Chapter 4: Jever Sect

Byron left the hospital with his father and sister and headed home. "Bro," Amber murmured, "our old place got sold to the relatives. We're renting a room in the shantytown now." Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He said nothing, only nodding and tightening his hold on his father's arm as they headed in the direction she pointed. Before long, the three of them reached the shantytown, a corner the city had forgotten. Noise and grime hung in the air. Narrow alleys stank of sewage, stale oil, and damp mold.  Byron walked in front, taking in the low, tired buildings with peeling paint and patched roofs. Amber hurried to a tiny house set deep in the alley. A middle-aged woman bent over a coal stove, fussing with the evening meal. Smoke curled up around her, and her thin back looked so fragile it might snap in a stiff breeze. "Mom!" Amy Showyer lifted her head, a smile breaking across her face. "Amber, how was school? Why so late today?" Amber laughed. "I ran into someone at school. That's why." She tipped her chin toward the alley entrance. Amy followed her gaze, froze, then cried out, her voice trembling with joy, "Byron!" "Mom, I'm back." Byron strode over and wrapped her in a tight hug.  Three years had passed; white streaks had claimed much of her hair. At fifty, she looked older than sixty. "Mom, enough catching up. Dad's back too," Amber said. Amy whipped around and finally saw Oliver standing a little ways off, smiling at her. "Oliver, you can stand?" she blurted, stunned. Oliver chuckled. "Our son fixed me up." "Oh goodness." Tears spilled as Amy whispered, "I didn't dare dream we'd be together again." She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Oliver, Byron, Amber, come in and rest. I'll make more dishes." "Mm." Inside, the room was painfully cramped. A single room of about two hundred square feet had been partitioned into two. There was no bathroom. Two sagging beds, a scuffed wooden table, and a few chairs swallowed most of the floor. In the corners, everyday odds and ends piled up in plastic tubs and cardboard boxes. A wave of guilt hit Byron. If he hadn't lost his head over Anastasia, a shameless gold digger, his family wouldn't have been dragged down this far. He made a promise then and there: he would earn real money and haul them back into the light. Soon, Amy brought out dinner. Four dishes and a soup crowded the little table. The only "meat" was a plate of stir-fried cucumber with sliced sausage. It spoke volumes about how little they had been living on. The four of them squeezed around the table. As Amy kept piling food into Byron's bowl, she asked, "Byron, what on earth happened these years? Why couldn't we reach you at all?" Byron ate quietly for a moment, then said, "Mom, they transferred me to a secret prison. The rules were harsh. No contact with the outside. The good thing is, I learned a few skills in there." Amy exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Fine, as long as you're safe. Your girlfriend kept telling people you'd committed a terrible crime. I feared I'd never see you again." They ate and traded small stories. Then, outside, a racket erupted. "Everyone inside, get the hell out here!" The sudden bark made them all look at one another. Oliver lowered his voice. "Byron, is it someone from the hospital coming after us?" Byron's brow creased. "I'll take a look." Bang! The door flew inward under a boot. A pack of street punks with dyed hair crowded into the tiny rented room, bringing with them a reek of cigarettes and cheap liquor that made the air sour. Bang! A man swung a baseball bat. The thermos shattered, shards clattering across the floor. Scalding water splashed everywhere, the smash viciously loud in the tight room. Amber screamed, jumping back. "Which bastard broke Ms. Zorn's legs? Step up!" snarled the short leader, a bulldog of a man with bleached hair and a face carved with malice. Byron rose, his expression shadowed. "I did." "Well, you've got guts," the man, Jace, sneered. "Kid, come with us. The boss wants a word." Byron's mouth twitched into a cold smile. "Perfect. I wanted a word with your lot too." He started forward.  Amber rushed in and grabbed his arm. "Bro, don't go. They're up to no good." Byron patted her hand and gave her a steady grin. "Don't worry, Amber. You and Mom, and Dad wait here. Save me a bite. I'll be right back." Before she could protest again, he turned and strode toward the gang. They swallowed him up, and his figure vanished at the alley's bend. Amber and their parents stood in the doorway, peering after him, anxiety catching in their throats. "What do we do? Should we call the police?" Amy's voice trembled. Oliver nodded quickly. "Yes. Call. We can't let anything happen to Byron." They crowded around an old cordless phone and dialed 911. Outside the slum neighborhood, more than a dozen Mercedes-Benz S600s lined the road in an impressive row. Car doors swung open, and men in black suits flowed out, their steps crisp, faces set, like agents stepping off a movie set. In their midst, the door of a luxury Rolls-Royce eased open. A man around fifty with steel at his temples and sharpened eyes climbed out. His trench coat fit as if it had been cut to him and him alone. Authority rode his stride. He was Porter Farrell, the local kingpin who kept one foot in the city and the other in the underworld. Porter surveyed the street. "This is the place?" he asked. "Yes, Mr. Farrell. No mistake," a subordinate said, bowing. Satisfied, Porter led several dozen bodyguards into the alley. Their synchronized footfalls hammered the narrow lane, echoing off concrete. Faces appeared at windows as residents gaped at the parade of muscle. "Who are they? What a show." "No idea. Looks like someone at least as important as the mayor." "Why would someone like that come to this dump?" "Are they here about demolition?" Speculation rippled from window to window. Back in the cramped rental, Amy's voice shook over the phone. "Officer, a gang took my son. Please, you have to help him." "If he went with them willingly, that's not something we respond to. He's not missing and he's not hurt," the cop answered, exasperation creeping in. "Call back if something actually happens. Don't tie up 911." "My brother might be beaten to death any minute. Please, I'm begging you," Amber cried. "Alright, noted. Call again if the situation changes." The line went dead. "What do we do? The police won't come." Amy stamped her foot, near tears. "Don't panic. We'll think of something," Oliver said, trying to steady them, though worry carved deep lines in his face. As they scrambled to think of what to do, the footsteps outside grew louder, then closer, until the sound filled the alley. Porter and his men came into view of the Qualls family. "Who… who are these people?" Amy gasped. "Are they coming for trouble, too? What do we do?" "Shut the door tight. Hide inside. We'll see what happens," Oliver said, heart thudding. They scrambled, shut the door, and huddled in the inner room, hardly daring to breathe. The footsteps halted, crisp and sudden. Silence swelled. Then a resonant voice boomed through the door. "Porter Farrell, disciple of the Jever Sect, respectfully welcomes the Divine Lord's arrival!" After that came a scatter of soft thumps as knees hit concrete. Divine Lord? What did that even mean? Baffled, Amber crept to the window and peered through a crack. Her eyes went wide at the sight. She slapped both hands over her mouth, stifling a gasp. Men in immaculate suits were kneeling in a line before their door. "Dad, Mom, come look," she whispered, tripping over the words. "What is it?" Oliver and Amy edged over and peered out. The sight stunned them both. "What… what on earth is going on?" Oliver breathed, shaken to the core.