Chapter 23 – The Enforcer
Mark Graves sat silently in his cramped cell, gaze fixed on the blank wall in front of him. The shackles chafed against his wrists. They were a constant reminder of the countdown to his execution. Every tick of the clock felt louder, each second biting into his limited time left on Earth. He was just another man that the system had no use for anymore. Another killer is tucked away in a cell, waiting to be disposed of.
The door creaked, snapping him out of his trance. He glanced up to an unfamiliar figure who'd stepped just inside his cell. Margaret Holloway, dressed in her crisp suit, closed the cell door behind her and met his gaze, her expression was one of an eerie calm.
He leaned back, unimpressed with the whole charade. "Another shrink? Here to assess my mental scars? Honestly doc you're just wasting my time. Tell them I have PTSD or whatever the hell you want. I'd rather smash rocks for twenty more hours than talk through my 'feelings.'"
Holloway's curled her lips into a thin smile. "I'm not a shrink."
"Then you must be another detective, then? Hoping I'd confess one last time to another murder," he scoffed.
"Not a detective either," she replied smoothly, her voice steady, unwavering. "I'm your way out, Corporal Graves. Perhaps the only way."
He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with genuine intrigue for the first time in weeks. "I've been stripped of my rank since getting here, just Graves now. And what the hell are you talking about?"
"I have the means to replace you with a complete nobody in that execution room," she said calmly, pacing back. "The warden wouldn't even blink. You have exactly one hour before they strap you down for lethal injection, but you don't have to be in that seat."
Mark tilted his head, feeling rather skeptical. "And what do I get out of this?"
"A new job," Holloway replied. "It won't be for the faint of heart. But if you can handle it, I'll give you a new life. Free of those chains, free of confinement. Think of it as an opportunity to use your… talents somewhere they'll be appreciated."
Mark watched her, calculating, taking it all in. This was no rescue mission, it was just another offer of servitude, bound too by chains, but these were far less visible but equally as strong. And yet the chance to escape death, to gain his freedom, and his skill, was far too tempting for him.
He took in Holloway's proposal, his mind thinking behind an outwardly calm expression. This wasn't the first time he'd encountered people who claimed to have "use" for his skills, but Holloway's demeanor set her apart. She was controlled, and purposeful, with none of the usual false promises or veiled threats. There was an honesty to her ruthlessness that he respected that in a way. And the idea of getting out, with a free pass on his past, was tempting.
"You seem confident," he said, testing Holloway. "But what makes you think I'd be loyal to… whatever this is? Last I checked, I don't do teams."
"Oh, I don't need loyalty," she replied, brushing off his implication with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Not from someone like you, Mark. I want results. You don't even have to like us or even agree with us. All that matters is that you follow orders."
"Orders, huh?" Mark's lips twisted. "I was starting to think I'd never hear that word again."
"Good," Holloway said, her smile as cold as his. "I think we understand each other."
Holloway inclined her head slightly, watching the calculating look in Mark's eyes as he mulled over her offer. She could see the gears turning, the prospect of freedom breaking through the indifference he wore like armor.
"There's a catch, isn't there?" he asked, his voice sharper this time, as though ready to call her bluff. "No way you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart."
"You're right, Mr. Graves. I'm not." She adjusted her suit jacket, expression cold and unyielding. "You'll be answering only to me. No one else will know of your... existence or your past, but if you cross me, I'll ensure the next time you're locked up, there won't be any second chances. Do you understand?"
Mark nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. He sensed power in her voice, that authority that didn't come from her physical presence but something much deeper. "What exactly do you need a guy like me to do?"
"You'll be placed under my command, tasked with eliminating obstacles, no questions asked. You'll have resources, cover, and my protection as long as you deliver. You'll be representing The Order. Don't make me regret this."
He nodded, a slow, feral grin spreading across his face. "What's the first order of business?"
