Chapter 10 Evils Den
Landon headed straight for the door.
He didn’t knock. He kicked the door to Conference Room B wide open with a loud bang that cracked through the room like gunfire.
Every head snapped toward him. Twelve officers sat around the long table, all older, all in crisp uniforms. Their eyes widened — first in surprise, then in clear disrespect.
Silence filled the room.
Landon stepped inside and let the door slam shut behind him.
“Strange,” he said calmly, scanning their faces. “I walked into an empty office this morning. No reports. No salute. Not even a cup of coffee on the desk. And yet here you all are, having a nice little meeting without the one man every single file in this base reports to.”
The officers shifted uncomfortably. Some cleared their throats. Colonel Oren, grey-bearded and arrogant, leaned forward.
“We didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed this early, sir.”
“Disturbed?” Landon echoed with a low, cold chuckle. “Let me guess. You assumed the new Major General — being younger and less ‘experienced’ in your eyes — would need time to settle in?”
No one answered. A few looked away.
Landon stepped to the head of the table, voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Let me remind every single one of you. This isn’t a monarchy. It’s a chain of command. And I wear these three stars now. Not by accident. Not by favor. But by war. While some of you were sitting in offices writing reports, I was in the mud dragging my dead brothers off barbed wire. I earned this rank with blood, not age.”
Major Herrick, broad-shouldered and stiff, spoke up. “No one is questioning your experience, sir. But respect is earned—”
“Respect?” Landon cut him off sharply. “Respect was earned when I held the southern front with only seventeen men and no backup. Respect was earned when I volunteered for Border Unit Echo while most of your names never left headquarters. Respect was earned when I brought back a unit you all marked as KIA. So if you haven’t learned to salute rank before wrinkles, you’re wearing the wrong goddamn uniform.”
The room fell into heavy silence.
Landon let it hang, eyes sweeping across every face. No one dared speak.
“From now on,” he continued, pacing slowly, “you will address me properly. You will report on time. And if you ever hold another meeting without my knowledge, I’ll assume you’re planning a coup. And I treat coups the same way I treat enemies on the battlefield — I shut them down. Permanently.”
Landon turned sharply, locking eyes with Colonel Oren. “Then maybe they should’ve done more with their time.”
Oren looked away, jaw tight.
Landon planted both hands on the table. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can hate me all you want. But you will obey this uniform, or hand yours in by sundown.”
The last officer shut the door with a heavy thud. The conference room fell into silence.
Carter stepped closer, eyes sharp. “I found something, boss.”
Landon arched a brow. “Talk.”
Carter didn’t waste a second. “The tattoo — black mask on the forearm. It’s not just some street gang. They call themselves The Hollow Veil. Ruthless bastards. They operate in the shadows and take any dirty contract if the money’s right — assassinations, kidnappings, sabotage, you name it.”
Landon narrowed his eyes. “Where do they hide?”
“Old docks near the river bend,” Carter said, pulling out a folded note and slapping it on the table. “They don’t have one fixed base, but there’s heavy movement every few nights at an abandoned cargo terminal by Pier 9. That’s their closest thing to a den.”
He paused. “I can roll with you. Got gear in the car.”
Landon looked at him for a beat, then shook his head. “No. I go alone.”
“But—”
“No,” Landon said, calm but firm. “If they’re targeting my family, I want to walk straight into the mouth of the beast myself. See it with my own eyes.”
Carter nodded reluctantly. “What about your stuff? You haven’t even unpacked yet.”
“Send it to my vacation home,” Landon replied. “I won’t be staying at the family house for now. Too dangerous until I clean this mess up.”
Landon hesitated for a second as Carter spoke.
“Your house?” Carter asked carefully.
Landon looked out the window, jaw tightening. “There’s an issue there. One I need to settle before that place feels like home again.”
Carter said nothing after that. He understood.
“Keep your eyes on the Graysons,” Landon ordered. “I’ve got a gut feeling they’ll make a move soon. People like them always strike when they feel the pressure.”
Carter nodded firmly. “That won’t be a problem.”
Landon reached for the car keys beside the folded note. “I’ll check out that address you gave me. See if the whispers match the weight.”
Carter took a step back. “Be careful out there, boss.”
Landon didn’t answer. He simply walked out.
The further he drove, the older and rougher the city became. He pulled up to a forgotten compound half-eaten by weeds and silence — the old cargo terminal at Pier 9.
Landon stepped out of the car. Dust and broken concrete crunched under his boots. The stench of oil and damp rust filled the air. He didn’t flinch. He had smelled far worse things on the battlefield.
He walked straight toward a heavy steel-plated door. Two men stood guard outside like shadows. One leaned against a rusted pole with a cigarette burning between his fingers. The other stood stiff, arms crossed, eyes narrowing the moment Landon got close.
“Who the hell are you looking for?” the stiff guard asked, voice low and dangerous.
Landon didn’t speak. He slowly rolled up his sleeve, revealing a fresh black mask tattoo with fractured lines on his forearm — an exact replica of the one he had seen on the attackers.
Both guards stiffened.
Their eyes met. A long, tense pause followed.
The man with the cigarette flicked it away. “You need to leave. Right now.”
Landon raised an eyebrow.
“You’re in the wrong place,” the second guard added, hand inching toward his waist. “Turn around and go. We don’t know you.”
“I think I’m in the exact right place,” Landon said coolly. “And I’m not leaving until I get inside. Open the door.”
Landon didn’t flinch.
The man with the cigarette stayed still, but the bigger one — thick arms and a jaw like concrete — stepped forward, puffing up like an angry dog. His breath reeked of cheap liquor and decay as he jabbed a fat finger toward Landon’s chest.
“Listen here, pretty boy,” he growled. “Turn your ass around and leave. We’ll let this slide if you walk away right now.”
Landon’s eyes dropped to the finger twitching in front of him.
“I don’t like people putting their hands near me,” he said, voice ice cold. “That’s the one thing I detest more than betrayal.”
The big guard laughed, a deep mocking sound. “Tch. Young rude brat.” He jabbed Landon again, tapping his chest with two thick fingers. “What you gonna do, huh? Cry to your daddy—”
That was as far as he got.
Landon moved like lightning. He snatched the man’s hand, twisted it hard. The sickening crack of bones echoed through the air. The guard howled in pain and dropped to one knee, clutching his shattered wrist.
Landon stood over him, calm and composed. “I warned you,” he said, voice low and deadly. “Next time, I won’t stop at your wrist.”
The cigarette guard stepped back slowly, eyes wide with sudden fear. His hand hovered near his belt.
Landon adjusted his jacket sleeve and looked straight at the steel door. “I said I’m going inside.”
