The Dark Lord's Commands

  Copyright © 2021 M.E. Thorne

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Andreea Sava

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Afterward

  Books by M.E. Thorne

  Author’s Note

  Summer 2022 is coming to an end. It’s been almost a year since I started my writing career, and I couldn’t be happier with how things have turned out. Thanks again to you, my fans and readers, for making this all possible!

  I’m plugging away at I Don’t Want to Be the Hero Vol. 3, which should be out this fall. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this new series. I wanted to try my hand at the kingdom-building genre, and I think it turned out great (in my humble opinion)!

  As always, you can sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Facebook and Twitter for the latest updates. If you enjoyed this book please leave a positive review and spread the word!

  Thank you again!

  Chapter 1

  “You’re fired. Pack your things, security will see you out.”

  The words should have hurt. They marked the end of my career, of my life. Instead, I just numbly accepted them with a nod of my head. I knew there was no point in arguing or protesting, it was a doom long in the making. It was the cost of doing the right thing, at the right place, at the wrong time.

  Dutifully, I packed up my few belongings and cleared out my desk. Someone from security came into my office and took my laptop and phone, one last insult to injury.

  Holding a cardboard box, I was forced to take the walk of shame past the other senatorial aides, who watched me with a mixture of pity, scorn, and disappointment. I witnessed several onlookers break out their phones to take pictures and to text; I was sure that news of my dishonorable demise would be hitting social media in the next few hours.

  That’s the price you pay for trying to reveal an embezzlement scheme during an election year.

  I had once considered all of them as friends and colleagues. They had been people who shared my desire to do the right thing, to serve the constituents of my state and my country.

  Instead, I had discovered they were as cowardly and corrupt as the national party leadership. Digging up dirt against the rival party was always good. But finding problems in your own house, especially when votes were on the line, was an unforgivable sin.

  Republican or Democrat, it doesn’t matter in the end. Everyone is just watching out for themselves and their bank account balance. Nobody really cared about the citizens who had elected them and asked them to protect and lead them.

  “Rob.”

  I paused by the office’s front exit. The security guard put a hand on my shoulder as if to push me out the door, but I stood my ground.

  “Hey, Franny,” I said, trying to sound bland and normal.

  Franny looked at me from the break room doorway, dismay written across her face. “I’m really sorry.”

  If you were, you wouldn’t just be hiding, I fumed internally. You’d be in Orville’s office, demanding an investigation, or reaching out to the media to back up my claims!

  I wanted to scream, but I wasn’t going to give the senator and his lackeys the scene they wanted. There were still phone cameras trained on my back, watching my every action so they could be posted on social media. The last thing I wanted was the headline Disgraced Congressional Aide Robert Grailmont Arrested By Local Police After Confrontation with Former Lover to be splashed everywhere.

  I might have been a fool and a political pariah, but I still had some semblance of pride.

  “I’m so sorry, Rob,” Franny whispered, her eyes never leaving the industrial carpet that covered the floor.

  “So am I,” I replied.

  I wanted to tell her to remember the ideals we had shared when we had both started working for the senator, to keep up the good fight, but I knew it was useless. She was just as craven as everyone else, only looking out for herself.

  The guard pushed me harder, and I went with him. I’d done everything I could and said my peace to those who would listen. There was no longer a reason for me to stay.

  Stepping outside, I was assailed by the overwhelming heat of the hot, summer morning. The sun beat down mercilessly on the parking lot’s blacktop.

  The security guard escorted me to my car, making a show of taking my parking pass and finally confiscating my badge, ensuring I would never be able to pollute the hallowed halls of government service ever again.

  It was the end of a life, of a path, that I had been dreaming of since I was a child.

  Climbing into my car, I started the engine and turned on the AC. After that, I just sat there, sweating in my suit.

  My hands gripped the wheel and my foot rested upon the accelerator, but I had no idea what to do. Do I just go home? Go to a bar and get drunk? Hell, maybe hammer the gas and smash my car into the building?

  A few months ago I had been a rising star in government, an aide to Senator Orville Thatch. He was my mentor and friend, who had shown me the ropes and helped me start my political base. With his help, I had dreams of national leadership, of really making a change.

  There had been whispers that Orville was thinking of retiring after serving out his next term and that I’d be running to fill his seat in six years.

  He had even jokingly suggested it during the last fundraising BBQ he had hosted at his lake house. I had laughed at the time, but the seed had taken root. Becoming a state senator would have put me on the path to truly achieving my goals and being able to improve the lives of my fellow citizens.