"For now, you'll make your way to Shepherd's Glen and await further instructions. Once I'm sure you're there and settled, I'll fill you in on specifics." She turned to leave, casting a final glance back at him. "Be ready, Graves. I won't tolerate failure."
After a pause, he grinned, cold and crooked. "Ah, what the hell. Sure. Why not?"
There was a brief pause, and then she reached into her bag, producing a packet. She tossed it to him, and he caught it, carefully inspecting its contents, a new ID, civilian clothing, and an Order insignia.
"Get used to the name," she said, pointing at the ID. "Mark Graves is no more. From now on, you're just another face in the crowd until I say otherwise. Do your job, and there will be no loose ends." Her tone shifted. "But fail, and you're right back where I found you. Only next time, I won't be handing out pardons."
Mark glanced down at his new ID, a smirk crossed his face. "Where do I start?"
Holloway's eyes gleamed. "Then Welcome to the Order."
With that, Holloway was gone, her heels clicking against the cement as the cell door closed behind her. Mark leaned back, his mind buzzing. The prison walls seemed less confining now, the weight of execution lifting off him. For the first time in years, he had a new purpose, and if that purpose happened to align with the darkness within him, the better.
A few minutes later, a guard entered, knocked on the door, and nodded. "Come with me, Graves," he ordered.
The two of them walked in silence, and as they reached the perimeter wall of the prison. Mark noticed a tinted window van waiting just outside. The guard shoved him towards the door, and he climbed in without hesitation, eager for what was to come.
Inside the van, he found a black duffel bag. He unzipped it to see his new "tools of the trade", from a variety of knives, a handgun, some ammunition, and a set of robes, black and worn, marking him as part of The Order. Mark's grin widened as he felt the familiar weight of the knives in his hand.
The van pulled away, and he settled into his seat, watching the prison fade away in the distance. Mark Graves was a free man.
In the months following his release, Mark Graves ceased to exist, replaced now by Holloway's grim reaper, the Enforcer. Under the cover of night, he became a shadow, handling the Order's dirtiest tasks, from eliminating those who opposed her, rooting out dissenters within the cult, and delivering brutal justice to those who dared defy the status quo. The anonymity, the freedom to wreak havoc, to satiate his bloodlust, all without consequence, became a part of his new identity.
But the Enforcer didn't simply blend into the Order. No, he crafted himself into a specter, distinct and unyielding. Outside the typical uniform of Order foot soldiers, from robes and overalls, to gas masks and animal skulls, he chose something far darker, more fitting to his role. He fashioned a black cloth mask, painted white to form a skeletal grin, and wore it beneath a combat helmet spray painted with a crimson pentagram. The transformation suited him, a deliberate decision to become Holloway's "Antichrist," a name that whispered through the cult ranks. To them, he was an outsider, a force as terrifying as the nightmares that haunted the Order's rites.
With his new role, he discarded any semblance of loyalty or belief in the cult's doctrines. They were all just players on Holloway's stage, and he had no personal faith in the Order's dogma or its promises. All that mattered was the work, the thrill of violence sanctioned by Holloway herself.
The Enforcer had no use for the crude weapons typically issued to cult soldiers. He had his own preferred arsenal, from a reliable handgun for precision and distance, a karambit knife he wielded with vicious skill and a heavy, brutal machete for when things got up close and bloody. Each weapon was chosen not for intimidation like the Order, but for function, a testament to his lethal efficiency.
Whereas Curtis, Holloway's right-hand man, might serve as the Order's silver-tongued diplomat, the one to squeeze information from targets over long sessions of torture, the Enforcer was Holloway's final word. When Holloway wanted someone to reconsider their loyalties, she sent Curtis and his crew. But when she demanded blood, the Enforcer was dispatched without hesitation.
To those who heard the tales, he was both a rumor and a warning, a ghost in the night, faceless behind that skeletal mask, feared as Holloway's purest expression of violence. He took his assignments with a cold detachment, leaving no survivors when commanded, each mission adding to his legend. Holloway knew that the mere mention of her Enforcer was enough to break some, of the knowledge of his pending approach to doing her work for her.
