I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 037

Dixon Jace did not offer the mercy of hesitation. Ignoring the desperate, pleading terror swimming in Miles Keaton’s eyes, he drove the wooden sliver downward with sudden, vicious force. The toothpick didn't just pierce the skin; it plunged deep into the sensitive bed of nerves beneath the fingernail, lodging itself halfway in. But Dixon wasn't finished. With the clinical detachment of a mechanic adjusting a carburetor, he gave the wood a brutal twist, churning the raw nerve endings, before yanking it out in one swift, agonizing motion.

The pain was absolute. It was the kind of white-hot agony that bypassed the brain and struck directly at the soul. Miles’s body went rigid, every muscle fiber locking up in a tetanic spasm. He clamped his mouth shut, his teeth grinding together with enough force to c***k enamel, desperate to bottle up the scream that threatened to tear his throat apart. He knew that if he made a sound, if he offered Dixon even a single note of dissatisfaction, the process would begin again. The sheer physical stress was too much for his own flesh to sustain; his teeth sheared through his thick lower lip, biting completely through the tissue. A grotesque slurry of saliva and bright arterial blood poured down his chin, soaking into his ruined shirt.

Nathan Black stood silently by the side, watching the man who shared his blood being dismantled piece by piece. For a fleeting second, the icy armor around his heart developed a hairline fracture. A trace of pity, unwelcome and bitter, rose in his chest. This sobbing, broken heap of meat was, after all, his brother.

He stepped forward, his shadow falling over Miles.

"Miles," Nathan’s voice was low, lacking the theatrical sadism of Dixon, but heavy with authority. "I’m going to ask you again. Has the location of the stockpile changed?"

Miles Keaton was trembling so violently the chair rattled against the concrete floor. He shook his head weakly, his voice a rasping whisper through the blood. "No... nothing has changed."

"What about the transaction protocols?" Nathan pressed, his eyes scanning Miles’s face for any micro-expression of deceit. "The buyers? The liaisons with The Triangle? Have you altered the codes or the contacts?"

"No," Miles wheezed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "I didn't change a thing. It’s exactly as you left it. Identical."

Nathan Black let out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding. The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. If Miles had tried to innovate, if he had tried to restructure the intricate web Nathan had spent three grueling years weaving, recovering the network would have been a logistical nightmare. The Venom network was a masterpiece of criminal engineering—interlocking cells, blind drops, and encrypted channels. If one link had been clumsily replaced, the entire chain could have shattered. The fact that Miles had been too lazy or too incompetent to alter the system was a small mercy.

"The three storage sites," Nathan continued, his tone clinical. "What is the current inventory? How much product are we sitting on?"

Miles swallowed hard, wincing as the salt from his tears stung his lacerated lip. "Eight hundred and thirty-nine kilograms. All of it... high-purity grade. Uncut. Straight from the source."

Hiss.

The sound of sharp intakes of breath hissed around the room. Kane Adler and the core members of the Shadow Eagle Clan exchanged glances of disbelief. Eight hundred kilograms? The sheer volume was staggering. In the world of high-stakes narcotics, that wasn't just a stash; that was a kingdom.

Marcus Grady, the group’s financial wizard and resident cynic, practically fell over himself. He shoved his plate of roast beef aside, the cutlery clattering onto the floor, and dipped his finger into a spilled puddle of red wine. He began scribbling rapid calculations on the tabletop, his eyes widening with every number.

"Okay, hold on, let me run the numbers," Marcus muttered, his mind racing. "Let's be conservative and call it eight hundred kilos. One kilo is a thousand grams. Street value... let's say a hundred and twenty dollars a gram for this level of purity? No, that's lowballing it. But let's stick to it. That’s one hundred and twenty thousand dollars a brick. Multiply that by eight hundred and thirty-nine..."

He paused, his finger hovering over the wine-stained table. He looked up, his face pale with the shock of realization. "One hundred million dollars? Holy... That’s just raw value. If we cut it? If we step on it twice before distribution? We are looking at a quarter of a billion dollars, easy. Maybe three hundred million."

