I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 085

The air in the Ocean Manor office was so thick with the scent of high-end bourbon and stale tension that it felt like it could be sliced with a Bowie Knife. Dixon Jace, the strategist whose mind functioned like a high-speed processor, broke the silence first.

"Kane," Dixon began, his voice echoing off the dark mahogany panels. "There is a high probability that this skeletal figure is the same predator Rex encountered months ago at the military hospital. Rex mentioned a man who exuded the same raw, feral energy—a scent of blood and old iron. If they both clawed their way out of the Confinement Death Ward in the northern United States, it stands to reason he would track us here. Like recognizes like. He’s not just a rival; he’s a ghost from the same hell."

Kane Adler—the man the streets whispered of as Kane—merely nodded, his eyes as cold as a mountain lake in mid-winter. "Troy," he commanded, the word a low vibration. "Finish it."

"Yes, Kane," Troy Reed responded, his voice cracking with the weight of the memory. "The moment Rex roared that warning, he didn't hesitate. He charged. With Titus King at his side and fifty of our best 'Point-Blade' veterans, they threw themselves into that circle of fifty elite hostiles. What followed... it wasn't a g**g fight. It was a symphony of violence that paralyzed everyone watching. Nearly eight thousand men—on both sides—just stood there, frozen in place. We actually forgot to run. We forgot we were at war. We were just witnesses to something primal."

Troy paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. "Rex... he went beyond anything I’ve ever seen. He was a whirlwind of kinetic energy, utilizing a lethal hybrid of Jeet Kune Do and raw, unadulterated madness. He was taking hits that would have felled an ox—deep cuts, blunt trauma—and he didn't even blink. He took down two of them in the first ten seconds. But the enemy had a plan. They didn't care about the others; they wanted the Mad Tiger. Seven of them swarmed him immediately, including that pale-faced freak, Fenris. Those seven... they were terrifying. Aside from Fenris, the other six fought with the precision and speed of our own The Talons. They pinned Rex down in a tactical cage."

"While Rex was occupied," Troy continued, his fists clenching, "the remaining forty-two hostiles began a systematic s*******r of Titus King and the veterans. Our boys are elite—they’ve survived the worst the Rust Belt has to offer—but these 'Centurions' were on another level. It was like watching professional executioners at work. Within five minutes, our spearhead was being decimated. I tried to rally the main body of the Mad Tiger Crew to break the perimeter, to get in there and pull them out, but we were hitting a brick wall of five thousand soldiers. We couldn't gain a single yard."

Troy’s eyes grew distant, haunted. "I organized a final hundred-man suicide squad. We were going to burn everything down just to reach them. But as we got close, I saw Titus King go down. He was being hacked at from all sides, a dozen blades rising and falling. When Rex saw Titus collapse into that pool of blood, he went into a state of pure, incandescent rage. He took three deep stabs to his torso—must have been five or six inches deep—just to reach the men in front of him. He literally tore two of them apart with his bare hands. He used that split second of shock to grab Titus and hurl him out of the circle toward us, like he was tossing a sack of grain. He screamed at me to go. He ordered me to save the survivors and get the hell out of Jersey City."

Troy slumped, his forehead hitting the floor with a dull thud. "I saw Titus was barely breathing, and I knew if we stayed, the entire Mad Tiger Crew would be wiped out. I made the call. I left Rex behind and fought our way out. Kane, I failed my brother. I failed the Shadow Eagle Clan. Send me to the The Execution Unit. Let them settle my debt."

Before Kane could respond, Jackson Hayes—the head of the Shadow Division—dropped to his knees as well. "No, Kane. The blood is on my hands. My intelligence network had a catastrophic leak. The Shadow Division failed to see the trap. If anyone goes to the The Execution Unit, it should be me. I led our brothers into a blind alley."

Kane stared at the two men, his gaze sharpening into a lethal point. The silence stretched for a full minute, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. It wasn't until Ethan Skyler let out a sharp, deliberate cough that the two men realized Kane’s expression had shifted from cold to murderous.

"Your guilt is irrelevant to me," Kane hissed. "The Shadow Eagle Clan has rules. The The Execution Unit will investigate and determine the degree of your failure. You will both report to their headquarters tonight. They will be... thorough."

