Devil's Den

      The room is dark, save for the dim, warmth and crackle of a holographic fire on a low platform, surrounded by impressively large, leather furniture and a wide view of the freshly set, night sky projected upon the far wall. A figure, partially eclipsed by an old, polished wood desk, stands looking into the fire, his back silhouetted by the flickering, projected light as heat emanates from somewhere unseen to complete the illusion. I approach, stopping midway in the room when the silhouetted man-this Dr. Chamberlain-finally speaks.

      “You did well, returning my contact to me, Mr. MacFarlane,” he says, still watching the fire, his voice refined but of a grounded smokiness which commanded my attention seemingly against my will. “A little rattled, maybe, but nothing a cold shower couldn't fix. He tells me you put a bullet some inches from his head?”

      I say nothing, not willing to excuse myself for a positive–and expected–outcome. The man continues through his apparently rhetorical question all the same.

      “That was decisive, given the circumstances, and a shot well-placed. Many wouldn't have taken it, but I sense your extensive experience may have played a part in influencing your course of action…”

      My fingers twitch. As policy, I do not disclose the backgrounds of anyone under contract with Dark Star. Especially not mine. This has been policy since the day I filed the initial paperwork for my business - since I was my only employee on staff.

      How much he knows may be unclear, but one thing is regardless. He’s done homework on me.

      And he wants me to know that.

      “Simple anatomy, really,” I respond matter-of-factly. “It's rather hard to pull a trigger without a head.”

      “Cannot say your anatomy lesson didn't speak for itself. Your payment was well-earned and I had been hoping we could continue this…business relationship between us but it's my understanding that you have some concerns to address?...”

      I scowl to myself as I recall the previous hours.

      “The VIP you sent us after, by his manner of appearance, I could tell isn't on your payroll at all. Your men all look professional; sharp. I’d wager you’ve got a number of former military from your protection detail down to your dog walker. But this guy? He’s a goon. Looks like a savage who bought his blazer and jewelry with the money he earned snatching purses. He's not yours.”

      The figure shifts in his footing. I press on, “Were he family, I’d bet you would have just paid them the ransom and gotten him back safely. So, he's not your family and not your employee; who is he and why is someone like him involved with you?”

      There's a soft, amused ‘hm’ on the other side of the silhouette. I must be on the money…

      “...You're partially right,” he admits, “indeed, I don't hire…miscreants…like him. But I’m not above utilizing their services. He's more of a contractor for me, like you are. He may not be the cleanest of my business associates,” he says, resting his arms behind the small of his back, “but I still find value in the…information he is able to provide for me. A dirty tool still does the labor.”

      I watch the man’s back, still not understanding the greater picture as he crafts his explanation.

      “He offers you information?” I confirm. “He’s an informant…?”

      I ponder the implications of this revelation.

      “What could you possibly want with an informant, Mr. Chamberlain-was it? You're not a spook and you don’t exactly seem like the type of man who would get involved in organized crime. You're not aligned with either side of the law it would seem by what little I’ve seen. What’s your angle?”

      Another hum of amusement from Mr. Chamberlain.

      “Please, call me Carlton…and, on this, your assessment is correct,” he confirms. “I work for no agency and no crime boss has my patronage. In fact, I despise organized crime and the leeches who prey upon our society. I look out of my bedroom window every day at a shell of what the city of New Detroit should have been and I become sick with contentment.” Chamberlain flicks his arms down to his sides, a hint of repressed temper animating him. “But, with the right knowledge, the proper nudge, and the people who might achieve both for me…even our society can be made right again...”

      I can sense what role I’d been made to play in this…circus of his before I even ask my final question. He set the stage in his hilltop manor here like he were some billionaire, comic book superhero. But he's no hero.

      “Those men were hardly the two-bit hoodlums we were expecting to see,” I declare, accusingly. “They were organized, well-trained, professionally armed, and some of them were much too old to be thugging on the street. We came up against professionals in that hotel room, and they were skilled enough to tail us with serious aggression and proper hardware. Who was it we really were in contact with?”

      The figure finally turns, features sly and angled within the shade of his silhouette but with the refinement to even rival his voice. His aging face, wrinkled and natural, is an unusual sight in the modern age of glamour and profane vanity, but he wears it well. With dark goatee, and diligently-groomed brows to match the sterling temporals of his back-combed hair, the man maintains the steady grace of a silver fox, only accented by his manner of dress: Like an elder playboy, complete with the maroon, dressing gown one only of experienced money would bother wearing.

      “I never said anything about ‘hoodlums’ in the contract. The men you faced were with a syndicate of organized crime, a gang-a company of hardened professionals, carefully scouted and vetted to provide the best opportunists and cut-throats their masters can muster for personal gain. They're a dangerous bunch I’ve taken to referring to as: ‘The Summit’.”

      The silhouette of shade about him in front of the ‘fire’ dims all but the whites of his eyes, leaving two, black holes peering back at me.

      I look back into them, disconcerted but unflinching.

      “You held this from me,” I accost, furious. “My people and I will be hunted by these animals!”

      The shade does not flinch at my accusations, merely studying me with his unwavering gaze.

      “There is still a way for you to come out of this, safe from their wrath…I am not without a plan,” the man says in a venomous calm. “Simply carry on working for me…and we will crumble The Summit together. You and your business associates will be safe, and we will make the world a much better place.”

      The shadow extends its hand.

      This is what his plan was all along. Place us to be at the mercy of a crime syndicate or his influence. Inflicting the disease upon us before peddling us the cure. For our involvement, he would pay us handsomely but there was no way there wasn't a hidden cost in the fine print.

      I grimace…disgusted by the trap I’ve sprung and worried about the hidden dangers which yet lurk within the only course of action I’m left with.

      I glare the Devil in his eyes…and shake his hand.

      …

      I expected to collect my wheelman and head back out to the front, where I could seek a lift back to the garage for the both of us but, instead, found myself denied even my own company as Chamberlain called for him to remain in the room and ‘have a discussion’. I’d wanted to remain behind in spiteful protest, and would have if not for Scarelli asking for me to wait for him outside. But, when I’d left through the heavy, mahogany door and taken my possible perception of the conversation along with me, Scarelli cracked his back and frowned at the old man, who was the first to speak.

      “What is your perception of Mr. MacFarlane? Do you feel him sufficient for what is to come?”

      The thin driver took a long moment in consideration before responding.

      “...I’m not worried about his resilience,” he said, “...only his resourcefulness.”

      “You think he will find out?” Asked Chamberlain.

      “I don't think that,” Scarelli conceded. “Just as you predicted, the gunmen were unable to say who they were but he’ll be hard to control regardless. I think we can manage him though, I wouldn't have recommended him to you if I thought we couldn't, but it won’t be easy…”

      The old man crooked his mouth in a shallow smirk. “That's what you're here for then,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

      The old man turned back toward the projection, his visage giving way once more to the deep shadow his body cast in the light of the artificial fire.

      “The mountains we will need to move in order to shape the future may seem daunting…” He says, reaching for a small glass of room temperature scotch he’d left sitting upon the table and takes a sip. “...But such mounds of bedrock and soil are not stirred by idle feet, Victor.”

      Scarelli smirked, approaching to lean upon the table.

      “Then how shall I get started on our next move?”...