The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 16 - The House of the Pitch

"Okay. You stay here,” the driver from the black sedan said, his tone entirely level and professional. “I’ll get you a suit.”

​He walked back to the luxury car parked horizontally across the asphalt, opened the rear door, and retrieved a crisp, dark tailored jacket and trousers. He brought them back to Code 202, who slipped into the clothing with a quiet, practiced ease. Without a word of assistance, the operative then bent down, hoisted James’s heavy, body-bagged form onto his broad shoulders, and carried him over to the sedan, carefully sliding the unconscious giant into the spacious trunk.

​Behind them, the ambulance driver stood by the open rear doors of his transport truck, trembling violently as his eyes darted from the empty gurneys to the modern mercenaries.

​“W-wait… what the hell am I supposed to tell the Captain?” the driver stammered, his voice laced with absolute panic. “Am I supposed to tell him I watched a guy wake a corpse up on the side of the highway? Or what?”

​Code 202 paused, resting his hand on the sedan’s door frame. He turned his head slowly, his cold, viper-tattooed neck catching the dim morning light as he locked eyes with the terrified driver.

​“Tell him exactly what you saw,” 202 said flatly.

​He slid into the passenger seat, closing the door with a firm, pressurized thud. The obsidian sedan shifted into gear, its tires gripping the asphalt smoothly as it accelerated down the desolate road, vanishing into the gray morning mist.

​“Haaa… fuck me. I’m out of here,” the driver breathed, scrambling back toward the front cab.

​On the gravel nearby, the prison guard who had been neutralized by the stun-cord began to groan, his eyelids fluttering as consciousness slowly returned. “Huhmm… help me up,” the guard muttered, his limbs twitching weakly. “I can’t move my legs.”

​The driver didn't even look back as he threw himself into the driver's seat. “Fuck you, I’m leaving you right here! I told you we should have taken the fucking dirt road! But you wouldn’t fucking listen!”

​Before the guard could drag himself an inch, the driver slammed the ambulance into reverse, spun it around, and tore away back toward the main highway, leaving his partner stranded in the dirt.

​An hour later, the black sedan pulled up to the security gates of a massive, heavily fortified old apartment complex hidden deep within the industrial outskirts. The architecture was ancient but reinforced, surrounded by high walls where dozens of security operatives dressed in immaculate black suits stood guard, their expressions vacant and their postures rigid.

​The sedan came to a stop in the interior courtyard. Code 202 and his partner stepped out of the front cabin simultaneously.

​“Bring him inside,” 202 commanded, his tone dripping with operational authority as he glanced toward the trunk. “Make sure you tie both of his hands behind his back. But do not wake him up yet.”

​“Understood,” the driver replied.

​While 202 turned and entered the heavy iron doors of the complex, his partner walked to the rear of the vehicle, popped the boot, and effortlessly slung the black canvas bag containing James over his shoulder.

​Inside the sprawling compound, 202 navigated a series of dimly lit, sterile corridors until he reached the threshold of a massive, cavernous meeting hall. This was the sanctuary of The Pitch—the hidden syndicate that pulled the strings from the shadows of Europe. Rows upon rows of high-backed wooden chairs lined the expanse, completely silent and empty.

​At the far end of the hall, elevated on a grand, high-backed wooden throne, sat the architect of the empire. He was an old man, nearly eighty-two years of age, his face a map of deep, calculated wrinkles and his eyes sharp with an ancient, deadly wisdom. To every operative in the organization, he was known simply as Father, the Head of the Pitch.

​Code 202 walked down the center aisle, stopping exactly ten paces from the throne, and bowed his head deeply.

​“Father. I have returned home,” 202 said, his voice filled with absolute deference.

​“It is good to have you back, my son,” Father replied, his voice a low, raspy rumble that echoed off the high rafters.

​202 raised his head, his posture returning to a rigid stance.

​“What about your brothers?” Father asked, his gaze steady.

​“They remain at the prison,” 202 reported smoothly. “They watched me die. The cover is absolute.”

​“You did well,” Father murmured, leaning forward slightly, his ringed fingers gripping the armrests. “And what of your real mission inside the walls? Did you fail the seat?”

​“No. I will never fail the seat, Father,” 202 said with iron conviction. “I brought him home, just as you requested.”

​“Where is he?”

​Right on cue, the heavy double doors at the back of the hall groaned open. The operative entered, the heavy black body bag balanced across his shoulders. He marched down the aisle, stopped directly beside 202, and lowered James’s large, limp form onto the cold stone floorboards. The operative bowed his head to the throne, then stepped back into the shadows.

​Father looked down at the canvas bag. “Is he alive?”

​“The toxin is still suppressing his vital organs,” 202 answered. “Should we wake him?”

​“Wake him,” Father commanded.

