I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 022

Frank Sterling lifted the delicate bamboo cup to his lips, allowing the fragrant steam of the Highland Summit tea to caress his face before taking a slow, deliberate sip. The liquid was warm, soothing his throat, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated words he was about to speak. He set the cup down with a soft clink, the sound echoing slightly in the vast, silent office.

"In recent years," Sterling began, his voice smooth and cultured, yet carrying an undercurrent of steel, "specifically the last twenty-four months, the organized crime syndicates in this country have undergone a terrifying resurgence. It is as if a dormant virus has suddenly mutated. They are no longer just street gangs fighting over turf. They are receiving backing from European cartels, leveraging sophisticated money-laundering networks, and infiltrating legitimate businesses. The sociopathic nature of these organizations, combined with this new influx of resources, has turned them into a cancer that is metastasizing faster than we can cut it out."

He paused, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, the reflection of the gray sky hiding his eyes.

"This has placed an immense, crushing weight on the President’s shoulders. And as the Deputy Director of the National Security Bureau, that weight falls directly onto me. We are not the police; we do not deal in tickets and misdemeanors. We deal in existential threats. For two years, we have tried every conventional method in the book. We launched massive RICO sweeps, decapitation strikes, undercover operations… we tried to 'exterminate the rats.' But these organizations are resilient. They are like cockroaches. No matter how strong the poison, they adapt. They survive. They scatter into the walls, only to breed and return stronger, mocking the rule of law."

Sterling stood up and walked to the panoramic window, looking down at the prison yard below—a microcosm of the violent world he was trying to tame.

"At the beginning of this year, the President’s patience finally snapped. He issued a classified directive to the National Security Bureau: Eradicate the tumor. By any means necessary. The directive was clear—failure would result in a complete purge of the Bureau’s upper echelon. My career, and the careers of my colleagues, are on the line."

He turned back to face Julian Cross, his expression grave.

"Pressed by this ultimatum, the High Command locked themselves in a war room for a week. We debated ethics, legality, and logistics. In the end, we formulated a radical, classified initiative. It has been approved by the President and the Joint Chiefs. The plan is simple in concept, yet agonizingly complex in execution. We call it… The Domination Protocol."

Julian sat silently, his face unreadable, but his mind was racing. He sensed where this was going, and the sheer scale of it was chilling.

"Organized crime is a shadow economy," Sterling continued, pacing slowly across the plush carpet. "It exists because there is a demand for it. You cannot simply arrest it out of existence. So, we decided to change the paradigm. Instead of fighting it from the outside, we will control it from the inside. We will cultivate a single, apex predator organization—one that answers to us—and use it to conquer the entire underworld. We will unify the darkness under one flag, and that flag will be held by the state."

Sterling leaned against his desk, crossing his arms.

"Once the strategy was set, we needed the candidates. We needed monsters to hunt monsters. We turned our gaze to the nine maximum-security Confinement Death Wards scattered across the nation. For three months, we conducted deep-dive investigations, psychological profiles, and combat assessments. We selected thirty-six of the most dangerous, intelligent, and ruthless death row inmates in the country. These are men who combine the brutality of a butcher with the mind of a general. We captured them, broke them, and have already deployed them secretly to various prisons to build their initial power bases. The plan is for them to dominate their respective prison blocks, and when the time is right, we release them into specific cities. From there, they will begin a campaign of conquest, swallowing local gangs, expanding to the state level, and eventually, unifying the national syndicate."

Julian listened intently, his brow furrowing as the implications sank in. The sheer hubris of the plan was staggering.

"You want to use death row inmates—men you’ve condemned as irredeemable—to control the underworld?" Julian asked, his voice laced with skepticism. "Are you geniuses, or are you insane? You’re handing the keys to the kingdom to wolves and expecting them to act like sheepdogs. Do you really think you can control them? And… if my history lessons serve me right, the moment the 'unification' is complete, that’s the moment the tool loses its value. 'When the rabbits are gone, the hounds are cooked.' Do you think thirty-six men chosen for their intelligence won't see the betrayal coming?"

Frank Sterling laughed, a dry, humorless sound that rattled in his chest.

"You worry too much, Mr. Cross. If I, Frank Sterling, propose a plan, you can be certain I have contingencies for the contingencies. The 'hounds' will be dealt with when the hunt is over. We have failsafes. We have leverage. That is not your concern."

Sterling walked back to his chair and sat down, interlacing his fingers.

"However," he said, his eyes locking onto Julian’s, "there is one anomaly in this perfectly laid plan. One variable we didn't account for. You."

Julian raised an eyebrow.

"You, Julian Cross," Sterling said softly. "You were not on the original list. We had thirty-six candidates. But then you appeared. You arrived at the Confinement Death Ward and immediately dismantled the hierarchy. You crushed Rex Dalton—the Mad Tiger—who was actually one of our top ten prospects. When the footage of that fight landed on my desk, and when my old war buddy, General Vance, called in a favor… I became intrigued. I left the capital and flew here personally to observe you. And I must say… your performance today, the way you manipulated the battlefield, the way you broke those men… it was art. You are better than the candidate you replaced."

Sterling opened a drawer and pulled out a file, sliding it across the desk.

"I have submitted a supplementary dossier on you to the President. It has been approved. We have decided… to release you. You are the thirty-seventh candidate."

He pointed a finger at Julian. "Furthermore, as a reward for your potential, I am authorizing you to take eighty men from the East Wing with you. Eighty death row inmates. That is the hard limit. Who you choose is up to you. I will not interfere."

Julian didn't look at the file. He picked up his cold tea, swirling the dregs.

