables, when my true mission here is a lot more important. I’m trying to listen while different staff members get drunk and occasionally let secrets slip.
Unfortunately, those secrets are mostly about their so-called personal achievements. Like how many chicks they’ve banged in a week, and whose wife they’ve bagged recently.
The only useful thing I’ve learned is they’re all terrified of Ares. In fact, this might be the most legit club in Seattle because everyone’s too afraid to steal from him.
That only makes him look more dangerous, and my mission that more difficult.
I’ve never seen him in person—except for a few shots on TV from a distance. But if he’s anything like what I remember, then people do have a reason to fear him—his posture alone is imposing enough. And I guess it’s time to find out for myself since the staff begins fussing, a panicked expression on everyone’s faces as a tall man makes his way through the crowd. Well, the crowd parts for him, making room, a constant murmur rippling around his presence.
And they have every reason. His imposing posture pulls the tailored black suit taut perfectly across every muscle. And he has more than enough muscles to fill it. Raven black hair pulled up into a half-up warrior knot, with braided sections running down the sides like they mean to show rank and defiance. A square jawline that could cut glass, shadowed by a dark beard trimmed but rough enough to scream danger rather than polish. A perfect nose. And piercing hazel eyes that seem to read into your very soul framed by the golden tone of his skin that gives him a perfect balance between beast and god. At six foot four, he’s intimidatingly handsome, I must admit. He looks like a damn vision carved out of dusk and fire.
But I suspect he’s also the man I need to kill. And his good looks won’t save him from his fate.
I lean over, pretending to search for some glasses so he won’t notice me as he passes the bar. No one usually notices me back here, and I know that.
Still, I also know it’s his job to pay attention to details. You can’t survive in this line of work if you miss things, and I don’t want to risk him spotting me just yet because I’m planning to follow him around and see what he’s up to. So, for now, I need to keep a low profile.
He spends the whole night somewhere across the club, holed up in the VIP section. A few highly unorthodox-looking men stop by his table, probably to discuss business. A few women also approach him too, but none of them spend more than a few minutes with him. He seems… withdrawn. And something about his presence has everyone walking on eggshells.
I help around the bar, but I spend most of my time studying him. At least what I can glimpse through the crowd. He seems very calculated. His every move is planned twice before he makes it, and his every gesture is meant to impose respect. So muchso that he’s swiping through people like you’d swipe through your phone, flicking his fingers left and right to choose who’s worth his time.