​The operative knelt down, unzipped the canvas, and pulled a specialized silver syringe from his suit jacket. He pressed the tip firmly against the side of James's neck and engaged the pneumatic trigger.

​Inside James’s mind, the universe was a vast, suffocating expanse of absolute blackness.

​He was no longer a towering sovereign of the syndicates; he was a boy again, small and defenseless, walking aimlessly through a freezing void. He looked around frantically, his chest tightening with a childhood terror he thought he had buried decades ago.

​Suddenly, a voice echoed through the dark. “Son.”

​James spun around, his breath catching. “Dad? Dad! Where are you?”

​The darkness seemed to shift, a cold wind whispering back at him. “You forgot us.”

​“Dad, I didn’t forget you!” James shouted into the void, his young voice cracking with desperation. “Why can’t I find you? Where are you hiding?”

​Before he could take another step, the hallucination fractured. The voice changed, morphing into the fragile, weeping tone of his mother. “James… he raped me. He killed me.”

​The shadows rushed inward, pressing against his chest like heavy stones. “What are you doing here? You forgot us.”

​“No! I didn’t!” James screamed, tears of raw, helpless rage welling in his young eyes.

​“Did you forget?” his mother’s voice whispered, closer now, right against his ear. “You stabbed me… and I left the blood on you.”

​“No, no, no, no… this isn’t real! NOOOOO!”

​With a violent gasp, James’s eyes snapped wide open.

​He sat up instantly on the cold stone floor, his chest heaving as he violently sucked in oxygen, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. His vision was a chaotic blur of gray and green spots, unable to focus. He tried to raise his arms to defend himself, but the heavy rope wrapped tightly around his wrists held his hands locked behind his back.

​“Untie him,” Father’s calm voice cut through the room. “Allow him to regain his strength.”

​The operative stepped forward with a combat knife, slicing through the thick bindings in a single fluid motion.

​James attempted to stand, but his legs were completely numb from the chemical counter-agent. He stumbled blindly, his boots knocking against each other as he lost his balance, collapsing heavily onto his knees. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead nearly touching the stone as his breathing gradually stabilized and his vision cleared.

​In the quiet of his mind, the final words of his mother’s nightmare echoed with a terrifying clarity: He raped me.

​Slowly, deliberately, James raised his head. His gaze traveled up the steps of the dais until his eyes locked directly onto Father. The two men stared at one another—not for a fleeting second, but in a long, unyielding duel of absolute silence. The familiarity of the old man's silhouette sent a dark, instinctual chill down James's spine.

​James finally tore his eyes away, glancing at Code 202, his voice dropping into a low, lethal vibration. “Where the fuck am I?”

​“You are safe here,” Father answered from his throne.

​James let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter, his knuckles clenching against the floorboards. “You call this safe?” He snapped his head toward 202, his eyes blazing with fury. “You said twenty minutes. How long was I dead?”

​“Three hours now,” 202 replied without emotion.

​“Haaa… fuck you, I'm going to rip out your throat then moment.  I have my hands on you!” James roared, forcing his massive frame up into a standing position, though he was entirely naked and stripped of his clothing. His voice shook with a dangerous mixture of rage and desperation. “Where the hell am I? I don’t need your safety, old man! I need to get the fuck out of here right now. I have a friend to save!”

​Before Father could respond, a soft, mechanical click resonated through the hall.

​A hidden panel beside a large decorative frame on the side wall slid open, revealing a secret doorway. A woman stepped out into the light, her movements fluid and completely silent, carrying a high-end secure tablet phone in her left hand.

​She was dressed in a striking, lethal blend of tactical edge and sharp authority. She wore a sleek, cropped black crewneck shirt that met the high waist of her spray-on, pitch-black leather pants. The material clung tightly to her frame, disappearing into a pair of heavy, black leather lace-up combat boots raised on thick, rugged platform heels. Draped effortlessly over her shoulders was a cropped, obsidian leather motorcycle jacket with polished silver zippers left open. A delicate silver chain with a small heart pendant rested against her collarbone, matched by a glinting silver chain bracelet and a collection of minimalist silver rings on her fingers. Securely holstered at her hip was a heavy, matte-black semi-automatic pistol, the steel catch glinting under the hall's dim lighting.

​She walked over, stopping directly in front of the throne, and bowed her head deeply to Father before rising. Then, her gaze turned slowly toward the center of the room, her cold, analytical eyes raking over James’s imposing, completely uncovered form with an unbothered, dangerous indifference.

​James’s jaw tightened, a dark heat rising to his face as he glared back at her. “What the hell are you looking at?”

​Father leaned back into his throne, a heavy, warning silence settling over the room as he placed a hand on the armrest.

​“She’s the second in command,” the father said flatly, his sharp eyes boring into James. “Show your respect.”