Chapter 52 THE INSTIGATOR
(Marcus’ POV)
Marcus wiped the blood from his sleeve with the back of his hand, wincing as the fabric brushed the cut along his ribs. The wound wasn’t deep, but the sting reminded him how close George’s bullet had come. Too close. The Ice King’s reputation for precision hadn’t been exaggerated.
The storm had thinned to a cold drizzle now, the world washed gray and quiet, as if nothing violent had happened here an hour ago. Marcus stood at the edge of the dirt road, staring at the tire tracks fading into the mud, George’s car, disappearing with Lea inside.
He should have gone after them.
Instead, he pulled out his phone.
The screen was cracked from where he’d fallen during the chaos, but it still lit up. Two missed calls. Both from the same number. A number Billy thought he controlled.
He didn’t.
Marcus pressed call.
The line picked up before the first ring finished.
“Report,” the voice said.
Calm. Cold. Genderless in its steadiness.
Marcus turned away from the road and walked deeper into the trees, boots sinking slightly into wet ground. “We failed. They escaped.”
A long, thoughtful silence answered him.
“And Billy?”
“He thinks he’s still in control.” Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He’s convinced he can handle George. But after tonight… he’s not thinking clearly.”
“He never was,” the voice replied. “Emotion blinds him. That is why he was chosen, not trusted.”
Marcus swallowed his bitterness. They had chosen Billy as the front. The face. The scapegoat. And Marcus… Marcus was the spine of the plan.
But no one would ever know that.
He leaned against a tree, groaning as his ribs protested. Rain dripped from the branches above him, landing cold against his neck. “George won’t let this go. He’ll start digging.”
“He already has.” Papers rustled on the other end of the line. “His team has been moving since dawn. They found the secondary accounts.”
Marcus cursed under his breath. “Then we need to accelerate.”
“Yes.” A pause. “How did she look?”
The question, unexpected, froze him.
Lea.
How did she look?
He closed his eyes, remembering her face at the gas station, pale, shaking, stubborn even when terrified. A softness that didn’t belong in the world Billy and George fought in. She had looked at him, just once, with a flicker of something he recognized.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As if she understood he wasn’t the worst one in the room.
Marcus opened his eyes again. “She looked alive. That’s all that matters.”
“For now.”
He hated the implication. “I thought we agreed...”
“We agreed she would not be harmed unnecessarily,” the voice corrected smoothly. “But leverage must be maintained. Does Billy suspect you?”
“No.” Marcus allowed himself a small smile. “He still believes I’m loyal. He’s emotional about this. Too emotional. He thinks what he’s doing is revenge.”
“And what do you think it is?”
“War,” Marcus answered quietly. “A war he isn’t prepared for.”
A faint chuckle came from the other end. “Good. Keep him blind. Keep George desperate. Both men must remain predictable.”
Predictable.
It was an interesting word to use for two men who had spent their lives rewriting the rules of power.
The voice exhaled softly, as though bored. “Retrieve what remains of your team. Burn the site. There must be no trace.”
Marcus straightened. “What about Billy’s orders?”
“Billy takes orders, he doesn’t give them.”
The line went dead.
Marcus lowered the phone slowly, feeling the weight of the words settle on his shoulders like wet concrete. He slipped the phone into his jacket, ignoring the pain in his side as he pushed himself from the tree.
Burn the site.
Erase everything.
And Billy, Billy remained in the dark.
Good.
Marcus walked back toward the scene of the shootout. The forest smelled of gunpowder and wet earth. Two bodies lay covered beneath tarps; one man groaned softly, still alive but fading. Marcos knelt beside him.
“Hector.”
The injured man’s eyes fluttered open. “Boss…”
Marcus shook his head gently. “Don’t call me that. Not here.”
Hector swallowed, his lips pale. “What… what do we tell Billy?”
Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “We tell him what he already believes that George ambushed us, that we were outnumbered, that it was chaos. Nothing more.”
Hector’s breathing grew shallow. “And… Lea?”
“She’s with George now.” Marcus's voice softened without permission. “Alive.”
Hector managed a faint nod, relief flickering across his features before the pain returned. “He’s going to lose it when he hears.”
“Yes,” Marcus murmured. “And we need him unhinged. The more he breaks, the easier he is to steer.”
“Steer… where?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
The man deserved the truth, but the truth was a luxury they couldn’t afford. He sighed and stood, signaling two others to take Hector away. As they lifted him gently, Marcus turned his eyes toward the blood-stained patch of earth.
Lea’s fear still hung in the air. George’s rage echoed. Billy’s desperation clung like smoke.
And behind it all, unseen, the architect waited.
Marcus walked back to the vehicles, his boots splashing through shallow puddles. He opened the back of the van, retrieving a small metal canister and a lighter.
Billy would see this as cleaning up a mess.
To Marcus, it was rewriting the battlefield.
He sprinkled accelerant over the broken headlights, the tire marks, the bullet casings gleaming faintly under the weak light. The smell clawed at the back of his throat.
Billy believed he was fighting George.
George believed Billy had orchestrated everything.
But neither man understood that the real enemy, their enemy, had been building this war long before either of them realized the board existed.
Marcus flicked the lighter.
A tiny flame sprang to life, warm against the cold night.
He let it fall.
The fire spread quickly, racing along the ground, devouring the remnants of the skirmish. Shadows leapt up the trees, stretching like twisted arms.
Heat washed against his face. He didn’t flinch.
“You were right,” he murmured to no one. “This isn’t over.”
He turned away, walking back toward the cars. His men followed, silent, waiting for orders.
“Move,” he commanded. “We return to the city before dawn. We meet the contact at noon.”
One man hesitated. “Sir… and Billy?”
Marcus didn’t stop walking.
“Let him chase ghosts.”
He reached his car, opened the door, and paused. The fire crackled behind him, bright and hungry, turning the clearing into a glowing wound.
In the reflection of the window, his own eyes stared back, dark, unreadable, tired.
He climbed into the car.
As the engine growled to life, Marcus spoke one last truth aloud, a whisper swallowed by the rain:
“Billy isn’t the threat. George isn’t the threat. It’s the one neither of them see coming.”
He drove into the fading night, the fire behind him burning away every trace of what had happened.
Every trace except the one that mattered.
The war had begun, and Marcus was no longer in the shadows.
He was the shadow.
And he had just moved his first piece.