The Gentlemen

By McKenzie Ann Forbes

When Artemis Knight is thrown into the world of the Gentlemen, she learns the brutal truth about the world; professional criminals run society, heroes are extinct, and police are nothing but toys to play with.

Artemis Knight has been trained her whole life to be normal. Her abusive father taught her everything she needed to learn to survive in the chaotic world, but being normal is the only skill she cant master. With her friend Brendon Urlay by her side, she unknowingly squeaks by the Gentlemens radar. Until one day, one of the most dangerous criminals stops by her bakery. The rule is simple; dont upset the system. If you do, youll be silenced, permanently. As a girl in the male-dominated criminal world, Artemis has already upset the system before making a single move. Unwanted secrets, buried deep in the Gentlemens past, pour out with the mention of her father. The system has never been more off balanced, and someone needs to take the fall. The Gentlemens only threat saunters out of the shadows seeking vengeance, creating fear in the royal family of crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503522381

McKenzie Ann Forbes

McKenzie Ann Forbes is the author of her first novel, The Gentlemen. After four years, her hard work is finally ready to be published. Residing in Bountiful, Utah, McKenzie has always loved adventure. Intrigued by individual and cultural differences, she dreams of one day traveling the world, learning all she can about the vast and unique peoples of this world.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

M r. President! This way!

A stocky bodyguard dragged me down the hallway. Wailing sirens smothered any other sound that dared to stand in its way. His lips shouted orders, but it only blended into the background. The shots of bullets echoed off the White House walls, leaving the building in chaos. Metal bars blocked the windows for any chance of escape. More men in black suits with guns flanked my side. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my breath shot out in rasps.

A fear crept inside me, and it gnawed at my consciousness until it became unbearable. The danger was no longer outside of the White House, but within, and the antagonists were locked inside. There was no way out, and no help could come in.

Bullets pierced the air, and men in black suits dropped like flies. My legs skidded to a stop, and I crouched down so I could protect my men. Time didn’t provide the mercy to mourn, which would have to be saved for later. The last guard still standing wrapped his arms around me. I squirmed under his grip, but his arms were iron.

No, sir, we have to get you safe. They’re gone, dead. Now, come on! He managed to shout over the chaos.

Despite my wishes, he was right. This country needed me. I stumbled to my feet and raced down the hallway. My shoe snagged on a corpse, and I crashed against the tiled floor. The guard grumbled, swept me up in a single motion, and scooped me over his shoulder.

The destruction left behind burned in my eyes. Furniture from past presidents was interspersed across the room, rugs were stained with crimson blood, glass frosted the ground like snow, and bodies were tossed about like dolls. My stomach clenched, but I pushed down the bile. The White House was in ruins.

He flew down flights of stairs. I offered to run, but he declined. We reached our main destination, the safe room, and I was tossed down into a chair. The guard entered digits into a keypad. Doors shuddered and groaned. Within the walls, locks turned and clicked into place.

The guard spun on his heel with a menacing smile. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Hello, Mr. President. His American accent was replaced with a Russian one.

I gave a violent start and nearly fell out of my seat. A hand shot out from behind me and covered my mouth. The other hand strapped handcuffs on me, linking me to the chair. I spun to see a pale boy with black hair. The look in his eyes made my stomach sink, like it belonged to someone in a mental asylum. He chuckled darkly when I struggled in the chair and released his hand from my mouth.

What’s going on? I demanded.

The boy who had chained me stood slowly. He wiped wall plaster from his black-on-black suit and took his place next to the Russian. Another man with brunet hair sauntered in the room. He flashed the Russian man a nervous glance, and he responded with a confident nod. The brunet boy seemed to relax as he waited by his friends.

James! the brunet man called with a heavy German accent. We have him.

The statement sent shudders down my spine. A man with graying hair walked in with a pleasant smile. His uniform matched his comrades. The man outstretched a welcoming hand.

Hello, Mr. President. The man, James, spoke with a charming British tone. "We’ve shaken hands plenty of times before, but I suppose this is the first time you’ve truly met us." He let out a comfortable laugh.

I stared at the hand, not knowing what to do or say. A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard. His arm slowly declined to his side when he received the hint. He turned, counted the boys at attendance, and frowned. Where’s Rory?

