Pieces of Autumn (11 page)

What a perfect, maddeningly beautiful slave she was.

"When I'm ready, you'll get your punishment." I let out a harsh breath through my nostrils, palming my cock and relishing the shock of pleasure and arousal as I rubbed through my pants. "Not a moment sooner. Now, get the
fuck
out of my sight."

She ran.
 

I unzipped hastily, stroking hard and fast, feeling the beginnings of an orgasm tingling behind my balls. I came with a tortured groan that didn't sound like my own voice, shooting halfway across the fucking room in huge, arcing ropes.

This girl was going to be the death of me.

But at least I could enjoy the journey on my descent into hell.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Syndicate

I waited for seven days.

The longest week of my life, I waited, silent, not daring to leave my room or open my mouth. Tate brought food to me, leaving it outside my door with one firm knock. He'd be gone by the time I opened the door to retrieve it.

More than once, it occurred to me that this
was
my punishment. The most sadistic game of all, making me anticipate something that would never happen.
 

No, Tate was certainly capable of much worse sadism than that. But either way, it wasn't much of a comfort.

I had been reckless and stupid. I knew that now. It was one thing to be bitter and sarcastic with him when I thought he was about to sign my death warrant. But once he'd made it clear he intended to keep me around, in spite of my lies, I should have acted more grateful.

But I just couldn't bring myself to keep groveling. Not when he was enjoying it so much, playing this stupid, childish game with rules and punishments and lording over me like...

Like he really
did
own me.

I wouldn't let it happen. I couldn't. He would have to confront his desire to torment me; I wouldn't grant him the absolution of asking for it.
 

On the sixth day, I heard a noise that I'd never heard in this house before.

Someone was pounding at the door.

I got up, blearily, having only just fallen asleep a few minutes before. I'd been tossing and turning the whole night, catching snatches of rest whenever my mind managed to stop racing.
 

Yanking my own door open, I realized the pounding was coming from somewhere else. Down the hall, Tate's door flew open, and he charged down the stairs in a blur. He was holding a rifle.

Oh God, he found me already.

That was the first thought that crossed my mind.
 

Heart pounding, I stood rooted at the top of the stairs. I didn't dare run, and I didn't dare hide. If they knew I was here, they wouldn't stop until they found me. And no matter what kind of man Tate was, he didn't deserve to die for me.

I could just barely see the front hallway from where I was. Tate had his eye pressed against the peephole, gun in hand.

"We're unarmed," came a voice from outside. "Please. We just want to talk."

Tate yanked the door open, training the rifle on whoever was standing on the other side.

"So talk," he growled.

Silently, I began walking down the stairs.

"I don't mean you any harm," said a voice.

I recognized it.

Joshua?

"Of course you don't," said Tate. His finger was on the trigger.

"I'm not who you think I am," said Joshua. "I'm not with Stoker. I'm with the Syndicate. Maybe you've heard of them."

My throat went dry, my head buzzing. The Syndicate. That word was tossed around on the streets the way people in Nottingham probably whispered
Robin Hood
.

"We
are
real," he said. "Despite what a lot of people think. And we are working for change. But it's slow going. Particularly with Stoker. Much as I wish we could just storm the place and destroy it, they have networks all over the world, connections, it's a giant spider's web. It has to be dismantled carefully. There will be a lot of collateral damage, no matter how well we do it."

Tate's voice was grim. "You think I don't know that?"

"We need your help, Tate," said Joshua. "Please. I know you want nothing more than to forget they ever existed, but..."

Tate slammed the door in his face.

The knocking started again, immediately. My head was swimming and I couldn't even being to comprehend what was happening, but when Tate turned to me, his eyes spoke murder.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" he hissed.

My throat constricted a few times before it let me speak.

"No," I managed to whisper.

He stared at me for a few moments more, before turning back to the front door. The pounding hadn't stopped.

"The girl you brought me yesterday," he shouted. "What does she have to do with all of this?"

"Nothing," Joshua shouted back. "It was pure luck, I happened to be assigned to her - and she happened to be a gift for you. That's how I knew where to find you. But it wasn't her doing."

Tate yanked the door open again, the rifle coming back up to his shoulder. "Get inside," he said. "Sit. Keep your hands on the back of your head, both of you."

I realized there was someone with Joshua - an older woman in jeans and a flannel shirt.
 

"This is Mary," he said. "She's one of our veterans. She's seen men like Mr. Charles go down before, and she'll do anything to see it again."

They both kept their absurd pose, hands on their heads, while Tate circled them with his gun. "That's very noble of you," he sneered. "I don't believe in luck. Tell me what you know about the girl. Why did they send her?"

"I don't know," said Joshua. "I'm not privy to those discussions. The Seven have them in private."

His eyes flicked towards me, but then quickly returned to the man with the gun. Tate let out a long, harsh exhale through his nose.

"How the fuck did you manage to get into their organization?" he demanded.

"It was easy enough," Joshua replied. "All I had to do was pretend to be helpless."

"How do you know they're not playing you?"

"I guess I don't," Joshua admitted. "Not for sure. But I do know that I'm still alive, and we're still operating. The groundwork has been laid. Maybe it's all an elaborate trap. I don't know. But there's nothing tying me to the Syndicate, as far as they know." He smiled, wanly. "Not unless
you
tell them."

