Chapter 2 - The Inner Circle Rot
The cold wind whistling through the rotting oak trees of Willow Creek Road felt like a physical slap. Dalton stood on the gravel driveway, his hands shoved deep into his wool coat pockets, leaning against the fender of his truck as if he owned the county.
My right-hand enforcer, Marcus, stepped out from the shadows of my black Cadillac SUV, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where a modified SIG Sauer sat snug against his ribs. Behind him, two other vehicle doors clicked open. My men were trained to respond to tension instantly.
“You’ve got ten seconds to get back in that truck and disappear down this dirt road,” I said, my voice dropping into the flat, quiet register that usually made grown men wet their trousers.
Dalton didn’t flinch. That was his mistake, or perhaps his instruction. A street-level loan shark operating out of Chattanooga didn't stare down Mason Calloway unless he was backed by someone wearing a much heavier crown than mine.
“Easy, Mr. Calloway,” Dalton drawled, chewing lazily on a toothpick. “I’m just here to execute a transfer. According to these papers—signed by none other than Mr. Alistair Vance, your esteemed personal attorney—this parcel of land was deeded over to a secondary holding shell yesterday afternoon. A shell that my associates happen to represent.”
I looked down at the documents in my hand. Alistair Vance. For eleven years, Alistair had managed every LLC, every offshore wire, and every title acquisition for my organization. He knew where every body was buried—literally and financially. If Alistair had quietly carved out this abandoned homestead and assigned it to an outside entity without my direct sign-off, it meant one thing: the rot in my organization had reached the executive floor.
“Alistair works for me,” I said coldly.
“Used to,” Dalton corrected, smiling wider now, revealing crooked teeth stained by cheap tobacco. “Word on the street is that empire of yours is getting a little top-heavy, Mason. People get tired of kicking all their profits up to a guy who hasn't bled for a street corner in a decade. Sometimes, a change in management sounds pretty good to the boys back in Nashville.”
Before I could motion for Marcus to put a bullet through Dalton’s kneecap, the front door of the rotting house creaked open behind me. Eli stood on the threshold, his small frame silhouetted against the dim light of a single kerosene lamp. His face was pale, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless.
“Don’t let him take me,” Eli whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate terror that cut straight through the cold mountain air.
Dalton’s eyes flicked past me toward the boy. A predatory gleam lit up his dark pupils. “There’s the merchandise. You see, Calloway? That kid’s older brother signed a promissory note for forty grand over at the dog track in Knoxville. When the boy couldn't pay, collateral became flesh and bone. It’s just business.”
“Business doesn't involve children,” I snarled, taking two deliberate steps toward the gate.
“In my line of work, a debt is a debt,” Dalton snapped back, his own bravado finally fracturing as Marcus closed the distance between them, pressing the cold barrel of a pistol against Dalton’s jawline before he could blink.
Dalton froze, his breath pluming in the freezing air. “Whoa, whoa! You kill me, and you’ll never find out who inside your own house is selling you out to the Syndicate!”
I stopped. Marcus held the gun steady, waiting for my nod.
“Talk,” I commanded.
Dalton swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead despite the freezing temperature. “I don't know names! I swear to God! I just deal with a middleman! A guy who meets me at the truck stop off Interstate 40 with brown paper envelopes and insider schedules!”
“What’s the middleman’s name?”
“I call him ‘The Ghost,’” Dalton stammered. “He wears an expensive silver ring with a black onyx stone. That’s all I know! Please, man, tell your dog to lower the iron.”
I looked back at Eli, then down at the forged property deed in my hand, and finally at Marcus.
“Put him in the trunk,” I ordered quietly.
“Mason—wait! You can’t snatch me out in the open like this!” Dalton shrieked as Marcus and another guard grabbed his arms, kicking his legs out from under him and shoving him roughly into the trunk of the Cadillac. The heavy lid slammed shut with a dull, echoing thud.
I turned back to the porch. Eli was staring at me wide-eyed, trembling as if he expected me to turn on him next.
“Pack your things,” I told the boy, my voice softening just a fraction. “You, Caleb, and Rosie are coming with me.”
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“Where?” Eli asked, his voice barely a breath.
“Somewhere Dalton will never find you,” I replied, pulling my phone from my coat. “And then, I’m going to have a very long conversation with my lawyer.”
