Page 2 of The Truths that Deceive

“You’re a psychopath,” I say.

He shrugs, snatching a gun from the now faceless dead guy. “I deal in death for money.” Then he stands up. “More mercenary with psychopathic tendencies.”

“All clear?”

“All that I could see.” Which means he cleared the grounds and rooms of human life.

I grin. “Wanna rescue some girls and torture information out of a low-life scumbag?”

“Smith.” He puts a hand on his heart. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The adrenaline lingers.Days after and it still lingers. Maybe it’s fucked up to have a spring in my step because of a murder spree and a rescue done right.

The only thing that still bothers me is the Bolivian leader of the cell we just took out. He managed to hide with some rich fucks who were rutting the young girls while Reaper and I massacred his crew. And when we finally got to him, the bastard had little to say.

I sip my scotch and sit back in my seat at the modern low-lit bar that overlooks the glitter of new and old London.

Well, he had a lot to say. Just not about the things I wanted. I didn’t go into that castle of death for my goddamn health. I went because I wanted information. And when I dropped the name of one of the assholes who was going to rape, use, and exploit my daughter after he kidnapped her, the leader clammed up fucking fast.

That man’s long dead, but it makes me wonder about the sticky little threads of the Collectors.

The sex trade arm of their operation. How far reaching it actually is.

Rich, depraved assholes like the Collectors, people who are as rich as I am and even richer in some cases, they usually look for higher-end trophies. They don’t tangle with low-life brutes like the Bolivians in a deserted and remote Scottish castle. They like, as their name suggests, to collect things.

Best of the best, rarest of the rare. And they’re sick and twisted in ways that not even a man like Reaper could be. He’s one of the few outlier Obsidian Knights. A loner. His appearances are few and far between at the Knight headquarters in New York, but he’s loyal, a man who’ll kill for any of his fellow Knights without blinking or asking why.

Reaper likes to kill. I don’t know if he gets off on it or if he just likes the high that each contract killing gives. One thing Iknow is he’ll carry out a kill order for anyone, as long as they’re guilty by Knight standards.

And also as long as he gets his paycheck.

I’m sure a guy like Reaper has had his fair share of non-Knight ordered kills, too. He’s like Mercer Vale in that way. Holds many of his secrets close to his bones.

I shift my thoughts in another direction, because Mercer makes me think of Orion, and Orion’s now tangled up with my daughter.

Maybe I’ll extend this vacation and miss her wedding. Not that she wants me there, anyway. I could?—

The shadow that falls over me stills and I tap my hand on the glass snifter, a conceit I like when it comes to expensive liquor. I don’t look up. “You’re late.”

“Had things to do.”

“Next time I’m here, we meet at the League’s club.”

Enver laughs. “Can’t stand that place.”

Of course he can’t. I knew him long before I became a Knight. Same with Reaper and Orion. Some worlds are pretty damn vast and tiny all at the same time.

Enver hates the trappings and what they represent, the type of people who give places like the League the veneer of respectability. People who never worked a day in their lives.

I like the League because it reeks of money, old money, the kind that comes drenched in with class and stained with secrets.

In places like the League, secrets are discussed and aired, and all kinds of information is there for the taking. It’s a gold mine where I can find exactly what I’m looking for.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a social meetup?”

He sits down, steepling his fingers as the waitress in sleek black places a glass of rum in front of him. It’s white rum, artisan.Tinged with the taste of vanilla and fall apples, warming white pepper and a touch of lime.

Sipping my single malt, I wait.

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