I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 088

At 9:30 PM, the neon lights of the North District flickered through a haze of industrial smog and light rain. Outside a nondescript, low-rent eatery, the door swung open, spilling out a cacophony of drunken laughter and the heavy scent of grease. A massive brawler, thick-necked and scarred, emerged while supporting a bald man whose eyes were glazed with a stupor induced by cheap whiskey. This was Tyler Monroe, shouting slurs at the night sky and flailing in a state of terminal intoxication.

The bodyguard signaled a passing taxi—one of the few brave enough to cruise this sector after dark. With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the swaying Tyler into the backseat. As the heavy door slammed shut, the bodyguard straightened his jacket, intending to walk around to the front passenger side. He didn't see the shadow detach itself from the brick wall.

Suddenly, the world narrowed. The bodyguard gasped as he locked eyes with a pair of pupils so sharp and luminous they seemed to cut through the dark. His combat instincts, honed in a hundred alleyway brawls, screamed a warning. His right arm twitched, coiling to launch a desperate haymaker.

Snap!

Before his fist could travel an inch, a hand like a hydraulic press clamped onto his forearm. Five iron-hard fingertips—the signature grip of the Talons—pierced through his leather jacket and deep into the bicep. Before he could draw breath to scream for the police or his g**g brothers, the cold bite of a silver blade found the gap in his ribs. The dagger slid home into his chest cavity with sickening ease. With a brutal, practiced twist, the assassin pulverized the heart muscle.

Instant cardiac arrest. Total silence.

The entire execution had taken less than three seconds. Across the street, patrons at a Roadside BBQ Joint continued to laugh and gnaw on ribs, oblivious to the fact that a man had just been erased from existence ten yards away.

Kane, a thin, predatory smile touching his lips, pulled open the taxi door and tossed the heavy corpse inside. The bodyguard’s body slumped hard against the interior, his dead weight pinning the drunken Tyler against the far door.

Tyler blinked, a thick belch escaping his throat as he stared at the cooling corpse of his protector and the stranger sliding in next to him. "Whu... you..."

Thud.

Kane didn't waste breath on dialogue. A sharp, rhythmic strike of his palm against the carotid artery sent Tyler into an immediate unconscious blackout. He tumbled over the corpse, a pathetic heap of flesh.

In the driver’s seat, Marcus Grady let out a low, dark chuckle. "To think a piece of trash like this holds rank in the Warwolf Division. It’s an insult to the profession."

The taxi sped away, weaving through the backstreets until it reached the edge of the woods—the designated "interrogation theater."

By the time they dragged the "prey" into the clearing, the other members of the Talons had already finished the preparations. A pit, six feet deep and six feet wide, had been excavated into the frozen earth. Marcus rolled the bodyguard's corpse into the hole like a bag of trash, while Kane handed the unconscious Tyler over to Jackson Hayes.

Jackson, the lead inquisitor for the Shadow Division, moved with clinical efficiency. He stripped Tyler n***d and lashed him to a thick oak tree overlooking the pit. Nearby, on a folding tactical table, he laid out the instruments of his trade: surgical scalpels, iron hooks, lengths of steel pipe, and a collection of thick paraffin candles. The Shadow Division had refined their techniques under the guidance of Dixon Jace; their methods were designed to break the soul long before the body gave out.

Jackson grabbed a gallon jug of industrial-grade rubbing alcohol and began to douse Tyler’s shivering skin, ensuring a uniform coating. Then, without warning, he drove a Bowie Knife two inches deep into the fatty meat of Tyler’s thigh.

The agony shattered the drunken fog. Tyler’s eyes snapped open, his mouth unhinging in a ragged, high-pitched scream that was quickly muffled by the dense woods. Before he could process the blood pouring down his leg, Jackson struck a match and tossed it onto the alcohol-soaked skin.

Whoosh!

A pillar of blue and orange flame erupted, enveloping Tyler’s entire body. While the alcohol burned off quickly enough to avoid deep-tissue charring, the psychological shock was absolute. He was a living torch. The sheer terror of the visual—the roaring heat and the smell of singed hair—sent his mind into a primitive, white-out state of panic. He thought he was in hell. He prayed he was dreaming, but the cold wind of the Jefferson State winter reminded him this was very, very real.

As the flames flickered out, leaving Tyler gasping and weeping, three members of the Talons stepped forward and dumped three buckets of slush-filled ice water over his head.

