Badge of the Death Game

Chapter 042

The hallway outside the penthouse suite of the Crownline Royal Hotel was quiet, but the sounds coming from behind the double doors made that silence feel paper-thin.

Crash. Bang. BOOM.

Duke Calloway stood just outside, gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, dabbing at the sweat along his hairline with his pocket square. He glanced at the bodyguard posted beside the door.

"How long has it been?"

The bodyguard checked his watch and gave a helpless shake of his head. "Fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes since word had reached Julian Voss that the ambush on the Harborview Hotel parking lot had been dismantled by an unknown third party, and that Graham Wilson, the representative from the Crown Dominion, had been extracted right out from under them.

Duke looked down at his own watch, drew a slow breath, and knocked.

Three quiet raps. The sounds inside stopped immediately. He waited, heard nothing, and pushed the double doors open.

The study looked like a war zone. Every piece of furniture and every decorative object had been smashed or overturned. Shattered glass glittered across the floor. The only thing left intact was the flat-screen television mounted on the left wall, cycling through security footage from the Harborview Hotel parking lot on a continuous loop. Below the screen, a woman lay crumpled on the floor, her face and arms a ruin of blood and bruising.

Julian Voss stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, a baseball bat hanging from one hand. The grip tape was dark and wet. An unnatural flush had spread across his cheeks.

He turned when Duke entered, and his face split into an eager smile. "You're here. Tell me quickly — did we find out who they are? Is Wilson dead?"

Duke gestured silently to the bodyguard behind him, tilting his head toward the woman on the floor. The bodyguard moved without a word. Then Duke straightened and bowed slightly.

"Young Master. Wahl Capital's official website just posted an emergency announcement. Scott Wahl, Chairman of Wahl Capital, will be arriving in Sunvale in ten days." He paused. "The security firm contracted for his protection detail is Palisade Security."

Julian's brow furrowed as he turned the name over in his mind.

"Palisade?" A short, contemptuous laugh. "Weren't they basically finished? I roughed up their head of security not long ago. Their boss still has the nerve to chase a contract tied to Wahl Capital? What, are they hoping to send me another sports car as an apology?"

"Yes, but..." Duke nodded, then stopped himself.

Julian's eyes narrowed. "But what?"

"The contract's effective date was listed in the announcement." Duke's voice stayed level. "It went into effect yesterday."

Yesterday.

The word landed and detonated somewhere behind Julian's eyes. Pieces he hadn't been able to connect snapped together with sudden, terrible clarity. The ambush. The timing. The three unknowns who had torn his operation apart and walked away with Wilson.

He understood now exactly who they were.

A laugh tore out of him, high and unhinged. "So you're telling me I did their dirty work for them?!"

Duke said nothing and kept his eyes on the floor.

Julian laughed again, pacing in front of the ruined desk, the bat dragging against the carpet. "No. That's not possible. Palisade must have offered Wahl Capital something else — some condition, some sweetener. That has to be what happened." He stopped and pointed the bat at Duke. "Go. Get on the phone with those useless dogs at the Goldport Police Department and find out where every last person from Palisade Security is right now. We send them millions every month. That is not a salary for standing around doing nothing."

"I've already asked," Duke said. "They tracked Mark Dalton from Palisade Security to a shooting range he rented on the outskirts of the city. That's most likely where they are now."

"Then tell the police to send a tactical unit and bring everyone in."

Duke's back, already bent in deference, curved a fraction lower. "I'm sorry, Young Master. The call came from Chief Tucker himself. He asked me to relay a message." A pause. "He said the Goldport Police Department is not the Voss family's private army."

Silence fell over the ruined study.

Julian stared at Duke for a long moment, his expression flat. When he spoke again, his voice had gone quiet, which was somehow worse than the shouting. "Ungrateful dogs. The outcome isn't even decided and they're already picking sides." He waved a hand. "Fine. Just confirm their location. Old Duke, find a crew — armed. Send them to the range tonight and finish it. Make the cause of death look like whatever you want. A g**g dispute, an explosion. Same method as before."

"Young Master, I must advise—"

Duke never finished the sentence.

The baseball bat caught him across the face from below in a single vicious upswing, shattering his gold-rimmed glasses on impact and sending him straight down onto his back. He lay on the floor, one hand pressed to his face, blood pouring between his fingers. He tried to push himself up and found his arms had forgotten how to work.

Julian stepped on his hand and ground his heel in slowly. He seemed to think better of finishing it — a dead assistant was no use to anyone — and settled for two hard kicks to the ribs instead.

"Understood," Duke managed. "I understand."

It took a bodyguard to get him upright. He said nothing more. He had worked for the Voss family for over a decade and had always known that Julian's intermittent rage disorder made him half a madman. But he had never expected this. He had never been on the receiving end.

He kept that thought to himself all the way to the elevator.

