White Rabbit

by London Miller

  The lines always blurred there.

  Uilleam knew it well.

  “Tell me, were you on assignment at the time?” he asked, already feeling as if he were close to the truth. “If you were special ops—” This was said with a tap of his finger on the file between them. “You were considered need-to-know. So no one in charge would have pulled you away from something they considered a threat to national security if something did happen—the life of one never outweighs the lives of millions.”

  The shift in him was subtle, just a casual rearrangement of his body as he sat up a little straighter, his muscles a little more tense.

  It was clear Uilleam was plucking at a sore nerve, but he didn’t want to just play with it, he wanted to sever it entirely. “When did you find out your sister had died—before or after your mission?”

  Bishop stood so fast, the chair he’d been sitting in crashed against the floor, the sound impossibly loud.

  If he could have, Uilleam didn’t doubt for a second that Bishop would have snapped his neck and walked away as if nothing had happened. He saw it in his narrow-eyed fury and the way his hands twitched at his sides with the need to do violence.

  But he didn’t, whether because Skorpion had pushed off the wall—his presence a clear testament for what he was prepared to do—or because he had far better rein over his temper than Uilleam gave him credit for.

  It could very well be a combination of the two.

  But either way, Bishop remained standing.

  Between one breath and the next, he rested his scarred hands flat on the table. “You either tell me what the fuck is going to happen here, or I’ll walk and not give a shit either way.”

  Uilleam didn’t blink in the face of his wrath. “I’ve come to make you an offer. It’s entirely up to you whether you accept.”

  Bishop didn’t look impressed. “What kind of offer?”

  “I need a mercenary,” he said without hesitation—without inflection. “I need someone willing to bleed and do whatever it takes to see a job done. I need loyalty and willful consent because you won’t just be risking your life for a job—you’ll be risking it for me.”

  “Right …” Bishop took a breath and held it for a long while—longer than what should have been humanly possible—before he blew it out again. “What’s that kinda thing pay?”

  To that, Uilleam smiled. “More than you could ever imagine.”

  More than Uilleam had ever thought he would be willing to pay, but money went far in the right circles.

  And more than that, he had something else to offer the man that no one else could.

  “I already have—”

  “Let’s say a loving couple were driving down the street after picking up ice cream for a beautiful young girl and the older brother that was watching her. Let’s also say they weren’t alone on that road—that had they waited for just a few more seconds at that stop sign … the drunk driver that inevitably killed them might never have struck their vehicle.”

  As confident as the man was, he paled a bit at that description. “How the hell do you know about that?”

  “I know everything about everything,” he answered simply.

  He found answers where no one else could—where no one else bothered to look.

  It was a matter of connecting pieces that fit until he formed an image to his liking. It only took having his name and where he’d grown up to find everything Uilleam needed.

  “If that man was sentenced to fifteen years in a state prison and was housed in general population for the duration of that sentence, how long, do you think, would it take a man with a drinking problem to acquire enemies?”

  “Man was a fucking junkie,” Bishop said, forgetting all about his unease that Uilleam knew more about him than he’d originally thought. He was too worked up to care. “Half the fucking world was his enemy.”

  “Then no one would miss him, would they? If, say, something unfortunate were to happen.”

  Bishop was a smart man. He knew what Uilleam was saying without him having to go on further. “You’d have a goddamn deal as long as it’s me that does the deed.”

  A smile curled Uilleam’s lips. “That can be arranged.”

  It was only about making the right phone calls. Pushing the correct buttons. Applying just the right amount of pressure.

  Many days, it felt as if Uilleam could do anything.

  “Then you have a deal.”

  “Let’s see what you’re made of first,” Uilleam said raising his hand, thinking of the targets Skorpion had set up on the grounds outside he used for practice. “If you’re as good as Skorpion says, I’ll have a contract drawn up.”

  Bishop nodded.

  Skorpion was the first out of the room before they followed, leading the way downstairs and back out toward the back of the property. Before he had made it a foot out the door, Uilleam saw the multitude of metal targets set up well away from where they stood as well as the table full of weaponry waiting alongside them.

  Bishop, knowing he had something to prove now, didn’t waste any time before he shed his jacket and tossed it aside, the dog tags he still wore dangling around his neck before he picked up an AR-15 and inspected it.

  Satisfied, he glanced back at Uilleam in expectation.

  “On your mark,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  Uilleam gave the go ahead and waited to be impressed.

  Bishop wasn’t very good at the talking thing, but he didn’t have to be—not when he could shoot like that. At first glance, it seemed as if he wasn’t actually looking at the targets before he pulled the trigger, but there was no mistaking the sound the bullets made as they pinged off the metal.

  Not once did Bishop Amell miss a target, and toward the end, he started hitting them twice in a row—double-taps that said he was bored with the assignment now.

