Page 6 of Closer Than You Think
My fingers graze the spines of books on the shelf, seeking solace in their familiarity. Each title is a world I can control, unlike the spiraling questions surrounding Teddy's death. Can I face this head-on? Or is it safer to remain cocooned in ignorance? Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Nothing ventured,” I whisper to the empty room. But the end of the adage remains unspoken—nothing gained, nothing lost. I'm teetering on the edge of a decision, and the fall could be endless.
The chime of a text message startles me. I glance at my phone and see the notification before it disappears. It’s the same number, sending details of where and when to meet. I don't open it; instead, I tuck the phone away like a talisman against rash decisions. I'll think about it, truly weigh my options. Because I’m finally doing better, finally out of the strong grip of grief. And some stones, once turned, reveal truths that can't be buried again.
“Tomorrow,” I say aloud, granting myself the grace of a night's sleep before choosing my path. “I'll decide tomorrow.” And with that, I draw the curtains closed, shutting out the city's glow, wrapping myself in the dark comfort of indecision for just a little longer.
Three
Silas
“Alan, status report.” My voice slices through the stillness of the war room. The command echoes off the walls. I stand at the head of the table, every inch the leader of Ares, but it’s just a role I play like all the others.
“Clean and quiet, just like you ordered.” Alan's reply is curt, his blue eyes holding mine from across the sleek surface of the conference table. There's respect there, hard-earned and unwavering. “No traces left behind.”
Alan doesn’t do field work much anymore, but when he does, he gets the job done better than anyone else. I think he misses it. Needs it. Maybe not the in the way that I do, but in his own, almost equally fucked up way. We’re war machines. Made to destroy. Taking that away from us makes us question who the fuck we are.
I nod once, sharply. “Good.” The satisfaction of another job well done simmers beneath my skin, but I keep it leashed, controlled. “Cain, projections for our next step?”
Cain leans back in his chair, hands folded on the table. His eyes, intense and scrutinizing, never leave the files spread before him. “We've stirred the pot. Repercussions are likely,trivial but not to be ignored. We should anticipate increased surveillance from local enforcement.”
“Then we tighten our own security measures.” My gaze sweeps over the team—my team. They're ready, always ready.
“Blake?” I turn to the youngest among us, his eagerness palpable even as he maintains a professional facade.
“Communications with our informants have been secured. We'll know if there's any chatter about us on the street,” Blake assures me, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the tablet in front of him.
“Stay vigilant,” I command, the words leaving no room for dissent. “We operate in the shadows. Let's keep it that way.”
“Understood, boss.” They respond, practically in unison.
“Go fuck ‘em up.” I watch them file out, each man a ghost blending back into the fabric of Alcott City. The door closes with a soft thud behind them, leaving me alone with the weight of command heavy on my shoulders.
I turn back to the window, the city sprawling below me—a concrete jungle alive with secrets and lies. I know that better than anyone. I don’t judge because I have just as many secrets as the next guy.
And hell, I wouldn’t have a job if people weren’t dishonest, immoral pricks.
My reflection stares back at me, green eyes hard as stone. Cold and calculating. The only way I know how to be. The way Ihaveto be. My control is both weapon and shield.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it from my pocket and answer, not bothering to look at the screen because I know it’s going to be a concealed number anyway.
“Thatcher.” My voice slices through the silence of the room.
“Silas,” a voice, modulated to cloak identity, greets me from the other end. “We have a situation that requires your . . . expertise.”
I don't flinch; I never do. “Details.”
“High-risk target. Politically connected.” A pause, pregnant with unspoken threats.
“Details,” I say, cutting through formalities. Names hold power in my world.
The caller pauses again for a beat too long.
“I don’t have time for fucking around,” I say, about to end the call.
“Grey. Senator Grey. He's become a thorn for some rather influential people.”
I commit the name to memory, filing away the implication. Senator Grey has powerful enemies if they're coming to me. Must’ve done something to scare them. But I don’t really give a shit. A job is a job.
