Page 2 of Closer Than You Think
My compulsion, my obsession . . . perhaps the only thing that can compete with my need for blood.
I shove those thoughts aside for now. I still have work to do. The forest surrounding Alcott City is deep and dark, with towering trees blocking out almost all of the moonlight I knew was above. The old roads that wind through it are mostly abandoned. Anyone who wants to use the forest for, well, normal purposes, does it in the south or east sides. Out here, the only people you’ll run into are up to no good.
It only takes forty minutes to get back to my home of concrete and skyscrapers. As the shadows give way to the cold glow of streetlights, I feel the mask slipping back into place.
I steer the SUV into the underground garage of Ares, the engine noise echoing off the concrete walls. As the barriers slide down behind me, I'm enveloped in cool darkness, safe from prying eyes.
I park in my assigned spot on the private level only my team has access to. It might be wasteful, a whole level just for a few of us, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years—privacy and security are worth the extra hassle. I’ve built my company, my life, around that ethos.
I take the private elevator up to the top floor that serves as Ares's clandestine headquarters. It’s late, so the rest of the building is most likely empty, a good excuse for me to not bother making an appearance. As head of Ares, I spend half my time running the official, legitimate side of the business, and I enjoy it just fine. But it’s not my passion, and tonight I’m grateful I can ignore that side of things.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Stepping out, I'm greeted by the familiar minimalist decor of Aresheadquarters. The open concept layout allows me to see Cain hunched over a bank of computer monitors, likely running surveillance on our various ongoing operations. He glances up and gives me a subtle nod before returning his focus to the screens.
I continue on to my private office, the glass walls opaque and bulletproof. Inside, I immediately go for the hidden wall safe, cleaning my knife one more time and placing it carefully alongside the rows of other weapons. A quick inspection in the mirror confirms no errant bloodstains made it onto my clothes. I splash some water on my face from the small bathroom attached to my office, washing away the last visceral traces of the kill.
Cain glances up as I enter the main room again, pushing a low ball of whiskey in my direction.
“About time you showed up,” he says wryly. “I was starting to think you got lost in the woods.”
I accept the drink with a smirk. “Just enjoying the scenery. It's not often I get to be out in nature like that.”
Cain snorts. “Yeah, nothing like a little murder to get in touch with the great outdoors.”
We don’t worry about being candid like that up here on this floor. I spent millions of dollars renovating this building to make sure this was the most private and secure place in Alcott City. Aside from my own penthouse, maybe.
Worth the extra hassle.
I settle onto the leather couch, taking a slow sip of the whiskey and letting it burn down my throat. The warmth from the alcohol mixes with the residual heat still pulsing through me from the kill, a heady combination.
“So what went wrong with Jet's job?” I ask Cain. “He's usually in and out without a hitch.”
Cain shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the desk. “Client gave him bad intel. The target changed locations at the last minute, went from a private residence to a hotel. Jet had to track him down and regroup.”
I clench my jaw. Bad intel is one of the few things that can throw off our precision operations. It means someone is either incompetent or intentionally deceptive, neither of which I tolerate.
“Did we identify the source of the bad intel?” I ask sharply.
“Not yet, but I've been making some inquiries.”
I nod, taking another sip of whiskey as I consider our options. Bad intel needs to be dealt with swiftly, or it undermines everything Ares stands for. Our reputation relies on flawless execution and absolute discretion.
“Keep digging,” I tell Cain. “I want to know if this was ineptitude or intentional misdirection. And if it's the latter . . . ” I trail off, letting the implication hang in the air.
Cain's mouth curves into a knowing half-smile. He's always had a knack for anticipating my thought process. It's part of what makes us such an effective team.
“I'll handle it personally,” he assures me, his blue eyes glinting.
I have no doubt he will. Cain is unassuming at first glance, but ruthlessly efficient when provoked. It's why I recruited him all those years ago after we served together, recognizing a kindred spirit who understood the thrill of the hunt.
“I left some files on your desk. New requests.”
I sigh, then finish the last of the whiskey. “Right. I’ll review them.”
“No rush,” he says, glancing at me with a look that says he knows more than he’s wiling to say aloud.
I grunt. “Work always comes first.”
Two hours later, I finally allow myself to visit her. If killing is one type of release, seeing Hallie is another. Different, but similar. Her innocence does something to my addled brain, calming it and exciting it all at once.
