Page 3 of Hated By the Boss

Hearing Voice #2's question was the moment I realized nothing about these men were normal...and why Keagan described this as the dream job I'd never even let myself dream of having.

In the past five years, the world's biggest and baddest criminals had been ruthlessly exposed and thrown behind bars, and the single common denominator behind their arrests?

Strakh Incorporated.

The most idealistic of their fans likened them to modern-day Robin Hoods of cyberspace. Their, um, more adult fans, however, preferred to fantasize about Strakh Inc. as a brotherhood of billionaires who were Batman, Christian Grey, and John Wick all rolled into one.

Either way, there were at least three things that all of their admirers agreed on.

Whoever it was behind Strakh Inc., they were likely to be exceptionally intelligent and skilled, mind-blowingly wealthy, and ridiculously ballsy, to go after evil guys that even the most powerful governments found elusive.

Personally, however, I hadn't really given much thought to their identities. All I knew - and cared about - was that they got their hands dirty (and maybe even bloody) for the right cause, unlike...

Don't think about him.

Just don't.

But the moment he entered my head, I couldn't help wondering nervously if—-

"It's alright, Ms. Baskerville." It was the American once again, but unlike his casual tone earlier, he now sounded quite sober. "We know everything about your father—-"

I couldn't help paling at the words, and I had this crazy urge to bolt and never look back. It was the same old feeling, every time someone would tell me they knew the truth about him. Most people would probably love hearing stories about their dads, but when yours was a conscienceless crook who...

"And we also know what you've chosen to sacrifice."

The words made me jerk in my seat.

They know about what I did, too?

My old best friend came flying back to say hello at the realization. I called it GPS...short for guilt, pain, and shame. And GPS...it always had me glaring down at my lap. Glaring as hard as I could without blinking—-

One.

Two.

Three.

Personal record, I thought numbly. It usually took me ten seconds before the urge to bawl my eyes out would recede, but the fact that I was trapped in a secret underground base with five of the world's most infamous and dangerous vigilantes probably had a lot to do with my new record.

Voice #2 had gone on to enumerate my job duties when I was finally able to regain my composure and lift my gaze back to them. What they expected me to do was reasonable and probably wouldn't always be legitimate, but it didn't matter. Like them, I was also willing to get my hands dirty for the right cause.

Voice #4 asked if I had any questions, and I shook my head. All of this was a mere formality as far as I was concerned. I had always wished that there was something I could do to make up for my father's sins, but I had never really thought it was possible...until now.

Afterwards, the group asked me to sign a contract that had more pages than the Bible, but I didn't give a damn. I affixed my signature on each page without hesitation, and it was only when I put the pen down that I heard the American drawl, "Before we end..."

I straightened in my seat, feeling that I was about to be asked something crucial—-

"Will do you us a favor by picking a number between one and five?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?" Was this a trick question?

"We've assigned ourselves a number each," Voice #1 explained, "and you'll be working directly under the person whose number you've chosen."

Voice #1 didn't seem to be the type to lie about things, but...what if this really was a trick question? What if the number I chose would indicate how many people I'd have to kill or kidnap or whatever as some sort of initiation rite?

It was possible...right?

Unable to get the thought out of my mind, I decided to play it safe and heard myself say, "One—-"

---