"You said there were thirty-six other candidates," Julian said, his voice flat. " Thirty-six apex predators. If you release them into the wild, let them build empires, and then demand they hand over the keys when the job is done… do you really think they will submit? Power is addictive, Director. When they taste it, they won't want to give it up."

"This isn't a game of checkers, Mr. Cross," Sterling replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is a death match. A battle royale. Let me explain the rules of engagement."

Sterling held up a hand, ticking off fingers.

"The thirty-six—now thirty-seven—agents will be dropped into thirty-seven different territories across the United States. You choose your starting city. From the moment you step out of this prison, the clock starts. You have six months to conquer the underworld of that city. Complete domination. If you fail? Our black-ops liquidation teams will visit you, and you will cease to exist."

He ticked a second finger. "Phase two. You have eighteen months to expand and control the entire criminal network of the state. Phase three. Within two years after that, you must control a territory comprising at least three states. Four years total. It sounds tight, I know. But remember, you are the elite of the elite. You are supposed to be superior."

"And after four years?" Julian asked.

"Heh," Sterling chuckled darkly. "After four years… how many of the thirty-seven do you think will still be breathing? The territories will overlap. You will collide. You will kill each other. My preliminary analysts predict that by the end, no more than six of you will be left standing."

Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Six out of thirty-seven. Those are steep odds."

"Indeed," Sterling grinned, looking like a shark smelling blood. "And let me be honest with you, Mr. Cross. Our psychological profiles suggest that two of the candidates are absolute monsters. Prodigies of violence and strategy. We project they might conquer four or five states within the timeline. And according to the computer models… you are not one of them."

Julian ignored the jab. "Can I see the dossiers on the other thirty-six?"

"No," Sterling replied instantly. "That would ruin the surprise."

Julian shrugged, setting the cup down. "So, when do I leave?"

"Oh?" Sterling raised an eyebrow. "So you have decided to accept? Just like that?"

Julian laughed, a bitter, cynical sound. He gestured around the room, then pointed a finger at the seemingly solid walls.

"Do I have a choice?" Julian asked quietly. "You’ve laid out the board. You’ve told me the secrets. If I say no, I don't leave this room alive. My hearing is quite acute, Director. I can hear the heartbeats of at least six men behind these walls. Snipers, I assume? Laser sights trained on my head right now?"

Frank Sterling’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He glanced at the walls, then back at Julian, a look of profound respect crossing his face.

"Incredible," Sterling muttered. "Truly incredible. The Blood Eagle. Your senses are sharper than radar. You are absolutely correct."

He reached into his desk and pulled out a thick document stamped with the seals of the Department of Justice, the National Security Bureau, and the Executive Office of the President.

"Since you understand the stakes, we need a formal agreement. It is simple: You work for us. You do not harm innocent civilians. You do not bite the hand that feeds you. Sign it."

Julian took the document. He didn't bother reading the fine print. It was a deal with the devil; the terms were irrelevant because his soul was already on the table. He pressed his thumb into the inkpad and stamped his print onto the signature line.

"Good," Sterling said, taking the document back. "Now, for the final piece of the puzzle."

He slid a small, red booklet across the mahogany surface. It was a government identification badge, embossed with a silver star.

Julian opened it. The photo inside was him, but… different. The features were sharper, the nose slightly altered, the jawline distinct. It was him, but a stranger.

"National Security Bureau Special Agent… Kane Adler?" Julian read the name aloud.

"Notice the photo?" Sterling asked, leaning back. "It looks about seventy percent like you. That is the future you."

"The future me?"

"Before you and the others are released," Sterling explained, "you will undergo facial reconstruction surgery. Minor changes, but enough to disassociate you from the wanted posters and prison records. Your name will be legally changed. Julian Cross dies in prison. Kane Adler walks out. This badge grants you the rank of Special Agent. It is a hollow title—it gives you no power over the police or the military—but it is a shield you can use if you get into a corner. It’s a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card for minor infractions."

Sterling stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.

"Kane," Sterling said, testing the new name. "I will warn you one last time. Four years. That is the window. We can suppress the media and the local police for that long, attributing the violence to g**g wars. But we cannot hold the lid on the pot forever. You have a deadline. Do not miss it."

"We are done here. You have five days to review the inmate files and select your eighty soldiers. Then, ten days for surgery and recovery. In fifteen days, a transport team will extract you from this mountain. After that… you are on your own. Do not expect me to save you if you stumble."

Julian stood up, smoothing his prison uniform. He looked Sterling dead in the eye, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"I have a warning for you too, Director," Julian said coldly. "Remember this moment. Because I will be the last one standing. I guarantee it."

"Hahaha!" Sterling laughed, clapping his hands. "Confidence! I love it. But be careful. The other sharks in the tank are hungry. Especially those two I mentioned. Consider that a free tip, a favor to General Vance."

Julian didn't respond. He nodded once, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door.

His hand was on the brass knob when Sterling’s voice stopped him. It was casual, almost an afterthought.

"Oh, one last thing I forgot to mention," Sterling said cheerfully. "Your parents… don't worry about them. The state has moved them to a very secure, very private facility. We are taking excellent care of them. You just focus on your mission. We’ll handle the family."

Julian froze.

His hand tightened on the doorknob until the metal groaned. A tremor ran through his shoulders. His face twitched, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage flashing across his features for a split second before he forced it back down.

Hostages.

He didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he looked at Sterling now, he might try to kill him, snipers or not.

Coldness flooded his veins, replacing the heat of anger. He opened the door and walked out into the corridor, the heavy wood slamming shut behind him, sealing his fate.