murdered and everyone needs to atone—and I believe he’s willing to tolerate me long enough to bring Vonnegut down, but after that, I have no doubt he will come after me and everyone in my Order. But men like Masters are often too blinded by revenge, too impatient for their own good, and they tend to get themselves killed in the line of duty. I hope that is what happens so I don’t have to be the one to kill him later—he probably is a good man, and while I don’t particularly care to kill good people, I will if I have to.
Ryan Miller and David Darros, not having said anything to give me as much insight on them, still fit into a profile. Miller is new to all of this; he lacks confidence, doesn’t look as in control as the other men; swallows a lot; can’t sit still and constantly touches his suit as if it will distract him from his own discomfort provoked by a lack of experience; he can’t look me in the eye, and the one time he did, he actually smiled as though he were new to the class and hoped to make a friend. David Darros, on the other hand, is looking me in the eyes right now and he doesn’t want any friends; he’s calm and collected, is very confident in his suit, knows his way around and has far too much experience to be uncomfortable. In ways, Darros is a lot like me. I just wonder how much.
In all, I will agree to work with them, but what they will not know is that as far as Vonnegut is concerned, I’ll only be working with them to help myself. I will be the one to bring Vonnegut down, and the information they have on him could help me do that. I will take over The Order after I’ve eliminated Vonnegut; and by being on the inside, working behind the scenes with organizations that have dedicated many of their years in service to finding Vonnegut, I’ll already know who all I have to kill later, picking them off one by one and pulling their claws from The Order that I will one day control.
I place both hands on the table and announce, “I will agree to your deal: I will help you bring down Vonnegut, and in exchange, your organization will turn a blind eye to my operations and terminate your surveillance indefinitely. No member of my Order is to be approached by any member of yours without first going through me. And if at any time I find that you have not upheld your end of our agreement, I will have no choice but to terminate our relationship immediately and deal with you…in my own way.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Faust?” Barrett speaks up, narrowing his eyes.
“Yes. It is, Mr. Barrett. And I am not in the habit of making threats I am unable to carry out.” I straighten my suit jacket and then fold my hands loosely on the table.
Barrett smirks. “We have you, Mr. Faust,” he cautions. “Both of you, two men who may not be on a wanted list yet, but keep in mind that’s only because we’ve kept you off them.” He leans toward the table, eyeing me as if he has something over me. “We could take you right now—we could kill you right now.”
“Please Mr. Barrett”—I open a hand, palm up, and casually gesture toward his jacket pocket—“why don’t you give your son—the one in Maine—a call, before you say anything more.”
His skin pales, and the smirk vanishes from his mouth. He glances at Connors nervously, then back in my direction. Masters breathes in heavily; his jaw grinds behind his stubbled cheeks. Miller, the novice, looks a bit scared; Darros, the expert, continues to watch me the same way I’ve been watching him. Connors’ eyes shut softly and he shakes his head like a man wishing his mouthy counterpart would drop the threats already. Kenneth Ware looks impressed.
Barrett’s son answers the phone.
“Are you all right, Danny?”
“Why don’t you put him on speakerphone?” I suggest.
Hesitantly, Barrett sets his phone on the table and runs his finger over the screen.
“I’m fine, Dad,” comes his son’s voice, “he hasn’t hurt me.”
The two of them go on about the man sitting in Daniel Barrett’s living room, my man from the First Division: how he was sitting there like that, in the dark, when Daniel came home from work hours ago;