The transition from the inferno to the sub-zero bite of a Rust Belt winter was agonizing. The temperature differential caused his skin to c***k and his muscles to seize in violent, uncontrollable tremors. Bits of ice clung to his shoulders while small patches of alcohol still flickered with persistent blue flames on his shins.

"Who are you?!" Tyler shrieked, his voice breaking. "What do you want? God, please, stop!"

This was the "Standard Operating Procedure" developed by the Shadow Eagle Clan. They didn't ask questions first. They broke the ego, the pride, and the will. They waited until the subject was begging to be interrogated—praying for a chance to trade secrets for a moment of peace.

Seeing that Tyler’s mental defenses had dissolved into a puddle of fear, Jackson placed four lit candles directly beneath Tyler’s frostbitten genitals.

Jackson leaned in, his face inches from the prisoner’s. He clicked a tactical lighter on and off, the flame dancing in Tyler’s dilated pupils. "I'm going to ask you questions. If you hesitate, if you lie, or if you even pause to think about a lie, I’m going to let these candles warm you up. I’ll turn your 'little brother' into a burnt cocktail sausage. Understand?"

Tyler nodded so hard that flecks of b****y ice flew from his beard. He stared at the flame with the intensity of a condemned man.

"Good boy," Jackson purred, stroking Tyler’s cheek with the flat of a scalpel. "Question one: The veterans. The original sixty soldiers who serve Fenris. Where are they? Where is the Warwolf Division's elite core?"

"The... The Direwolf Syndicate?" Tyler stammered, his eyes bulging. "You... you're them..."

Jackson sighed theatrically and clicked the lighter. "Wrong answer. You’re thinking too much." He moved the candle an inch closer.

"AGH! NO! STOP!" Tyler kicked his legs frantically, trying to twist his body away from the rising heat. Even through the numbness of the cold, he could feel the terrifying warmth beginning to lick at his skin. "They stay at the Central Hub! The downtown headquarters! All of them! It’s a fortress, I swear!"

Jackson kept the flame steady. "You said 'all of them.' Are there exceptions? Who isn't at the hub?"

The heat was becoming unbearable now. Tyler could smell the singe of his own hair. The panic gave him a sudden, desperate clarity. " Chimp! My direct superior, Chimp!"

"Where is he?"

"Club Elysium! The 'New World' night club!"

Jackson’s eyes flickered toward Kane. "Give me a profile. Schedule, strength, habits."

"He... he practically lives at the club," Tyler wheezed, blowing frantically downward to cool his skin. "He only leaves once every three or four days to report to the Central Hub. He’s strong—scary strong. I don't know his limits, but he’s paranoid. He never goes anywhere without at least five or six top-tier bodyguards. Please... pull the candles back... I’m burning!"

Suddenly, a distinct smell of scorched hair filled the clearing. A stray flame had caught. Tyler let out a high-pitched, warbling scream of pure indignity and pain.

Marcus burst out laughing, leaning against a tree. "Jackson, you’re a sick man. You and Dixon Jace were made for each other."

"Who else is outside the hub?" Jackson pressed, ignoring the laughter.

"I don't know! I swear to God, I’m just a mid-level captain! I only know my own line of command! Please, ask something else! I’ll tell you everything!"

"Is The Chimp moving tonight? If he leaves the club, where does he go?"

"He hasn't left in three days," Tyler panted. "If he doesn't move tonight, he’ll move tomorrow for sure. Usually between 9:00 PM and 1:00 AM. He always goes straight to the Central Hub via the main expressway."

Kane checked his watch. "What’s the time?"

"10:55 PM," Ryder replied.

Owen—the commander known as One—stepped forward and gripped Tyler by the jaw, his fingers digging into the man's cheekbones until they bruised. "Describe The Chimp. I want every distinguishing feature."

Tyler was ready to sell his own mother to keep the flames away. "Check my phone! My contact list! Under 'The Boss Chimp'! There’s a photo attached to the file!"

Owen fished a ruggedized smartphone from the pile of discarded clothes. He scrolled through the encrypted contacts and found the entry. A photo popped up: a man with long, ape-like arms, a protruding jaw, and eyes that looked like black glass.

"That’s him," Owen confirmed, showing the screen to Kane.

"Keep the interrogation going," Kane commanded, his voice cold and final. "Owen, you're with me. We're going to Club Elysium. Marcus, stay here. Fenris knows your faces too well. If we're going to snatch a high-ranking officer, we need to be ghosts."