Under His Command

Killian Vance

The glass and brand cross of the Thorne Tower looked more like a stronghold than an office structure. I stood in the elevator, my reflection peering back at me from the polished chrome doors. I looked like a man who hadn't slept in three nights which wasn't far from the truth. My black suit felt tight across my shoulders, a keepsake that I preferred Kevlar and slush to silk and air.

The doors whizzed open from the top to the bottom. The air was also thin, filtered, and smelled of the kind of capitalist who bought silence.

Senator Elias Thorne didn’t look up from his mahogany office as I entered. He was a man erected on optics — sharp suits, perfectly silvered hair, and a handshake that felt like a legal contract.

" Vance," he said, ultimately dropping his pen." I’ve read your train. Citation Star, three tours in the sandbox, and a private sector record that makes you look like a miracle worker. They say you’re the man people call when they want someone to evaporate — or when they want to make sure someone doesn’t escape”.

" I’m precious, Senator," I said, my voice like a face grinding together. I didn't sit. I didn't like being lower than the person I was talking to." And I don't do politics."

" This isn't politics. It's my son." Thorne slid a tablet across the office. A video played — coarse security footage of a high- end club. A flash of golden hair, a glass shattering, and a black SUV speeding down into the night." Julian is spirited. But last night, his security detail was interdicted. Two of my swish men are in the ICU. The Syndicate transferred a transmission. We can touch him whenever we want."

I looked at the still frame of the boy. Julian Thorne. He would be the kind of beauty that felt like a provocation. High cheekbones, a book that suggested he knew a secret you didn't, and eyes the color of a shallow Caribbean bay. He looked like every headache I’d ever had, wrapped in a five- thousand- bone

Inventor shirt.

" He’s a target because of your rearmost bill on ranged crime," I noted.

" He’s a target because he’s my only weakness," Thorne corrected, his voice dropping an octave." I need you to be his shadow. He doesn't go to the bathroom without you checking the cells. He doesn't take a drink unless you’ve seen it poured. And most importantly, Vance — keep him out of the captions. My election is in six months. I can’t have the public seeing my son as a liability."

" I’m a watch, not a publicist," I muttered.

" Triple your usual rate," Thorne combated." And a signed contract for the coming five times of state security consulting if you keep him alive until November."

I looked at the print of the boy again. He looked fragile. He looked like he’d break if the world leaned too hard on him. I despised people like that — people who had everything handed to them while the rest of us bled for an inch of ground.

" Fine," I said." But he follows my rules. No exceptions."

The Velvet Room, 1145 PM

Chancing Julian Thorne wasn't hard. You just had to follow the sound of breaking glass and the scent of precious vanity.

The Velvet Room was a strobe- lit hellscape of bass and sweat. I moved through the crowd like a wolf through an academe of minnows. People saw the scar on my neck and the look in my eyes and parted like the Red Sea.

I set him up in the personality section, standing on a white leather Chesterfield. He was holding a bottle of Ace of Spades in one hand, pouring it into a palace of demitasse clear flutes while a crowd of' buddies' cheered him on. He was the sun, and they were all dying globes spinning around his orbit.

He looked different in person. Further vibrant. More dangerous.

I stepped onto the platform, and the energy in the cell shifted directly. His buddies — boys with manicured nails and girls with espoused jewelry — shrank back.

Julian didn't.

He slowly lowered the bottle, his gaze

sweeping over me with a slow, predatory interest. He took a long belt of champagne, his throat moving as he swallowed, his eyes never leaving mine.

" Well, well," he drawled, his voice a smooth silk strip over the thumping bass." You aren't the usual suit. Did Dad ultimately decide to hire someone who looks like they’ve actually seen a sun- deprived alleyway?"

" Mr. Thorne," I said, my voice a low warning that generally made men twice his size back down." We’re leaving. Now."

Julian giggled, a soft, mocking sound. He stepped off the Chesterfield, closing the distance between us until I could smell the gin and the precious woodsy cologne on his skin. He was shorter than me, but he stood with an intimidating amount of confidence.

" I’m in the middle of my birthday, Big Guy," Julian bruited, reaching out an enterprising hand to brush the lapel of my jacket." And I haven't indeed had croquette yet. Why don't you get us a round of drinks and sit down? You look like you need to button."

" There has been a credible threat on your life," I said, "my forbearance fraying." This isn't a request. We are moving to the safe house."

Julian rolled his eyes, turning back to his buddies." Hear that, guys? The pleasurable police are also to take me to the dungeon." He turned back to me, His eyes hardening into cold, glass shards. Go back to my father and tell him I’m busy living. However, I’d rather do it with a drink in my hand than be jaded to death in one of his safe houses, if I’m going to die."

I didn't argue. I didn't have time for the' spoiled brat' routine.

In one fluid stir, I stepped into his space. Before he could wheeze, I hooked my arm around his waist and hoisted him over my shoulder.

" Hey! Put me down! You large gorilla!" Julian cried, his fists beating against my rib cage. The bottle of champagne shattered on the bottom, splashing over my thighs.

His buddies stood frozen, partially- terrified and partially- amused. I ignored them, marching through the club with two hundred pounds of thrashing, swearing Senator’s son on my shoulder.

" I’m going to have you fired!" Julian yelled as I pushed through the heavy exit doors into the cool night air." I’m going to have you arrested for kidnapping! Do you have any idea who I am?"

" I know exactly who you are, Thorne," I said, reaching my armored SUV and tossing him into the backseat. I climbed in after him, locking the doors with a heavy thud." You’re a target. And until further notice, I’m the only reason you’re still breathing. So sit back, shut up, and put on your seatbelt."

Julian climbed into the corner of the leather seat, his golden hair a mess, his silk shirt wrinkled. His body was heaving, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of composure in his eyes that wasn't defiance.

It was fear.

" You're hurting my arm," he muttered, his voice suddenly small.

I looked at him, my heart doing a strange, unwanted thud against my caricatures. I reached over, my large hand suppressing his as I seized the seatbelt. My arm brushed against his chest and I felt the frantic, rabbit- suchlike beat of his heart.

For an alternate, the world narrowed down to the space between us — the smell of the municipality, the hum of the machine, and the heat radiating off his skin.

" Stay down," I bruited, my voice rougher than intended.

I pulled the bus into gear and floored it. I didn't tell him that a black SUV had just pulled out of the alleyway behind us, its headlights dark.

The game had officially begun.