"You think we have chats over fucking afternoon tea?" Tate glared at both of them. "Get one thing straight - there's no
taking down
Stoker. Whatever you've seen there, it's much bigger and much worse than you could possibly imagine. They can own anyone they want to. They can control anything they need to control. Someone will betray you, and you won't even live long enough to wonder who it was. Or maybe you will - and that'll be even worse. By the end of it, you won't even remember your own name."

Joshua was silent for a long moment, exchanging a few meaningful glances with Mary.

"You're right," he said, at last. "I'm sorry. I should have known better than to assume you'd help us."

"I think we're done here," Tate said, abruptly, lowering his gun and heading for the doorway. Both Joshua and the woman started to make noises of protest, but he silenced them with a raised hand before pausing at the foot of the stairs.

Tate stared at me. A silent order, but just as loud and clear as if he'd said it.

Come.

But something in Joshua's face made me deathly curious. He wasn't done talking, and I wanted to hear what he had to say. As terrified as I was of what would happen, especially after they left -
if
they left - I had to know.
 

I ignored Tate.

But instead of snapping an order at me, with a crooked finger, a warning in his tone, he just spun on his heel and left the room. Perfectly silent. Anger radiated off him in waves, but something about the presence of these people was stilling his tongue. He didn't want them to know.

He doesn't want them to see him treating me like a slave.

My head was spinning.

Why?

"Listen," said Joshua, as Tate rapidly disappeared up the spiral staircase. "If you have any kind of influence - any at all - please try to get him to talk to us. It's very important."

The woman was nodding in agreement.

"We need him," said Joshua. His voice became low, urgent. "We need him to take down Stoker."

My head swam. I wanted to snap, to lose my composure and warn him that Tate wasn't who he thought he was - there was no way he possibly could be. A man who would help dismantle Stoker, brick my brick - or preferably with a wrecking ball, or TNT - would never treat another human being like this.

But I still didn't know if I could trust Joshua, trust this woman. I didn't know if I could trust anyone.

"I don't," I said, finally. "He does what he wants. But maybe
I
could help you."

Joshua shook his head. "Trust me. We're in a bunch of tents in the wilderness right now. We're hardly better off than you were in whatever shantytown I dragged you out of. You'll be much better off here. Much safer."

I don't know about that.

But maybe he had a point. And really, the last thing I needed to do was bring a man like Birdy in the midst of the only people who were actually trying to bring about real change.
 

Joshua was frowning at me. "You
are
all right, aren't you? He's..." Suddenly, he cleared his throat, glancing at the woman. "Would you leave us alone for a minute, Mary?"

Mary nodded, obliging. I felt a cold grip of fear for reasons I didn't understand.

Joshua's eyes pierced me, and goosebumps rose when I remembered the way he'd looked at me in that little bedroom at Stoker. But this wasn't quite the same. He'd been playing a role then, and he wasn't playing one now - I thought. Or maybe it was the other way around.

I couldn't be sure. If there was one thing I'd learned in my twenty years of life, it was that you could never be sure. Not about people.
Never
.

"I've been a mole in Stoker for a long time," he said, finally. "I've had to play the part to the fullest extent, including many, many things I'm not proud of - I tried to stay away from the worst of it, but it wasn't always possible. Whatever you think Stoker is doing, I promise you the reality is much worse. You're very lucky to have escaped like you did."

Am I?

"We've always known Stoker had a weakness. Somebody who understood them better than anybody. Somebody who'd been to the bowels of hell under that billion-dollar skyscraper, and seen it all. Someone with a grudge. He's a legend. They called him Tate the Viper. But we just call him Tate."

Tate the Viper.
 

My goosebumps weren't going anywhere.

"Did..." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "Did Tate tell you anything about his history with Stoker?"

Shaking my head, I looked down at the floor. "I get the feeling he doesn't like them."

He let out a soft bark of laughter. "Yeah. You might say that." I finally looked back up at him, and his eyes were warm. I wanted to believe it was real, I wanted so badly, but I could feel Tate's shadow on me, even from many rooms away, and I was afraid. But I couldn't show it. What if Joshua
did
mean well, and what if he found out what was happening? What would happen to me?
 

"Tell me," I said, finally. "Please."

The more I knew about Tate, the more complete my picture, the more I could work this situation to my advantage. Supposing Joshua was honest, this might be one of my only chances to really learn about what kind of person my master was.

His eyes flickered. "I know the story," he said. "Whether it's true or not, I couldn't say."

"Tell me." I leaned forward. "
Please
."

"Tate used to be one of the headhunters," he said. "Like me. Well - like I pretended to be. He was one of the first."

Headhunters
. I'd never heard the term before, but I instantly understood - or thought I did. But then, the driver went on.

"I don't know how he came to be with them. Or when. But I've talked to the other men there, heard their stories. Stoker finds them huddled in cardboard boxes, under bridges, in gutters. Desperate. Close to death. Same as they do with the girls. Stoker only works by preying on the weak."

My mind was racing. It had never occurred to me that these sleek, well-dressed figures had once been holed up in shantytowns and abandoned bus stations, just like I was.

"At first," he said, "they feed us the same story they feed everyone else. At first it's just about going to pick them up, doing the cursory examination, asking a few questions, leading them around. We're told to give orders. Bark at them. Snap our fingers. So they'll learn to obey without questioning. And that's how it starts."

His mouth twitched.

"Small things," he said. "At first."

I held my breath.

He went on. "Then, inch by inch, their demands increase. We're told to hurt them. Debase them. Treat them as less than human. We're told it's a kindness. They need to be trained. They're practically feral, they need to be made to
heel
."