  In a fit of rage, I tore off my suit coat and tie, bundled them up, and threw them into the passenger seat. Slamming on the gas pedal, I tore out of the parking lot and hit the road.

  Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them!

  Three months ago, I had been accidentally cc’ed on an email sent to Orville and some local congressmen. It had been an invite to a private gala held by a local supporter, apparently taking place on his luxury yacht.

  I was never a fan of how political fundraising worked, but I understood the principles behind it. The Supreme Court had declared that money equaled free speech, and if you wanted to win elections you needed to have more free speech than your rivals. That meant depending on big donors and fundraisers to build up your war chest so you could pay for advertising, text banking, and the army of lawyers that accompanied any modern election.

  It was all bullshit, but I wasn’t in a position to
do anything about it. Once I’m elected to national leadership, then I can really begin to clean up this mess; fixing our tax system, kicking lobbyists out of politics, and making sure the average citizen can actually achieve the American Dream.

  Upon seeing that email, the smart thing would have been to reach out to Orville and to let him know I’d accidentally been included on the message. I had absolute faith in him; he’d been my mentor since entering politics.

  I had been working for him for eight years, starting even before graduating college. The old man had quickly taken a shine to me, appreciating my ability to reach constituents and to get out the younger voters.

  Instead, and I still don’t fully know why, I remained silent. Maybe it was curiosity, I’d never been invited to this particular donor’s events, and there were some shady rumors about his private life. Nothing that would rub off on Orville, but just the same, I was concerned for the senator’s image.

  Regardless, the first few emails in the chain were boring, cut-and-dry stuff about scheduling, guest lists, and whatnot. It wasn’t till a week later, when a local businessman asked about the entertainment, that I became truly alarmed.

  The man was very open in his requests, using terms that a toddler would have seen through. He was asking about prostitutes, and then drugs. Other recipients on the chain got involved, and the veils and coded language fell away with shocking speed.

  I was horrified and I knew I had to talk the senator into not only canceling his involvement with the fundraiser but also denouncing it. Maybe I can convince him to stage a press conference, announcing an investigation into the role of dark money in corruption and crime?

  I was drafting up my message when Orville chimed in to the email chain, noting his preference for blonds with big tits. The messages kept getting worse after that.

  Reading, and then rereading that message, I felt my world implode. I had known Orville and his wife for years, they had two teenage children and were firmly and publicly committed to their marriage and the importance of family values. I looked up to and admired the man, viewing him as a paragon of public office. The kind of role model on par with my parents and their lives of selfless service.

  On the surface, I had no problems with drug use or even prostitution; in fact, I had argued around the office several times about decriminalizing drug offenses and for vice reform. But Orville had been firmly against those ideas and was a big supporter of hard-on-crime measures. He insisted that his constituents demanded it.

  And I had emails in my hands where he asked specifically for two girls, from previous parties, to be sent to the hotel they were using for the after-party. The hypocrisy made me sick. Things only became worse when he volunteered to use some of his election funds to help cover the cost of this request.

  I had, in writing, that a state senator, the man I worked for, was embezzling tax-payer money to pay for prostitutes and potentially drugs. It was my worst nightmare.

  On the way home from my last day in American politics I stopped at a beer distributor and picked up a cheap six-pack. The cashier looked at me oddly, as if he recognized me but not from where.

  Probably from the local news or a social media post, I realized.

  News of my downfall had been widely spread by the party to ensure that nobody would believe anything I would say. I’d seen plenty of posts and news articles before I had deleted my social media accounts.

  Failed Machiavelli who had designs on his boss’s job. That’s how most of the posts went, with my picture plastered underneath.

  Sprinting outside, I jumped into my car and took off. I didn’t want to be the object of public ridicule and scorn; I was getting enough of that from my subconscious.

  Thankfully my apartment building was empty. Most of my neighbors also worked for the government and thus were out at that time of day. I wouldn’t have to face their stares and silent accusations until they returned home, later in the evening.

  Stepping inside my spartan apartment, I shoved the beers in the fridge and shut the window blinds, hiding the room in darkness.

  Not that there was much to hide, the apartment was close to empty. Franny had always complained I lived like a monk, with just a TV and sofa in the living room, then a bed and wardrobe in my bedroom. Outside that, there was very little else, mostly just stacks of books on dry matters like political science and history.

  Tossing off my clothes, I stepped into the narrow bathroom and took a long, cold shower. I braced my hands against the tile and let the freezing water rain down over my head as if I was hoping that the chill would cool my fevered thoughts and recriminations.