  There was no longer a challenge for him.

  As he watched, a certain churning started in Uilleam’s belly. A feeling that made him smile as he considered all the possibilities of what this would mean.

  After all, Bishop would just be one of many of the same skill set.

  And for what Uilleam had planned, his mercenaries would be legion.

  “I won’t be long,” Uilleam called to Skorpion as he stepped out of the truck and onto his other newest property.

  Though he had only bought it a few weeks prior, it had already undergone significant renovations in that time. The old link fence that had once surrounded the buildings were removed and replaced with a state-of-the-art cement border that provided a cleaner look while also providing better security as well as the privacy he would need.

  There was still much to be done, he could see that in the way weeds grew in the cracks in the ground, and even the squeaking doors that led inside, but he knew those minor issues would be taken care of in the coming weeks.

  Since he’d had the floor plans for a while now, he easily walked through the warehouse, moving down the various hallways until he found the room he was looking for.

  An office that had only been modestly furnished with two chairs, not including the one behind the mahogany desk, and a number of bookcases lining the walls, all holding various texts in different languages.

  It didn’t bother him that even he hadn’t gotten an office in this place, but he also didn’t imagine that he would be spending much time here, especially since he wouldn’t actually be running this little project of his officially.

  After all, what were uncles for?

  Zachariah Runehart wasn’t an ordinary man.

  Not with his silver hair that had been that shade for as long as Uilleam could remember and the slight beard he wore of the same color. That, coupled with the fact that he always wore all black, made him stand out in a crowd even when he attempted to blend in.

  At a glance, he looked like any other successful businessman in the state of New York—though even Uilleam couldn’t guess what he thought the man did for a living—but he harbored
secrets and had been a part of a exclusive organization that most knew nothing about.

  The Lotus Society.

  The very same organization Kit had elected to join all those years ago when he couldn’t take Alexander or his fists any longer.

  Uilleam, on the other hand, had never been offered an invitation to join—not that that bothered him in any way. Killing had never been a talent of his, though he did exercise it should there ever be a need. He’d much rather deal with his problems in another way.

  Like putting a man into a coma by his own hand.

  Assassinations … well, that was better suited for his brother and uncle it seemed.

  “I wasn’t expecting you for another week,” his uncle said as he stepped into the office, not batting an eye that Uilleam was in here even though he shouldn’t be.

  That was the way of people in his trade—they didn’t react to things the way others might. And they certainly didn’t scare easily.

  Which was what made him an optimal choice for what Uilleam had planned.

  For this new project of his, he needed someone who wouldn’t fold under the pressure or be particularly bothered by what he would ask him to do.

  After all, training mercenaries and implementing a program that had never been done before was not an easy task.

  It took commitment, sheer will, and an insurmountable amount of money that he didn’t mind spending.

  So long as it furthered his end goal.

  “I find it’s always better to check in every once in a while.”

  It kept his workers on their toes.

  Zachariah gave him a dry look, knowing exactly what he was saying. “I’ve been running things since before you were born, boy. Let’s not forget how this family of ours managed before your father bungled it all.”

  Even though Zachariah was feared just as much as Alexander had been, he was known as the more sensible one. The only difference was, it was never clear who Alexander would target on any one occasion—his moods fluctuated that way—but he was also more brute force.

  In a way, one always saw him coming even as there was nothing they could do to avoid it.

  Zachariah, on the other hand, was more subtle. He could smile in someone’s face even as he offered them poison or whatever other grisly death that came at his hands.

  The assassin way.

  It wasn’t about beating a man with his fists until he was nothing more than a bleeding stump on the ground. In a lot of ways, most assassinations—especially those his uncle had committed—looked more like accidents than anything else.

  And that was the beauty of what he had planned for his own organization and the men who would ultimately be a part of it.

  Brute force and cunning intelligence.

  A combination of the two would prove invaluable.

  “Why are you really here?” Zachariah asked.

  It didn’t have to be spoken for them to know that Uilleam hadn’t come because he thought the man would do a poor job of the task he had assigned his uncle.

  Quite the opposite.

  He gestured to the folder already sitting on Zachariah’s desk. “I have your first recruit.”

  “Where’d you find this one?”

  “Skorpion, actually.” Those former military types always seemed to run in the same circle despite the different branches.

  Another thing he liked about his uncle?

  The man didn’t ask questions until he had all the facts he needed.

  He waited until he was sitting behind his desk with the file in his hands as he read over everything inside before he ever asked his first question. “How good is he?”

  Before he’d met the man, he would have assumed he only possessed the standard military training that sounded good in theory but would ultimately prove worthless for his needs, but after seeing him in action—even if the event had been simulated—he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Better than most.”

  Zachariah made a small sound in the back of his throat. Rather than agree with Uilleam’s assessment, he would much rather wait until he could verify with his own eyes.

