Page 12 of Breaking the Code

Owen Black, who I’d learned later was the head of the Order and the man who was in my mum’s bedroom the night my father killed her, ordered Da to come to America. I was dragged along. I didn’t understand it for the longest time, but recently I’ve come to realize I was leverage to make sure my father did as he was told. It’s been more than ten years since I was pulled out of Mack’s cottage, and who I am today is so far removed from that naive, innocent little boy. Hell, I’m so far removed from who I was just a few weeks ago.

The sleek black limo slices through the streets like a predator stalking it’s prey. The scenary passes by in a slow blur leading me to a place I dread going but know is inevitable. I have few choices in this world and I know the time has come I’ll have to make one I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

The car slows to a stop and I step out onto the wet pavement. A misty rain dampens everything around me. I freaking hate the rain, especially this type of rain. It makes me miss Scotland and my mother. I hate the feel of it, the chill in the air, but mostly I hate the memories it brings—the beginning of the worst part of my life.

I climb the steps surrounded by the Order—men my father wanted me to be like. Men he wanted to revere and respect him. But they didn’t and they don’t want me to be like them. They want to use and abuse me like they do the others they buy and sell and trade amongst themselves.

I settle into my spot. My eyes unfocused, taking in nothing. The rustling of the others as they come in fills the room, but I stay focused.

“Grace and peace to you, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. We gather today to give thanks to God and to celebrate the life of Graeme Buchanan.”

My father died, or was murdered is probably the more likely case. Either way, I don’t care. He is a fucking asshole, or was. No matter what lies the good reverend standing in the pulpit tells.

I let the reverend’s word drift away. I have decisions to make, and I need to get a plan in place. I refuse to be a victim. And now that I know what the Order does, I’m going to save as many people as I can, and then I’m going to bring them down.

But, first, I have to save myself.

Da dying leaves me in a very precarious situation. If only I were a bit older then I could take off, but Owen Black informed me that Da left him custody. Owen can sell me off and there isn’t anything I can do about it.

Which means I need a plan and that means I have decisions to make.

My choices are…be sold into slavery or choose someone to give myself to.

As soon as my father is lowered into the grave, I feel their eyes—the men surrounding me at the gravesite. They all stare as if I’m a big, juicy steak. It makes my skin crawl. The whispers are worse. They aren’t quite soft enough to keep me from hearing the lewd and lascivious comments they make about the things they want to do with and to me.

Owen grasps my arm and ushers me back to the limo, pushing me inside. He pauses, speaking softly to someone outside. I pull my phone out, firing off a quick snap to Cato while watching and praying I don’t get caught.

BabyBird:

Get Out

BigBird:

Bye

I watch the read receipt flip to read, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I close the app, deleting it hastily before slipping the phone back into my pocket as Owen slides into the car.

He gazes at me for several moments, then says, “You have very few options, boy.”

I nod. If I hadn’t realized it before, I definitely did now. I chew my lip, trying to keep from smarting off to him. He holds all the cards here. Worse, he knows it.

“I can help, you know?”

Owen laughs. The cruel, evil sound sends chills up and down my spine. My arms go numb, but I steel myself, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

When our eyes meet, a switch flips, and his laughter dies. He pours himself a dram of whiskey from the minibar nestled in the sidewall. I never let my gaze waver. He takes a long drink from the crystal tumbler he holds in his hand.

“What could you possibly do for me that would be worth more than that teenage virgin ass of yours?”

I swallow before replying, “Information and money.”

He chuckles and takes another drink. His dark, beady eyes stare at me.

“I have both,” he says when I don’t respond to his dark humor.

I dip my chin, keeping eye contact as I do. I can’t cower before this man if I want him to take me seriously.

“You do, but your guy is clumsy. I can trace every step he makes online. He’s leaving footprints you don’t want traced back to the Order. I’m better than he is,” I explain.

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