I’m here, sir! A boy with flaming red hair popped up from behind a table. He was a pure Scotsman, no doubt about that. His suit soiled with blue ink. A frazzled look filled his eyes. I may have or may not have started a Third World War. He suddenly became very interested in his left shoe.

That’s the fifth time this month, Rory! You’re not coming with us next time to the White House. The Russian snorted.

Is that where we are? Rory examined the room. His eyes rested on me. Oh, good o’ Bessie! That’s the president!

Rory, please focus. James fought back a smile at the boy. How did you manage to start a Third World War?

Well. Rory scratched the back of his head. "There was a rather large button, and underneath it read, do not press."

And you pressed it? The black-haired boy raised an eyebrow.

Yes! Rory’s arms exploded above him. Buttons should be pressed. Sorry about the alarms. I mistook the alarm system for a microwave. Ours was broken at The Estate, so I tried to take it.

That’s very considerate of you Rory to think of The Estate in a time like this, James praised and then paused for a moment. I’ll see what I can do about the war. He hurried out of the room.

The weight of the boys’ eyes made me sink into my chair. I stared at the Russian. How could I be betrayed by one of my best guards? Questions filled my head, as I struggled to comprehend the situation unfolding in front of me. They had entered the White House undetected, so they must be skilled beyond belief. My palms moistened as I gripped the armrests of the chair. The dark-haired boy’s smile widened when he saw my nerves getting the better of me. It was as if he could smell fear, and I reeked of it.

In seconds, the sirens ceased, but my ears echoed with ringing. There! James exclaimed as he dusted his hands. Another world war won’t happen for at least thirty years as planned. He blinked at the Scotsman. Rory, why are you covered in ink?

My pen broke. Rory shrugged matter-of-factly.

You are drenched in ink. The German chortled.

It was a fairly big writing utensil, Rory shot back defensively.

James made his way in front of me and placed his hand inside of his suit jacket. It’s a gun. My breath caught at the thought. He looked up at my tensed figure, and grinned. Blood iced in my veins, and my head spun. The man pulled out a small black object. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a camera.

Won’t you take a picture? the man asked. Gavrilo has been dying to get a picture.

The Russian wiggled excitedly in his spot. My jaw dropped on its hinges. That was all they wanted, a picture with the president of the United States of America inside of the White House before they assassinated him.

I combed my messy hair with my fingers and straightened my tie, but when I looked up to have my picture taken I saw the group posing with a smile. On the table sat the camera.

Oh, I managed. I took the camera with my free hand, positioned the lens, and took the picture.

Gavrilo ripped the camera out of my hands and studied it. He smiled and shoved it in his pocket. The boys rushed out of the room with their laughs bouncing off the concrete walls.

That was just a distraction, Mr. President. James pulled up a chair.

A distraction for what? My heart sank with a cold wave.

We have a certain system that we like to keep, and I’m afraid you’ve upset it. You’ve broken a code and forced our hand to allow you to step down from office.

He took my hand and observed my finger that had pressed the shutter. A small pearl of blood formed in the center like I had been pricked with a needle. Around the wound, blue foam bubbled to the surface.

The lights were dimming, and his voice grew softer. The room tilted to the side, and I felt off balance. My heart slowed to a dull thud, and my head spun. The man faded to a blur.

Terrorists, I choked out.

No. I could hear the smile in his voice. We are The Gentlemen.

ARTEMIS KNIGHT

T he moon hung high in the twilight sky like a lantern. Stars swarmed around the harsh light like moths, and an icy breeze cut through my clothes, chilling my blood and bones. I clutched my jacket closer to my body, hoping some warmth would come. A distant streetlight flickered as if it were warning me of imminent danger. Oh, how I wish I had listened.

I peered up at the strong-built man beside me. His large jaw was set with his cold gray eyes lost in the night. His thick golden hair blew gently in the merciless wind like golden fire. Small vivid scars etched on his face appeared like white lines on his skin, each one containing their own horrific story. His thin lips pressed hard together in a tight line. Fingers curled into large and dangerous fists. He abruptly shoved them in his pockets and turned to me.