  I sat on the catastrophic emails for a week, utterly unsure what to do about them.

  Without a doubt, I knew that Orville and other local leaders were using tax-payer funds for their illegal parties. The way the participants wrote made it seem like this was something that had been going on for a while. I reasoned that there should have been a clear paper trail somewhere.

  I started clandestinely going through the senator’s records, particularly those concerning campaign expenditures, trying to figure out where exactly the money was coming from, to gain definitive evidence.

  When you come at the king, you best not miss.

  It wasn’t hard to find the information I needed. Orville wasn’t as clever as I had expected about hiding his illicit expenses. I quickly located cash payouts for consultants that lined up with past party dates. Worse, I found other signs of illegal activity and even embezzlement, where funds were withdrawn and paid to members of the Thatch family, including Orville’s wife and brother-in-law. I searched but could find no good reasons for these payments outside lining his family’s pockets.

  I had worked for Orville for years and had helped get him to get re-elected twice, and he was a crook. He hadn’t even worked hard to hide it. I felt sickened by his betrayal of the American people and by my own stupidity. If I had just bothered to look sooner, it would have stared right back at me.

  I found indications that the problem wasn’t contained to just our office either. Notes and transactions indicated that the state’s other senator, as well as several congressmen, were also siphoning money from their election funds, using them for everything from private travel to home renovations, and at least one instance of a congresswoman buying her mistress breast surgery.

  I had the political scandal of the century on my hands.

  Shivering, I stepped out of the shower and dried off.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I just stared into the glass.

  I was handsome, in a bland, corporate sort of way. It was a look I had cultivated for years with hundred-dollar haircuts, well-tailored suits, and a neutral expression that did not stick out when I was standing in the background of press conferences.

  It was the kind of normal, stable, and peaceful look that people wanted from their civil servants and public leaders. Slick and boring, like shit wouldn’t bother sticking to us.

  Like it never stuck to Orville.

  Throwing on some boxers, I hit the fridge and grabbed my beers, arranging them out on the floor by the sofa. Soldiers, ready to give their lives to a greater cause.

  I popped open the first one and turned on the TV, picking a streaming service and a show at random. All I wanted was something mindless and completely detached from my current reality. I zoned out, fishing for one beer after another as I tried to drink myself numb.

  In my stupor, it took me a few seconds to realize my phone was ringing.

  Looking at the screen, I sighed, put down my current beer, and then picked up the call. “Hey, Aunt Grace.”

  “Robert, are you okay?” Her voice oozed with fake concern. “I just saw some pictures of you on social media, with some security guard escorting you out of the senator’s office.”

  I cursed under my breath. Of course, they had someone out in the parking lot, to capture my parting shame.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  Aunt Gr
ace was my dad’s sister. The flashy, showy one in the pair, she had always done her best to let everyone know how much money her husband made, how big her house was, and how successful her son was. I had cultivated casual scorn and dismissal for her, but she was the only family I had left, outside my fuck-up of a cousin, her son Charles.

  “Well,” she said, “if there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know. When your father died, I pledged to his spirit that I would watch out for his only son.”

  The garbage she was spitting out made me want to puke.

  When dad was alive, he had to deal with her sister’s constant contempt. My parents had worked in local government; they were my shining examples of lives dedicated towards public service. They had spent their lives making our community a better place. But their jobs hadn’t paid well, leaving us always on the edge of financial disaster. A fact that Aunt Grace had never failed to rub in.

  She went on for a bit, worrying about me as if she actually cared about how I was doing or about my downfall. Naturally, her conversation was peppered with little facts about how well she was doing. Did you hear, we moved into a new house recently, twice as big as the old one, you should come for a visit!

  “By the way, have you heard from Charles recently?” she asked, almost hesitantly.

  And now I know why she really called me, I sighed again.

  “No, I don’t talk to him,” I said using my coldest, most impersonal tone.

  Charles was a con artist, criminal, and sociopath, the kind of person who would lie to your face while stealing your wallet. He had inherited grace and charm from some unknown part of our family tree, but the raw cruelty and narcissistic nature came from his parents.

  I knew he had avoided jail several times by flipping on his partners, turning witness when the law came sniffing around his efforts. He had left a wake of failed businesses, blown Ponzi schemes, and angry victims across the entire country. The man could change appearances and personalities just as easily as a person changed their shoes; he was always on the hunt for the next victim.