Even Rex Dalton, the Mad Tiger, whose understanding of economics usually began and ended with the price of ammunition and alcohol, stared open-mouthed. The number was abstract, too large to fully comprehend, yet the weight of it hung in the air like heavy smoke.

Kane Adler remained the calmest, though a glint of intensity sharpened his gaze. He looked at Nathan. "Nathan, what’s the buy-in price from The Triangle these days? What are the margins?"

"We get it at roughly fifteen thousand a unit," Nathan explained, his voice tinged with the pride of a professional. "After factoring in the bribes for the border patrols, transportation costs, and the cut for the local mules... if I handle the distribution personally, I can push the market price up. Net profit? We’re looking at close to one hundred and twenty million dollars in pure, liquid profit."

"That much?" Kane raised an eyebrow.

Nathan saw the shock on their faces and straightened his posture. This was his domain. "For years, the Venom network has controlled twenty, sometimes thirty percent of the total output from The Triangle into the northern sector. It’s a monopoly in all but name." He paused, calculating. "Over the last few years, even after my... significant personal expenses, I managed to stash away about three hundred million dollars in savings. Of course," he bowed slightly toward Kane, "that money now belongs to you, Kane."

He turned back to Miles, his demeanor shifting from proud lieutenant back to executioner. "The Swiss Bank account. The primary holding. How much is in there right now?"

Miles Keaton took a deep, shuddering breath. He seemed to deflate, the last of his resistance draining away with his blood. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.

"I can tell you," Miles whispered, his voice cracking. "But I beg you... brother. Please. Give me a clean end. For the sake of... for the sake of Mom."

The mention of their mother hit Nathan like a physical blow. His body jerked, and he stared at the b****y, ruinous figure of his brother. The rage that had sustained him in the Confinement Death Ward, the hatred that had kept him warm on cold nights, suddenly felt hollow. He didn't see the traitorous g**g leader anymore; he saw the little boy who used to trail behind him, the boy he had sworn to protect when their mother lay dying.

The silence in the warehouse was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the ventilation fans. Nathan stood frozen, caught between the duty of a soldier and the memory of a brother. Finally, he turned his head, casting a questioning look at Kane Adler.

Kane held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, imperceptible nod. Permission granted.

Nathan turned back to Miles, his expression softening into a tragic resolve. He exhaled slowly. "Alright. Tell me. I promise you, it will be quick."

"Everything is the same," Miles murmured, his eyes still closed, a strange peace settling over his features. "The account numbers, the passcodes... I never changed them. But the balance... it’s higher. When you were taken, there was about three hundred million. In the years since... I didn't let the Venom name die. The volume increased. I expanded the territory. The balance in the Swiss account is now roughly five hundred million dollars. That’s it. That’s everything."

Miles tilted his head back, exposing his throat. "I’m done. Brother... send me on my way."

"Miles..." Nathan choked out the name. "Why did it have to be this way?"

But the time for answers was past. Miles didn't respond; he just waited, seeking the darkness.

Dixon Jace glanced at Cillian Moss. Cillian nodded and stepped forward, disconnecting the electrodes from Miles’s flesh. He pulled a sleek, razor-sharp combat knife from his belt and handed it, hilt first, to Nathan.

The cold steel felt heavy in Nathan’s hand. His right hand trembled, the blade shimmering in the harsh overhead light. But he didn't falter. He couldn't. This was the only mercy left to give. He walked behind the chair and placed his left hand over Miles’s eyes, shielding him from the world.

"Goodbye, brother," Nathan whispered into his ear. "Walk well."

Slash.

With a swift, powerful motion, the blade swept across Miles’s throat. It was a clean cut, deep and precise. Miles’s body jerked once, then went limp. There was no pain, only the sudden, cold release of death.

Nathan stood there for a moment, supporting the weight of his brother’s body, before gently letting his head rest forward. He wiped the blade on his pants, his face unreadable.

Kane Adler watched with a somber expression. He felt a pang of sympathy for Nathan, but in their world—the world of blood and power—sentiment was a luxury they could rarely afford.

"Nathan," Kane said softly, breaking the silence. "You bury him. Take your time. The rest of you, find a corner and get some sleep. We move out at dawn. We’re heading back to Larkspur."