Artemis, he demanded my attention.

I hesitantly looked up at the tall figure in the eyes. My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I feared it would burst. Yes, father?

His mouth twitched at the word and I knew I had made a horrible mistake. Silence fell over him like a wave. He was most dangerous when he was quiet.

Haven’t I told you to never call me that in public? His tone was so icy that it froze my feverish, beating heart. I gulped and nodded. I don’t understand how you have the tendency to keep repeating mistakes. Good children would simply learn from them and move on, but you? No, you are a broken record that stutters constantly and I have to abuse my precious time to fix it. He let out a long, annoyed sigh. Look around you. What do you see?

I knew my answer would be wrong no matter what I said. It always was. I tried to observe everything closely, but nothing seemed unusual. I see trees, a streetlight, the moon … My voice trailed off when I saw the look on his face, that familiar look of disappointment.

You should be seeing a game. He folded his arms behind him and walked down the sidewalk for me to follow. Life is a game, Artemis. The only way you can win is by cheating. Do you follow, child? It took me a moment to wrap my head around the information, but I nodded. There is no such thing as the bad guy or good guy in this game, only less bad or less good. So, what about the lawmakers, the stereotypical good guys? He gave a bitter smile filled with raw hatred. Artemis, we are human, and as much as I hate to say it, so are they. We naturally are greedy. They will crumble with the power they obtain and they simply write laws to cover their faults.

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She pursed her lips in a tight line and scratched her pencil on paper. I hated that sound more than anything in the world. Every session she would write notes and that noise was the only thing filled in between questions. It was enough scratching to drive any sane person mad.

How are you coping with your parents’ death? Her voice was soft.

Is there a proper way to mourn for death? If so, please inform me, I snapped.

She was silent for a moment. The thing was that I never felt remorse or guilt in taking my anger out on her. She was my personal punching bag.

Do you like your new adoptive family? I gave a simple nod. Good. As she wrote down more notes, I resisted the urge to snatch the pencil of out her hands and throw it out the window. Most sixteen-year-olds don’t adjust to new families as well as you are. Her deep breath told me we were about to change subjects. Molly and Steve told me you had another nightmare last night. Can you tell me what it was about? Perhaps we could work together to find the source of these dreams.

It was nothing, I shuddered out, recalling the memory of my dad teaching me about the good and the evil. I suppose in his case, the less good and the less evil. Too much sugar before bed.

I can’t help you find out why you’re having these dreams unless you tell me what they are, my therapist countered.

I already know why I have those dreams. What goes on in my head is none of your business.

The rest of the session was filled with mundane questions and her bloody note-taking. My curiosity burned a hole inside me to find out what she was writing. Did she think I was insane? I could possibly be schizophrenic due to my father’s voice in my head, but she couldn’t have known about that. In any event, I didn’t need a professional to tell me that I was crazy because I already knew the obvious.

Her monotone made it nearly impossible to remain conscious. In order to stay awake, I counted all 153 tiles, 127 pushpins, 94 papers on her desk, and one psychopath lounging in a plush chair. Is your train of thought constantly derailed? My father’s voice interrupted me once more. That was the problem with my mind, and it wasn’t my fault. My father had trained me to have my brain functioning endlessly, so I couldn’t zone out like other kids. If I ever became bored or lost interest, I had to focus on something else. Consequently, my father’s lessons were sometimes less than fascinating and they concluded in several beatings.

McKayla, the woman snapped me out of my daze but then led me into another memory.

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Let’s practice your cover, my father said while placing wires and cords onto my skin. I stared in fascination at the needle drawing lines on a continuous piece of paper. What is your name?

McKayla Hawkins. The needle waved wildly, making high amplitude zigzags, and I frowned in frustration.

Take a deep breath, and believe in your lie. You need to make McKayla Hawkins real, he ordered. What is your name?

McKayla Hawkins, I breathed and the needle remained motionless. I smiled, but no praise came from my father. I don’t know why I expected it anyways.

