Cursed Angels

I deliver the ingrained motto and step into the shower and wash the last remnants of the forgotten encounter off me. I warned that woman to stay away from my doctors, but I have a feeling she won’t, so it’s about time I turned the tables on her.

When the water starts to run cold, I step out of the shower, dry, and dress in a plain khaki T-shirt with black combat trousers. I pull on heavy boots designed to cause maximum damage when used for inflicting pain. A gun is secured to my torso, not that I’ll use it unless I have to, and a knife is tucked into my boot. I grab a jacket and head toward the front door of my apartment, ready to do some digging into Samara and Hunter. I don’t get far though as Rebekah stands there with a raised eyebrow.

“I hear you’ve been out?” she questions.

“I have,” I reply with disinterest. I want to go back to the graveyard and see what else I can find out about this Diana woman.

“And?”

“And what?”

“For fuck’s sake, Archer, stop playing games. Did you find the cunts killing my doctors?” Rebekah has her fists clenched tightly. She looks ready to explode. It really is bothering her that the doctors are dying.

“Why are you so concerned? Surely you have enough money to throw at another one to do the same thing.”

“Are you serious?” she screeches.

“Tell me you don’t have replacements lined up for Dr. Monroe and Dr. Hickson?”

“That is not the point,” she hisses. “I’m running a successful business here, and someone is trying to take it down. I’ve charged you with stopping them. If you can’t do your job, then you can be replaced.”

I click my tongue on the side of my jaw. “You’ll upgrade another soldier to your bed?”

She slaps me hard across the face, but I don’t even flinch.

“I won’t warn you again. I want their heads.”

I step up to her and use my imposing size to back her down. “And you’ll get them, but I want something in return,” I utter, lowering my voice, allowing a threat to hang in the words.

“What?” she questions. I finally see the hard woman’s exterior crack. She trembles, knowing the damage I could do to her with just my little finger.

“I want access everywhere. I want your level of clearance. You want me to protect your business, then you give me what I need to do so. No more lies. I know you’ve done things to me. I want to know what they are.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She turns away from me, but I grab her arm tightly.

“You want me at your side, then trust me. No more secrets.”

She tries to escape, but I’m gripping her so tightly she has no chance. “You’re hurting me.”

I pull her closer, flush against my body. “Newsflash, darling, you created me the way I am. If you don’t like it, then there’s nobody to blame but yourself. Will you give me what I want?”

“You’ll bring me their heads?”

“I’ll bring you their broken bodies so you can remove the heads yourself if you want.”

“Ok.”

I let her go, and she pulls her phone from her pocket and dials a number.

“Good day. I want Archer King’s security upgraded. His clearance is level one. Exactly the same as mine.” She pauses. “Yes, you heard me correctly. Now do it.” She ends the call and puts the phone back in her pocket with a smug smile. “Enjoy what you’re about to find out, Archer, because the day you chose to stay here, you became as much an accomplice in everything as I am.”

With that, she turns on her heels and stomps off. I have no time to waste. I head straight to my computer room and swipe the screen to bring up the file I know I had no access to before. My personnel file. I open it and flick through the information at rapid speed. Most of it is mundane and stuff I already know, but my fingers halt on the mouse when I read the title.

“Mind-altering treatment: Experiment One — Archer King.”

I read through the document as quickly as I can, my mind struggling to take it all in. It explains that a chip was implanted in my skull that triggers a reaction whenever my brain patterns deviate from the norm. It causes me to forget anything that creates unusual patterns.

It was an experimental treatment I consented to when I was eighteen. It has since become standard in soldiers who don’t follow the rules. I bring a memory stick from my desk drawer and copy everything in my file to it. I know I don’t have much time. If what I’m reading is right, any minute now, I’ll forget it all.

I search through the drawer for a pen and anything I can write a note on. My head starts to ache, my eyes growing tired as I try to focus on my task. I need to finish this and quick. The file stops downloading, and I find a pen.