He emphasized the word "thorough" with a glance toward Dixon Jace. The others didn't catch the nuance, but Dixon understood perfectly. Kane wasn't looking for a blood sacrifice of his key lieutenants; he was looking for a formal reprimand that maintained the fear of the law while keeping his best men in play.

"Get up," Kane said, his voice returning to a flat, business-like tone. "Jackson, give me the reality of the situation. It’s been five days. If you don't have the full picture of how a ghost army of six thousand men appeared in Jersey City, you can consider your resignation from the Shadow Division permanent."

Jackson stood up, his legs shaking slightly as he pulled Troy to his feet. "We’ve spent the last 120 hours scouring every inch of Jersey City. I personally led the teams. We’ve discovered that the failure started with Jordan Whitaker, one of our veteran 'Eighty-One Brothers' who was tasked with setting up the forward observation posts. He went missing the moment we crossed the state line."

Elias Thorne, the man they called Elias, narrowed his eyes. "Missing? And you didn't think to report a high-level disappearance to the Citadel?"

Jackson winced. "I thought it was an operational delay. But the truth is, Jordan was marked the moment he stepped foot in the city. Fenris—the pale-faced leader of the The Direwolf Syndicate—had been watching us since we took Larkspur. He didn't just stumble upon us; he studied us. He captured Jordan and used an 'Alchemist'—a specialist in chemical interrogation and neuro-inhibitors. They broke him not through pain, but through drugs that dissolve the will. He was in a trance, fed false information, and forced to report back to me."

"So every scrap of intel we had on Jersey City was curated?" Kane asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Yes," Jackson admitted, his voice a whisper. "The g**g strengths, the turf boundaries, the 'Tidemasters'—it was all a stage play directed by Fenris. He created a dozen 'independent' gangs that were actually just cells of his Warwolf Division. He let Rex win. He fed him small victories to build his confidence, leading him deeper into the heart of the city until the trap was perfectly set."

Kane exhaled a long, slow breath. This Fenris wasn't just a brawler; he was a grandmaster of the Long Game. "And where is this Warwolf Division now? Are they pressing the advantage?"

"That’s the strange part," Jackson replied. "After the battle, Rex stopped fighting. He didn't execute the survivors. He took Rex and the remaining twenty-one veterans as prisoners and vanished into the city center. Currently, they’ve rebranded as the The Direwolf Syndicate, consolidating all their forces into a three-block radius around their main hub. They’ve abandoned the bars and clubs on the periphery. They’re digging in, waiting for our counter-strike. It’s a classic defensive shell."

Cillian Moss leaned against the wall, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Or it’s another lure. A man who can orchestrate a month-long deception doesn't just 'dig in' because he’s afraid. He wants us to come to him."

Dixon Jace nodded in agreement. "We cannot rush this. Rex is a valuable piece on the board, but he’s also a hostage. We need a surgical approach, not a sledgehammer." He turned to Hank Steel, who had been listening intently. "Hank, you’ve dealt with these types before. What’s your read?"

Hank Steel stepped forward, his posture rigid. "Two things, Kane. First, if Fenris wanted Rex dead, he’d be in a body bag already. Capturing him is a move of leverage. He’s keeping him alive to negotiate—or to break the spirit of the Shadow Eagle Clan. Second, he knows our strength. He’s not looking for a war of attrition; he’s looking for a specific outcome. We need to find out what he actually wants before we send in the heavy hitters."

A ghost of a smile—fleeting and cold—crossed Kane’s face. It was the first sign of approval any of them had seen since his return.

Jackson took the opportunity to provide the final butcher's bill. "Kane, the survivors from the Mad Tiger Crew have been trickling back across the border. Out of the three thousand men we sent, twenty-three are confirmed dead. Thirty-one are missing—presumably prisoners with Rex. Another seventeen of our brothers have sustained permanent, life-altering injuries—lost limbs, shattered spines. They’ll never fight again. But the mood in the barracks isn't one of defeat. They’re screaming for blood. They want to burn Jersey City to the ground to bring the Mad Tiger home."

Kane looked out the window toward the skyline of Larkspur. The city he had conquered was now the base for a war he hadn't expected. "Let them scream," he whispered. "Hungry wolves hunt better."