Don’t let your face give you away. Just because you pass a lie detector test does not mean they won’t catch you lying. Many factors can alter a machine test, but the face tells all. Micro expressions are subtle expressions your face makes subconsciously. There are a small percentage of people in the world that can naturally detect micro expressions, and others are taught. You need to have this cover memorized perfectly because if there ever is a situation where I won’t be here and you will need to blend in with other children, you’ll be ready. I’m going to teach you how to detect micro expressions and train you to be the best liar yet.

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The woman called my cover name and brought me back to reality once more. I internally scolded myself for drifting off. It had been three years since I had started using this cover, and I was still forgetting to respond to the name McKayla. I still had no idea why my dad had me use a cover when he was gone. I knew his work was shady, but I was unable to find a use for it once he was dead.

My eyes flickered to her finger on her left hand. There was a thin line of lighter colored skin than the rest of the hand, a tan line. It was too big for any normal ring, so it must have been for a wedding ring. If her husband had died, she would have had placed pictures of him and worn her ring on a necklace or something for sentimental value. If she was divorced, the tan line on her finger wouldn’t be as pronounced. If she was about to be or recently separated, then she would simply be too busy for my sessions and she would be too distracted by the event.

Does your husband know that you are having an affair? I raised my eyebrow and gave a small smile. It was a shot in the dark, but usually my assumptions were correct. My father had warned me that my little trick of noticing the slightest details would bring unwanted attention, but I couldn’t help myself at times.

I beg your pardon? Her face turned white. Thin eyebrows drew together, and her mouth gaped slightly; these were all micro expressions of fear. Her hand curled subconsciously to hide the missing ring.

How do you expect me to be truthful to a woman who doesn’t even know the meaning of it? I found the hidden irony in my own sentence. I shouldn’t have been lecturing her about being truthful when everything I did was a lie. I glanced at the clock. I think our hour is over. I’ll see you next week, Mrs. Hudson. Or should I call you ‘Miss’ in public? I shut the door behind me not hearing an answer. It was extremely rude of me, but I would have done anything to get out of that office.

I entered a room that was an exact replica of my therapist’s office and found a teenage boy hovering over a small platter of cookies. I smiled at the fact that Brendon was being his classic self.

I stared at his large stature in disbelief. It was irritating that he could eat anything he ever wanted and not get fat, but I supposed his exercise and teenage-boy metabolism balanced everything out.

Somehow he had managed to get pink frosting in his soft brown hair. He grinned, and crumbs of cookie tumbled out of his mouth and down his shirt. Despite being eighteen years old, he was always a child at heart.

My father had only one friend in his lifetime, Uncle Jim, Brendon’s dad. Even though I called him my uncle, he and my father weren’t related. Their closeness bound them as brothers. My father was the only one who knew Jim’s real name; not even Brendon knew his own dad’s name. Jim created his cover before either of us was born due to mysterious circumstances. I often pondered if my dad’s real name was Jared, or if it was a cover like Uncle Jim. The truth was that I would never know, nor did I care. My father was six feet under the ground and that was the best fact I ever knew.

Three years ago, when I was thirteen, a horrible accident occurred. The frozen night in late December brought harsh winds that threatened to cut through anything that stood a challenge. Dense fog blinded the city, and slick black ice coated the streets. The image was horrific, but beautiful. It has haunted me ever since.

Warnings plagued TV stations like a pandemic about the weather. However, one bus drove a moment too late to its last stop. The vehicle skidded on a frozen watery mirror and tumbled down a deep valley. Every passenger, including the bus driver, died on impact.

Brendon disconnected from the world for a few weeks when the police arrived at his doorstep to tell him the tragic news. It terrified me that someone so strong and exultant could break so easily. His humor wiped clean from him. His cheesy smiles and god-awful puns vanished. The light had been torn from his bright brown eyes. He was shattered, and I had to be there to fix it. I shook my head at the thought of my therapist muttering something about proper mourning.

Despite everything that had happened, something felt off about the situation. It was the perfect accident; there were neither survivors nor witnesses. I knew it was common for these disasters, but I had a feeling in my gut that my parents’ deaths were still a mystery.

There are no such things as perfect crimes or accidents, only planned. I tried to shake my father’s voice out of my head, but I should have been used to the disappointment. Even though he was gone, he could still torment me from the underworld.