He looked at Nathan again. "You don't need to come with us tomorrow. Stay here. Handle the transfer of the funds into the secure accounts. Keep twenty million for operational expenses and to rebuild the network. If you need more, you ask."

"Understood, Kane," Nathan replied, his voice hollow but steady.

The next morning broke with a grey, steely light filtering through the high windows of the warehouse. By 0800 hours, the convoy was ready. Kane Adler and the main force of the Shadow Eagle Clan left Nathan Black and four members of the Talons behind to secure the base and the body. The rest of the eighty-man unit roared out of the compound, their destination set: Larkspur.

The journey back was a silent one, the tension in the vehicles palpable. They weren't just returning to a city; they were returning to a battlefield. They were ghosts coming back to haunt the living.

They established their temporary command post in the Abandoned Paper Mill on the southern outskirts of Larkspur. The place was a fortress of solitude—rusting vats, towering smokestacks, and a labyrinth of catwalks that offered perfect defensive positions. The air smelled of wet pulp and decay, a fitting atmosphere for what was about to happen.

Inside the main processing hall, Kane Adler stood before a large, makeshift map table. Jackson Hayes stood opposite him, looking every inch the elite scout he claimed to be.

"Jackson," Kane asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "The recon mission. What do you have for me?"

Jackson Hayes grinned, a confident, predatory expression that lit up his honest, simple features. "Report is solid, Kane. I used to be a recon specialist in the corps. Mapping out the underworld layout of a second-tier city? This isn't state secrets; it's child's play. I had ten days. If I couldn't give you a comprehensive breakdown of every g**g, every safe house, and every patrol route by now, I wouldn't have the face to stand in front of you."

"Excellent," Kane nodded, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He looked around the room, making eye contact with the men gathered there.

Eighty men. The Talons. They stood in a loose semi-circle, their faces hardened by years of confinement and violence. These were men who had been discarded by society, locked away in the Confinement Death Ward to rot. They were murderers, psychopaths, and monsters. But now, they were his monsters.

"Listen to me!" Kane’s voice rose, filling the hall. "When we walked out of that prison, it was October 30th. We spent ten days in the wilderness of the Appalachian foothills, sharpening our claws, remembering what it feels like to be free. Today is November 10th. The preparation phase is over."

He slammed his hand onto the map table. "For us, the game officially starts today. I want you to look around you. Look at the men standing next to you. We are the elite of the elite. There is no force in this city, no g**g in this state, that can match us. Every single one of you has a history written in blood. You’ve outsmarted police task forces, you’ve humiliated riot squads, you’ve gone toe-to-toe with SWAT teams and lived to tell the tale."

The men straightened, their chests swelling. Kane was speaking to their pride, to the arrogance that had kept them alive in the darkest hole on earth.

"Then," Kane continued, pacing like a panther, "you went into the Confinement Death Ward. The deepest pit of hell. And you didn't just survive; you thrived. You became the alphas in a cage full of beasts. You have seen s*******r that would make a normal man vomit. You have endured pain that would break a soldier. And now?"

He spread his arms wide, encompassing the group. "Now, we have gathered the eighty deadliest men in the country into one unit. We are a pack of apex predators dropped into a petting zoo. We are here to take over a local underworld run by street thugs and politicians. It shouldn't just be possible; it should be easy. It should be inevitable."

Kane’s eyes burned with a fanatical fire. "We are eighty brothers. Even if there were eight thousand of them waiting for us out there, we would cut through them like a hot knife through butter! We would pile their bodies to the sky! We will wash the streets of Larkspur with their blood until they learn to fear the name Shadow Eagle!"

He thrust his fist into the air. "Brothers! Do you have the confidence to take this city?!"

"YES!"

The roar was deafening. It shook the dust from the rafters. Rex Dalton, eyes glowing with a feral, crimson light, threw his head back and howled.

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

The chant erupted from eighty throats, a primal war cry that promised violence, dominance, and a storm of blood descending upon Larkspur. The Shadow Eagle Clan had arrived, and the night was about to get very dark.