  Sometimes, Uilleam found that annoying about him.

  But that had always been the way between them—trust but verify, as his uncle liked to say. The only person he would trust to give an assessment of this sort was probably Kit … and that was only because he’d trained the man himself, and they would both look for the same things in whoever was recruited.

  Tossing the file back down, Zachariah met his gaze head-on. “The training regimen I’m implementing isn’t for the faint of heart. It certainly won’t be easy, so if Bishop Amell has any reservations about what he’ll be asked to do here, I would suggest you send him on his way.”

  Uilleam thought back to their conversation, of all the warnings he had given. He hadn’t thought twice about trying to scare the man away—he should be afraid because this was no laughing matter.

  This wasn’t just going to be about the money.

  This would break them down into parts before he reconstructed them the way he wanted.

  Everything they did—everything they ever fought for—would be done because he decreed it.

  For him.

  By him.

  They might have been soldiers of fortune, loyal to whatever currency entered their bank accounts, but Uilleam would own every single one of them.

  “I’m not concerned whether he will pass whatever test you have in store,” Uilleam returned easily. “It’s just a matter of how quickly he will.”

  “If he’s as good as you seem to think he is, I’m sure he’ll get through it relatively quickly, but just a forewarning, he won’t be ready for a minimum of forty-five days.”

  Longer than he had anticipated, sure, but Uilleam wasn’t one to rush.

  All good things came to those who waited.

  “Understood,” he said with a nod before his gaze flickered around the room. “Now would you care to show me what one-point-six million dollars in property affords me?”

  Because right here, in this facility that looked nothing more like an abandoned warehouse, would be his legacy.

  5

  A Curious Suggestion

  “Certainly a step up, isn’t it?”

  Karina looked up to find Camilla walking into her newly appointed office after a quick rap on the door. Though she had been promoted after only having working so little time here at the paper, her editor appeared genuinely pleased for her—her smile radiant as she looked around the space that would one day appear more like a place of her own.

  “I can’t thank you enough for this,” Karina said as she stood, resisting the urge to sweep her hand out for the older woman to have a seat.

  After all, she was still her superior, and it felt a bit early to be doing that just yet.

  “You shouldn’t be thanking me at all—thank yourself. You put in all the hard work, and according to accounting, your articles on William Paxton brought in more than a thousand new readers. That’s nothing to blink at.”

  She wasn’t sure if that was true—those numbers seemed rather high—but she was glad for the praise all the same. “Either way, I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  Camilla nodded, seeming satisfied enough, but while Karina thought she would turn and make her leave—as she had been appearing to do—she paused, hovering for a moment before she pushed the door closed and turned back to face her. Her expression changed in those few seconds it had taken to give them more privacy.

  Karina was almost afraid to hear what the woman was about to say. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, trying and failing to force a smile. “I just ... well, there’s a story that I think is worth looking into, but since I’m the editor, I don’t really have the time to research it the way I want.”

  Considering Karina had just returned from a vacation, she was ready to jump on anything. “I’m open, if you want to share it with me.”


  It was the only invitation the woman seemed to need as she crossed the floor and smoothed the front of her red dress before she sat. It was a bit disconcerting the difference a year could make, or less than that really considering it hadn’t been that long ago when she had been summoned into Camilla’s office to report on what was happening at Paxton Industries, yet now here she sat on the opposite side of the desk.

  “Claire McDonall, have you heard of her?”

  Karina searched the recesses of her brain, trying to place the name, or at the very least, what she did for a living. Sometimes, she could always place a name—though she never forgot a face—but often times she could attach one to a person of a certain status. This name, however, she was drawing a blank.

  “I’m not familiar with her, no,” she said, a bit disconcerted that she hadn’t. It was rare she didn’t know of someone, especially if they were important enough to warrant a story.

  “You might not have,” Camilla returned easily. “She’s married to Hugh McDonall.”

  Now that name, she knew.

  A hotelier, if she wasn’t mistaken. Responsible for some of the more luxurious yet gaudy boutique hotels in the city. His rise to fame had come quickly on the heels of the city demolishing more than a few properties, and within months of them being gone, he had started construction. A year and a half later, he was a man worth millions.

  “I thought he was married to …” She grappled for a name. “Hillary?”

  “Yes, he was, but he divorced her a year ago, and two weeks after the paperwork was finalized, he married Claire.”

  She sincerely thought it should be a full-time job just trying to keep up with who was married to who in this city. It was hard to keep them all straight. “Ah, okay. What about them then?”

  Camilla rubbed her lips together—a far better alternative than chewing on them considering the red lipstick she wore. “It hasn’t been made public yet, but there are rumors that they’re divorcing. There’s been some talk of infidelity, but I won’t pretend to know all the details about that.”