The Son-In-Law’s 99 Days Of Deception

Chapter 9

Of course, replacing Brad would require more than a passing knowledge of Dutch.

Any candidate still had to survive the rightful—weeks of rigorous testing designed to weed out informants and break the disloyal.

Brad cleared his throat, whispered a few final, private words to Vesper and handed him a folded document.

"Well," Brad said, turning back to Killian, "I'll see you around." He offered another handshake."Pas goed op jezelf(Take good care of yourself.)”

Killian nodded.

When the door clicked shut, Vesper stole one final, probing glance at Rowoon before handing the printed note Brad had left behind to Exodus.

​“The new list has arrived,” Vesper said.

Exodus unfolds and glances through it immediately.

​“One hundred and fifteen?” He muttered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

​“What? Is it too heavy, do you need Zane to hold your hand?” Jethro teased mercilessly.

​Exodus ignored him. He was a seasoned machine, but processing one hundred and fifteen high-profile assassinations within a rigid two-month window was a massive load.

“Actually,” Vesper started ​before Exodus could answer, lighting a thick cigar and turning his cold, appraising gaze directly onto Rowoon, “what do you think about stepping up for the interpreter's seat, Rowoon?”

Killian straightened, his pulse spiking beneath his calm exterior. “I’d be honoured.” He felt a surge of adrenaline so strong it almost knocked him off his feet.

“That’s all I need to hear.” Vesper turned his gaze back to Exodus, smoke curling past his eyes. “Rowoon will be joining you on this operation. Consider it a way to ease your workload.”

Exodus's fingers tightened around the document.

"Zane," Vesper continued, "prepare Rowoon’s copy of that list."

Vesper exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

As Vesper spoke, Exodus’ fist clenched so tightly that the skin over his knuckles turned stark white.

Who the fuck does is this Rowoon guy?

The dark fury boiled behind his eyes. He didn’t want a partner. He didn’t share kills, and he certainly wasn’t going to babysit an ambitious outsider!

“Becoming the Priest's interpreter isn't a promotion you earn simply by speaking Dutch. You'll be evaluated. Your judgment, your discretion, your loyalty. Everything will be examined. The rules are simple: the registry contains active targets and cold files you'll have to investigate yourself. If Exodus logs more kills, he retains his standing as the Priest’s right-hand man. If you accumulate more confirmed kills than Exodus—even by a single body—you step into the interpreter's chair ninety-nine days from today. May the best man win.”

Exodus stared at him, his mouth hanging open, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to desperation in seconds.

In that instant, he lammed his hand against the desk, surging violently to his feet.

“No!” The words exploded out of him with the force that made a group member flinch.

​“You’ve lost your mind, Vesper!” He snarled, his face twisting with pure venom. “I won't let you turn my hunt into a circus! I've been here for twenty years. I've done everything this organisation has asked of me. Every operation. Every target. Every fucking assignment."

"And I've never denied you the credit for any of it," Vesper replied. “The priest can’t speak English. He clearly needs an interpreter. Do you have another solution?"

Exodus glanced at Killian.

The newcomer stood quietly, the list placed loosely in one hand, as though he hadn't just been placed in direct competition with one of the organisation's most accomplished assassins.

That composure made Exodus want to put his fist through his face.

What's more infuriating is the fact that the interpreter's position gives this rookie access, influence, and proximity to the Priest that he has spent twenty years trying to earn. That makes Rowoon a genuine threat to him, not merely a newcomer receiving too much praise.

Watching this, Killian finally locked eyes with Exodus, whose eyes were red and gaze filled with rage. His jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth were begging for relief. The veins in his neck were standing out, pulsing with the force of his anger and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Still, Killian maintained a blank expression. He was close, and this man could give him a death stare for all he cared. He knew it wouldn’t be easy but he was beyond prepared.

Exodus was now heaving, his chest rising and fall with the force of his breathing, his eyes wild and unfocused. "He's barely been here a day."

"Then he has a lot to prove," Vesper said.

"And if he gets himself killed?"

"Then he gets himself killed."

Vesper's answer came so casually that the room fell silent again.

He tapped ash from his cigar.

“Sit this one out, Exodus. I’ve made up my mind,” Vesper's voice is flat and absolute. “If you’ve lost your edge just because I’m handing you a partner, you can step down and take on courier runs instead.”

“No. That’s not how you pair people up,” Exodus snapped, leaning over the mahogany desk, his chest heaving. “We’re clearly going to be competing on who gets to our targets first. It’s a conflict of interest.”

Vesper raised an eyebrow, a slow, dangerous smirk touching his lips. “Are you feeling threatened?”

“Of course not. I’m obviously going to drop more bodies than him. I just—”

“Then what are we arguing about?” Vesper interrupted. Truth be told, if Killian hadn't possessed native fluency in Dutch, Vesper would never have considered integrating him. But an opportunity like this required baptism by fire.

What better way to test a prospective interpreter than to throw him headfirst into the ring with the syndicate’s most lethal enforcer?

Killian finally reached out, his fingers brushing the cover before flipping it open to scan the blacklisted registry. He skimmed the names, photographs, locations, and brief descriptions of the individuals the Priest wanted eliminated. Some entries contained detailed intelligence reports. Others offered little more than a name and a suspected location.

Killian skimmed the first page.

Then the second.

His fingers stopped moving.

For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.

The paper almost slipped from his grip.

Name: Killian DiCaprio.

Status: Active / Priority Target.

Rank: 5th.

What?!

His name stared back at him from the page.

Beneath it was a photograph.

His photograph!

The face staring back at him belonged to Killian DiCaprio—his real self—was listed right there as target number five?

For a fraction of a second, Killian forgot how to think.

His name twisted into a mocking taunt, his real identity staring back like a loaded gun pointed directly at his temple.