The Enforcer, Mark Graves as he was known back then, had once been a Marine, when the towers came down, he found himself enlisting like many others. But for him, that call to service was not from a sense of patriotic duty, but instead an opportunity, both to escape detectives, who were closing in on his trail and an opportunity to kill legally, fulfilling his darkest desires under the guise of duty. With his enlistment in the Marine Corps came combat training that would help to refine his brutality into skill, teaching him techniques to master such as joint locks, throws, and efficient striking. He transformed from a blunt, brute-force instrument into a more calculating weapon, gaining control, and learning to exploit weaknesses with ruthless efficiency.
While others saw a noble cause in the wake of 9/11, he saw open terrain and sanctioned violence, a place to hone his instincts into something more calculated. And as he developed his new, lethal skills, he shed any hint of his former self, becoming not just a soldier but a weapon in his own right.
When his antics finally caught up to him, the Enforcer left behind a trail of 23 bodies, victims claimed in calculated strikes, each one a testament to his darker side. His capture was no easy feat; it took seven military police to restrain him, and not all of them escaped unharmed. He fought them like a cornered animal, every movement practiced and deadly, until finally, they overpowered him. Shackled and subdued, he was marched off to a military prison, his days of freedom ending in iron and concrete.
Within the military prison's walls, he quickly became a figure of both infamy and fear. Guards and inmates alike knew of his rap sheet, the serial killings that preceded his enlistment, and the bodies he left behind. For years, he endured hard labor, awaiting a court martial and eventual execution, yet still as unyielding as ever, harboring something that even prison couldn't contain.
It was there, in the confines of his cell, that Judge Holloway offered him a second chance. She stepped in with her calm demeanor, her unbreakable gaze, and an air of authority that filled the room. For a brief moment, he'd considered snapping her neck or peeling her skull like an orange. Just one last act of brutality before the end. But it was something about her that held him back, an intensity that felt less like fear like the others and more like recognition. She didn't flinch, didn't show him weakness. Instead, she presented him with an offer, a new purpose, one that channeled his instincts into a deadly, yet controlled service.
It intrigued him. Holloway had a calm cruelty that matched his own, a quiet ruthlessness he hadn't seen in others. She didn't pretend to be his savior, nor did she offer redemption. She simply needed someone like him, and he could sense her certainty in that fact. He'd serve her for now, he decided, at least until this new role ceased to amuse him.
And so, he became Holloway's Enforcer.
In time, as Holloway's ambitions grew, so did the Order's sphere of influence, and with it, their conflicts. Other cults, each had their twisted loyalties and beliefs in other gods, saw Holloway's reach as a threat. From the dark coastlines where Leviathan worshippers chanted to the eerie, ancient forests of Maine harboring a secluded, ritualistic sect, Holloway faced resistance on all fronts.
And when diplomacy failed, it was the Enforcer who answered the call. Methodically, he dismantled these rival cultists, leaving nothing but silent, desolate scenes in his wake. To him, it was all part of the role, Holloway's grim reaper, wielding death with a cold, calculated efficiency.
For the members of the Order, his presence was both a rallying point and a reminder. They didn't know if they were following Holloway out of loyalty to her vision or simply out of fear of the Enforcer himself, lurking at the edges, watching, waiting to be unleashed again.
As the Order expanded its influence southward, tension began to simmer between Curtis and Holloway. Curtis had long held to the so-called "gentlemen's agreements" that kept cult territories separate and respected, it was an unspoken arrangement between these groups that prevented bloodshed and allowed each faction to pursue its ends. But Holloway saw these invisible borders as mere obstacles, outdated relics that stood in the way of control.
Their reach brought them dangerously close to the stronghold of the ancient Order of Dagon, based in New Innsmouth, Massachusetts. This cult, which was steeped in eldritch traditions of their own and legends of oceanic deities, had endured decades of isolation after the town's original destruction in the 1920s, a fallout from a brutal clash with the FBI. While New Innsmouth was rebuilt and the Dagonists went underground, they retained a powerful network, one bound by family and by something far darker.
