CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lazarus stood amidst the greenery, a jungle of illegal flora thriving beneath the earth. White suits moved through the rows, ghostly gardeners tending to their forbidden harvest. The air hung thick with the scent of earth and the pungent aroma of marijuana, the hum of ventilation fans a drone in the cavernous space.

His eyes tracked each movement, every snip of the shears, the careful inspection of leaves for signs of disease or deficiency. The operation was a well-oiled machine, but today, something was off—a niggling sense of unease that crept along his spine like the legs of a centipede.

A small figure caught his attention, a boy with hair as dark as the soil they stood on. Lazarus's son—innocent and unburdened by the weight of his father's choices. The child played idly with a sprig of cannabis, oblivious to the stakes surrounding him.

"Hey," Lazarus called out, his voice low and gravelly. His son looked up, eyes wide with the unquestioning trust only a child could hold. "Do you know why we tend the land?”

The boy hesitated, wrinkling his nose. The child scratched at the side of his face and looked confused. "I… don't."

“Think.”

The boy paused, closing his eyes to think as his father often encouraged him to.

"Because… Oh, I dunno…" he said in that meandering way available only to the minds of children.

"Because we need to, son," Lazarus said, keeping his gaze on the man in the far corner. The man who kept glancing their way and fidgeting. "People depend on us."

The boy nodded, but he looked unsure. He was still too young for this, Lazarus knew. Too young to understand the empire his father had built from the ground up.

Turning away from his child, Lazarus moved toward his desk. His hands hovered over the maps and charts spread across the surface. Acres of land marked in green, each parcel hiding a similar operation beneath the soil.

He could feel his boy watching him.

“And do you know why they want our land?” he asked, looking up at his boy.

Again, the child hesitated, wrinkling his nose.

"Because it's ours," Lazarus said, his voice carrying a hard edge. His son looked up at him, the innocence in his eyes slowly replaced by understanding. "It’s our responsibility. We take care of what's ours." He gestured to the sea of green around them. "This is ours, and we take care of it."

A loud ring cut through the din of the underground farm. The boy jumped, startled, and Lazarus suppressed a curse under his breath. He fumbled for his phone, eyes dancing over the caller ID. An unknown number. He felt a chill trace down his spine.

"Go upstairs," he instructed his son, his voice calm but firm.

"But Dad--"

"Now!" Lazarus snapped, watching as the boy dropped the sprig and scurried away towards the stairs leading above ground. His sneakers scuffed against the concrete floor as he made his way to the stairs, his small hand sliding along the cold railing as he ascended into the world above.

Lazarus watched until the last echo of footsteps faded away. Then he answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear. "What is it? Speak," he commanded, voice rasping like dry leaves against pavement.

As he listened, his free hand rose unconsciously to his neck. Fingers traced the ridges of scar tissue, a harsh landscape of healed wounds that marred his throat.

Lazarus. He’d returned back from the dead. The scars felt like braille under his calloused fingertips, a story he could read in the dark.

His eyes narrowed, brows drawing together while the voice on the other end trembled. Lazarus's grip on the phone tightened, the plastic creaking a protest. His pulse throbbed in his temples.

"What happened?" His voice was gravel, rough-hewn from years of shouting orders and breathing in the dank air of hidden places.

A pause stretched over the line. Ragged breaths punctuated the silence, each inhalation a sharp stab of sound against Lazarus's ear. The caller's exhales were tremulous whispers.

"Mattie... Leroy..." The voice fractured, a splintered thing barely holding together. "I think they’re dead."

"Dead? How?"

"That Texas Ranger who’s been sniffing around.”

"Where are you?" Lazarus demanded. The farm's humid air clung to his skin, suffocating as a shroud. He needed to move, to act.

"Running... Barker's farm..." The voice trailed, breathless. "No vehicle."

Barker's farm. Miles of open land, a no man's land for the hunted. Lazarus's mind raced. He saw the fields, the dirt roads, the hiding spots that weren't there. Vulnerability painted in broad strokes across a landscape too familiar.

"Stay off the road," Lazarus instructed, his tone sharp as a blade. "Hide. Wait for me."

“Already moving, boss. I think they… shit. I think I hear dogs.”

Lazarus's fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening. "Don't get caught. Whatever you do. Don't get caught," he said, his voice a low growl, every syllable a command. The line cut, leaving only a hollow click in its wake.

The subterranean farm’s artificial lights cast long shadows across Lazarus's hardened features. He moved, each step purposeful, silent despite the urgency that thrummed through his veins. The gun cabinet loomed ahead. His hand found the handle, cold to the touch, and pulled it open with a soft creak of protest.

Lazarus reached for the rifle, fingers tracing the familiar contours of the stock.

Lazarus's eyes scanned the rifle, his movements clinical and precise. He pulled back the bolt, a metallic click echoing in the quiet. A brief glance inside confirmed it was clean, no blockage. He released the magazine with practiced ease, fingers verifying each round before slamming it back into place. He checked the safety, ensuring it gave resistance against his thumb—on, then off. Satisfied, he shouldered the weapon and hastened up the stairs two at a time.

It was a race. Who could reach the quarry first?

The man in his employ wasn’t a tough type. He would chat. Lazarus knew he’d tell tales.

He had to be stopped, silenced.

One way or another.