Once the doors closed, Duke pulled out his phone and scrolled to Warren Voss's contact. His thumb hovered over the name.

Warren was the only person alive with any real authority over Julian. If anyone could stop this before it spiraled further, it was the family patriarch.

But he knew exactly how that call would end. Warren adored his only son without reservation. At worst, Julian would receive a brief scolding and carry on as before. And Duke, the man who had made the call, would be dead within the week, his end attributed to some convenient accident.

He weighed it: the future of the family on one side, his own life on the other.

Duke put the phone back in his pocket.

________________________________________

Out at the target range on the edge of the city, Mark Dalton crouched at the entrance to the range floor, a cigarette burning between his fingers, staring up at the night sky. Behind him, Graham Wilson was asleep on the couch under a blanket.

About an hour ago, the owner of Palisade Security had called in a state of barely contained celebration. The Wahl Capital contract was signed. Mark had been praised as the man who turned the whole company around, promoted to General Manager on the spot, his commission bumped to forty percent and his annual salary up by thirty. There was also a task: assemble a reliable, professional security team within one week, led by Mark himself, to protect the Wahl Capital Chairman for the duration of his visit to Sunvale.

Mark had done this kind of work before. Normally he'd have called his network of contractors and handed the job off. He'd made those calls tonight. Every single one had gone unanswered. When he checked more carefully, he found his number had been blocked — all of them, without a word.

He flicked the cigarette butt away and was just pushing himself to his feet when footsteps on the stairs made him look up. Hank Mercer came down in a loose hoodie, looking like a man who had been reading rather than sleeping.

"Still up, Hank?" Mark said.

Of everyone in Soren's group, Mark got along best with Hank. They were roughly the same age, and compared to Evan, who seemed to find Mark quietly irritating, or Cody, who was about as responsive as a wall, Hank's easy, talkative nature was a genuine relief.

"Almost done for the night." Hank glanced at Wilson through the doorway, stepped outside, and settled onto the bench beside Mark. "Thinking about the contract?"

"Nah, just couldn't sleep." Mark grinned and waved it off.

Hank smiled and let it go. "I looked into Wahl Capital. They're not small. Mr. Wilson mentioned the Chairman is coming to Grayhaven City for commercial investment. He didn't get into specifics, but an operation this visible probably involves north of a hundred million dollars. If it's a mainstream sector, it could pull in a wave of other Western capital behind it. Anyone who gets even a small piece of that deal has enough to keep a company running for years." He paused. "It's a shame your company is so thin on the ground. Three people, and realistically only one who's fully operational. I'm not sure you can actually deliver."

Mark stiffened. "Who says we can't? I've got friends in this city. I can pull a team together."

"If you had friends to call," Hank said mildly, "you wouldn't be sitting out here at midnight smoking."

Mark closed his mouth.

"Have you asked yourself why the Voss family came after you over what looks like a straightforward protection job?" Hank continued. "Do you really think it was about the commission?"

"Wasn't it?" Mark frowned.

"Not even close. The real value isn't in this one contract. It's in what comes after. A firm that successfully protects the Chairman of Wahl Capital becomes the natural choice to protect Wahl Capital's assets in Grayhaven City going forward. That's not a one-time fee — that's a long-term revenue stream, recurring and growing."

Mark stared at him as everything clicked into place at once. Why the Voss family had muscled in on what looked like a minor job. Why his entire contact network had gone dark overnight. Why the ambush had been so fast and so organized.

"Those sons of..." He reached for another cigarette. "They were trying to corner the whole market."

"Exactly," Hank said. "Which is why I said you can't handle this alone."

Before either of them could say another word, the sound of a motorcycle engine cut through the night, growing louder, then fading just as quickly. A moment later, something sailed over the perimeter wall and hit the ground a few feet away: a stone wrapped in paper.

Mark reached instinctively for his hip and found nothing. His weapon was in the g*n locker inside.

Across the lot, the door of the Audi A6 swung open. Cody stepped out from the back seat, MP5 submachine g*n already in hand, using the engine block as cover and training the muzzle on the gate.

"Hank, wake Wilson up!" Mark was already moving for the g*n locker at a run.

His footsteps carried upstairs. A door opened above and Evan's head appeared in the gap. "What's going on?"

"Someone outside," Mark called back, slapping the magazine into his weapon. "Where's Soren?"

"He's on the roof."

On the roof, Soren Ashcroft was already at the parapet, AR-15 carbine raised, eye behind the 2x scope. He tracked the motorcycle until its taillights disappeared around a bend in the road, then lowered the rifle.

"Someone go check that paper," he called down.

Mark jogged to the stone, crouched, and peeled the paper free. He unfolded it and read the words written in plain, unhurried handwriting.

Julian Voss is moving on you tonight. If you want to live, contact me.

Below the message was a phone number.