The old tensions boiled over as Holloway's forces encroached, pushing too close to New Innsmouth's borders. Curtis, ever the pragmatist, feared the risks of tangling with a faction as old and dangerous as the Order of Dagon, but Holloway wouldn't be dissuaded. To handle the impending conflict, she sent the Enforcer himself and a strike team designed to send a message that her Order would not be deterred.
The Enforcer made swift work of his assignments. Over time, he systematically dismantled their outer defenses, and one by one, prominent Dagonites began to vanish. For New Innsmouth, the Enforcer became a specter of terror, a ruthless presence who wielded his knife and machete like the grim emissary he had made himself to be, carving a path through the opposition and striking fear deep into the cultists of Dagon.
Finally, the battle for New Innsmouth erupted in the dead of night, as Holloway's Order launched its assault with all the ferocity and firepower it could muster. They swept through the shadowy streets, lighting up the coastline with flares that cast a red glow over the town's damp, crumbling facades. Guns roared, and the makeshift weapons wielded by Shepherd's Glen's followers cracked against walls and doors, tearing through whatever resistance the Dagonites could muster.
Yet just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of Holloway's forces, the Dagonites, driven to the edge of desperation, called upon their ancient allies from beneath the sea. The Deep Ones emerged from the waters, hulking figures with slick, scaled skin glistening in the flare light, their movements otherworldly as they slithered onto the shore. With guttural roars and powerful limbs, they surged into the fight, crashing into the Shepherd's Glen Order and sending men sprawling in terror. The once confident Order began to falter, rifles bucking uselessly as bullets ricocheted off thick hides. Chaos spread among their ranks as they found themselves fighting against foes far beyond human understanding.
But amidst the rout, the Enforcer stood unmoved, his pale, grinning skull mask stark against the darkness. With only his karambit knife in hand, he charged at the nearest Deep One, eyes fixed, unmoved by the sight of these monstrous allies of the Dagonites. He struck with all the cold, ruthless precision he'd perfected, sidestepping blows, slipping through the writhing limbs, and driving his knife into their gills, the tender weakness hidden beneath the thick scales. Dark crimson blood sprayed across the sand as he carved through them.
Around him, the Order rallied, some finding new resolve in the face of their deadly enforcer's brutal efficiency. With their rifles adjusted, they began targeting the creatures more carefully, the Enforcer's methods providing a crucial edge. One by one, the Deep Ones fell, their heavy bodies crashing back into the water.
The Enforcer himself pushed forward through the foul-smelling sewers beneath New Innsmouth, his black combat boots splashing through stagnant water. Shadows loomed in the narrow tunnels, every corner a potential ambush point. The Dagonites knew their stronghold was compromised, and had decided to flood the sewers in a desperate attempt to drown him and his squad. Water surged through the narrow passages, swallowing his men one by one in a brutal wave, until only he remained in the water, with nothing but his karambit knife and his determination.
As he emerged from the waters, he found himself alone, yet undeterred. Casting his gaze around the dimly lit basement of the Dagonite lodge, his eyes settled on a fire axe mounted on the wall, a crude but deadly tool in the right hands. He yanked it free with a hard pull. He stalked up the narrow stairway, his movements silent and steady, like a lethal shadow descending on the crumbling halls above.
The Enforcer forced open the door at the top of the stairs, stepping into the main hall of the lodge where old Obed Marsh III had taken refuge. The room was lit by hanging lanterns, casting light across faded murals depicting monstrous figures rising from the sea. The Dagonites, pale and gaunt in their ceremonial robes, gathered around the hall, weapons drawn but trembling. Their chants wavered, glancing nervously as the Enforcer advanced, his gaze fixed near the altar where Marsh himself stood, clutching an ornate, seaweed-wrapped staff, a symbol of his authority.
