They didn’t.
They had grown a reputation in school. The Horsemen. Someone made a joke about it in Year Eleven, and it stuck.
Plague. War. Famine. Death.
And every sod in that school knew better than to fuck with pestilence and steel.
Later, Uni split them up. Kind of…
After a quick tour in the army, Zel studied engineering, while Maro went full military-special forces, top brass nodding in approval. The military was uniquely suited for his proclivities. And Thane? Double degree in logistics and biosecurity, which suited him well. The lad who once couldn’t be touched without having a panic attack now built plans to contain pandemics and warzones. Lirian did computer science and cybersecurity, hacking in his free time just for a laugh like national security sites was a game. NASA. He helped pay off Zel’s tuition, cracking private accounts which no one would report, laundering NFTs and bitcoin before the government caught on.
In their thirties, just like their masterplan had detailed—once they had the right skill set—they started The Horsemen.
“Security’s our way in,” Zel had said. “We don’t break bones in public anymore; we build fortresses. We control information. Then we find the fuckers and they all pay.”
They had a fancy website advertising top security, with an equally impressive reputation. But if you knew where to look, hidden in between the layers, was a phone number whispered around in circles where bad things needed to happen and worse people needed stopping.
Plague. War. Famine. Death.
Each of them had their title. Each of them had their role.
Each of them had unfinished business.
Zel turned the Camaro’s key. It choked once, coughed, then roared to life like it still had one more fight in it.
“Let’s get to fuckin’ work.”
Chapter 14
It took six hours to get there.
They drove in the battered, mud-spattered Land Rover that Lirian claimed was “low-profile.” Zel hated the thing. It rattled like bones in a box and smelled faintly of wet dog and gun oil, but it handled the terrain like a dream.
They drove in silence most of the way, the battered Land Rover bumping down country lanes like it owed the road money. By the time they passed the third cattle grid and lost signal completely, no one had said a word in over an hour.
Then Maro grunted, “Still looks like murder weather, this. Never bloody changes.”
Zel leaned forward, squinting out the windshield. “Aye, proper grim. You sure this rust bucket’ll make it the last stretch?”
“She’s sound. Ol Nancy Drew here has a long way to go before she croaks,” Maro replied, fondly patting the dash. “You city pricks are just soft.”
Lirian muttered from the back, nose still in his tablet, “Don’t mean I’ve gotta enjoy ridin’ in a tin coffin that stinks of wet socks.”
Thane snorted. “Least it’s not your turn drivin’. You nearly put us in a ditch last time.”
“It was not a ditch,” Lirian corrected, not looking up. “I was only executing a controlled slide.”
Zel smirked. “That what we’re callin’ it now?”
They hit the tree line, and the road vanished completely, becoming a mud path more than anything. They wound through tight forest until they reached the hidden gate. They passed the rusted old gate that led nowhere, and then a second one with a coded lock hidden in a stone marker. Lirian reached forward and tapped in the sequence.
The gate swung open with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Fencing high, barbed, electrified—ran along the inner perimeter, hidden beneath dense brush. Drones buzzed overhead, invisible unless you knew where to look. Motion-activated cameras blinked inside tree hollows. Every hundred yards or so, a tripwire sensor was disguised as loose vines or fallen branches.
The property was called Hollow Acres, though none of them remembered why. The title deeds were buried beneath a nest of umbrella corporations, holding companies, shell trusts, and offshore accounts. Lirian had layered it like an onion. Even if someone got curious, they’d never peel back enough to find four broken boys turned weaponised men.
Maro spat out the window. “Welcome back, lads. Home sweet fuckin’ home.”