With a roar, the Dagonites charged, some wielding clubs and rusty knives, others brandishing ancient harpoons. The Enforcer responded with ruthless efficiency, swinging his fire axe in controlled, lethal arcs. The blade sank deep, severing limbs and striking down anyone who dared stand in his path. Blood splattered the walls.
One of Marsh's last bodyguards, a hulking Deep One, towering and hunched over with webbed hands and gills flaring, stepped protectively between the Enforcer and Marsh. The Enforcer smirked beneath his mask, raising the fire axe in a calculated pause. Then, with a savage throw, he hurled the weapon across the room.
The axe spun through the air as it found its mark with brutal precision, embedding itself in the chest of the bodyguard. The Deep One staggered back with a guttural cry, clawing uselessly at the handle as dark ichor oozed from the wound. It collapsed heavily onto the ground, its unblinking eyes fixed in shock. Marsh's eyes widened in horror as his last line of defense crumpled before him.
Advancing slowly, the Enforcer allowed himself a dark chuckle, his voice cutting through the silence like a razor. "You tried to drown me, Marsh," he sneered, relishing the flicker of terror that danced across the cult leader's face. "And you failed."
Marsh stumbled back, clutching the broken remnants of his staff, muttering half-formed words of prayer or plea, his voice shaking. He gripped his staff tighter, his eyes grew wide with fear as the Enforcer climbed the blood-slicked steps, his skull-painted mask grinning. But no god of the deep would answer him now, not with the Enforcer closing in, his karambit knife flashing in his hand, ready to end what he had come here to finish. But the Enforcer, ever as cold and unyielding, grabbed Marsh and repeatedly slammed his head onto the altar before a swipe of the blade ended the old man's life.
With their leader slain and their followers decimated, the Order of Dagon was finally broken. The Enforcer had left a brutal, mark on the cult, ensuring that no one would dare challenge Holloway's Order again without facing the wrath of her reaper.
As the Enforcer stepped outside and surveyed the ruins of New Innsmouth, the faint crackle of his radio cut through to him. He pulled it to his ear, recognizing the voice immediately, Holloway, her tone as calm and commanding as ever.
"Enforcer," she began, a hint of satisfaction undercut by urgency. "I hear your work in New Innsmouth is done. It's time for you to return to Shepherd's Glen. We have... a new situation."
He listened in silently, catching the tone of contempt in her voice.
"One of our founding families, the Shepherds, have decided to test the limits of their loyalty," Holloway continued. "An insurrection, if you will. You'll need to remind them that price."
The Enforcer's gloved fingers tightened around the karambit still slick with Obed's blood, a feral grin formed under his mask. He understood what Holloway wanted of him, it was never just discipline. It was about terror, unmistakable and thorough, the kind that would bleed any rebellious spirit dry.
"Understood," he replied. He took one last look at the devastation around him, then turned his back on New Innsmouth, already focused on the next task. The founding family would learn firsthand the consequences of defying Judge Holloway.
Despite Holloway's request for him to return immediately, the Enforcer had his ideas about timing. In his mind, her instructions were merely suggestions, and he operated on his schedule, not hers. Holloway might've been his handler, but she wasn't his master, he never felt any loyalty to her or the Order, he was there for the thrill, the blood, and the freedom to indulge his darker nature without restraint. Besides, he relished in testing her patience, he found it amusing to push just enough to remind her he wasn't just another mindless soldier.
So, he lingered in Boston for a little R a little while longer than strictly necessary, making sure to arrive fashionably late. The underground fight was one way to pass the time, and he enjoyed the satisfaction of the violence. He let himself disappear into the roar of the crowd, savoring the brief taste of anonymity in the ring, where no one knew him as Holloway's Enforcer. Here, he was simply another brawler, a man with blood-stained fists, unburdened by the Order's demands.
The Enforcer's detour into Boston was a calculated indulgence. He had made a habit of finding underground fights in the cities he passed through, from New England to Appalachia, both for the extra cash and to keep his skills honed. This time, he found himself in a grimy, dimly lit basement packed with rowdy spectators. Word had spread quickly, this mysterious new fighter was in town, and he was already infamous for ending fights in minutes.
The man they set him up against was a brute, thickly muscled with a scarred face and knuckles that looked like they'd been through more than a few walls. He sized up the Enforcer as if he thought he had a real chance.
They circled each other, the crowd around them buzzing, bets flying and cheers echoing off the brick walls. The Enforcer's eyes remained cold, calculating, as he sized up his opponent. Then the bell rang, and the fight began.
It was swift and brutal, just the way he liked it. The Enforcer dodged his opponent's wild swing, responding with a quick jab to the ribs, then another to the jaw. The other man staggered but threw a powerful uppercut, barely missing the Enforcer. But he was better, he had years of bare-knuckle brawling behind him and knew every angle, every weak spot of his opponents.
With a jab, a hook, and a brutal knee to the gut, his opponent went down with a thud, gasping for air. The crowd roared as the Enforcer collected his winnings of $5000, barely sparing his opponent a second glance.
As the fight concluded and his opponent lay crumpled on the ground, he could feel the crowd's energy, their primal cheers reverberating off the walls. He scanned the faces briefly, noting the mix of admiration and fear, savoring it like a fine wine. There was something delicious in it, a reminder of his life before Holloway's leash, a life of freedom to maim and kill as he pleased. Yet, even now, as her enforcer, he still found ways to indulge that thrill.
With his winnings tucked away, he exited the fight ring. He grabbed a drink of whiskey from a nearby bar, savoring the burn as he tipped it back. He smiled grimly to himself, thinking about the frustration his absence would cause Holloway. She might be seething right about now, watching the chaos unfold without him, questioning his loyalty and patience. Let her wait. If she wanted the wrath of the Enforcer, she'd have to let him arrive on his terms.
Only after dark would he finally leave Boston, slipping through the city's shadows and heading back toward Shepherd's Glen. Holloway's summons, the insurrection, and the impending bloodshed awaited him. But he'd be arriving when he was good and ready. Holloway might be the one in charge, but the Enforcer was his own master.
And as he traveled up the highway, he pictured Holloway's tight-lipped expression, both a mixture of irritation and a reluctant admiration. She'd chosen him specifically because he was unstoppable and unconventional, a weapon she couldn't entirely control.
Holloway was a woman who lived for control. A control freak. Every aspect of her life, from the Order's operations to the smallest details of her appearance, was tightly managed and perfectly in place. She took pride in her planning and the absolute authority she held over her followers. The Enforcer, however, was her one exception, the wild card she had purposefully allowed in her otherwise orderly hand.
As much as it irritated her, she found herself drawn to his unpredictability. It was dangerous, of course, to rely on someone she couldn't completely reign in, but there was a thrill in it, a forbidden sense of excitement. His disregard for Order protocol, his callous brutality, and his knack for operating on his terms were all things that would drive her mad in anyone else. But with him, it was almost... satisfying.
In the back of her mind, she knew the risks. Allowing him to slip the leash even a little meant playing with fire, yet she kept him around in her retinue. Perhaps it was his single-minded focus on getting the job done, no matter the means, or maybe it was the unsettling way he could turn the most hardened men into quivering wrecks. Whatever it was, it added a certain edge to her otherwise controlled existence.
The Enforcer was the kind of chaos she could unleash when necessary, a force that could descend upon her enemies like a hurricane. And as much as she hated to admit it, some small part of her took pleasure in the fact that he couldn't be completely tamed. There was a thrill in releasing him on her enemies, never exactly certain how he'd accomplish that task. She only knew that he would.
As she waited for his arrival, no doubt later than requested, she allowed herself a smile. Holloway didn't trust him, but she didn't need to. He was her weapon, one she could wield without needing to understand. And she liked it that way.