I did mourn for my mother to an extent, as much as my mind-set would allow me, but not once for my father. Brendon’s grandparents quickly brought him in, while I was set up for adoption. I was hastily placed into a new family. It was a new start for me to be a normal child; it was a new beginning. I used my cover, as my father had directed, and began a new life.

Thank you for giving me a ride to work. I plucked a cookie from his hand and took a bite. He stood in horror at the fact that I had taken a dessert away. Jessica has the car for the day.

"Anytime, McKayla. Brendon gave me an obvious wink. I rolled my eyes and nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. Were you nice to your shrink this time? I snorted for my answer as I climbed into his large truck. Molly and Steve are going to keep making you go to Mrs. Hudson if she doesn’t approve you! Please, Artemis, try to be nice," he pleaded.

I think I am done with approval. I spent thirteen years of my life trying to get approval from my dad … My voice trailed off as something poured out of his bag. Brendon! Really? You stole the bowl of cookies?

The chocolate chips made my fingers sticky. His face split into a huge grin at his own pun and paused to see if I would laugh. I bit back a smile and he decided that that was good enough. He bit into another cookie and dripped chocolate on his favorite red shirt and tried to lick it off while both hands gripped the steering wheel.

I still hear Jared’s voice in my head and have horrible flashbacks. I don’t know how to make it stop, I whispered, held my breath, and prayed that another memory wouldn’t force its way to the surface. I never had a problem that wasn’t fixable. The fact that I would be hearing my father’s voice in my head for the rest of my life terrified me. I thought I was finally rid of him.

Brendon reached his hand over to comfort me, but I shrugged him away. The corners of his mouth drooped slightly. I hated to be comforted. It felt like almost a gesture of weakness, and weakness was something that I just couldn’t afford.

Are we still on for tonight? he asked, his large brown eyes peering down at me.

I nodded. He gave me a brief good-bye and drove off into the merciless streets of New York. I winced when I heard his truck, Betsy, screeching and careening down the road. Silently, I cursed his horrid driving and hoped he wouldn’t get in a wreck. He had always been the aggressive driver while I was the passive driver.

When I joined Molly and Steve’s family, I always baked for them. Due to their large sums of money, they had built a little bakery along a busy road in town for me. They offered to name it after me, but having my cover name on a large sign made me uncomfortable, so I politely declined. It was part of my cover that McKayla loved to bake. I hated to admit it, but I had learned to enjoy baking from continually doing it over a long period of time. It forced me to focus on the ingredients rather than my past.

Every day before work, I went through tedious precautions. I checked the parking lot to see if there were any cars, and to my expectations, there were none. As I peeked through the tinted, bulletproof windows, I saw that the bakery was vacant. I inspected the perimeter of the building for anything unusual, and when I was satisfied, I slowly opened the door. I cringed when it groaned on its hinges and opened it to a forty-five-degree angle. Everything followed the code of normality, and I pressed it to a ninety-degree angle. When finished fanning a room, get low. I dropped to my knees to get eyelevel with the tables and anything that would be a good hiding spot for intruders. Finally, I slid my body to an angle so I could view everything out the window. No pairs of eyes appeared to be watching me, no suspicious cars parked on the streets, and no snipers hiding amidst in the skyscrapers.

Clear, I breathed to myself.

The lights flickered on, and I admired my little shop. Soft grays and blues accented the wall, and charcoal tables and stools were placed in neat rows. I grasped my ragged apron, dotted with stains, and began baking. Costumers rushed in and left as fast as they came. It was just the way I liked it, not too busy, but enough to make a profit.

It was ten to nine, almost closing time. I tapped my fingers against the granite counter impatiently. The bakery was a ghost town. I flipped the TV on to the news station in order to pass the time.

We have breaking news. Last night, four men robbed a high security bank. They managed to steal 3.2 million dollars. Unfortunately, the thieves escaped before police could arrive at the scene. Police say these men are armed and exceedingly dangerous. If you have any information about the criminals, please call the number at the bottom of the screen. Do not resist if you come in contact with them. Wait until it is safe to call, a reporter stated near a bank surrounded by cop cars.

Still shots from a surveillance video appeared on the screen of the four men. I stood in shock at how close in age they were to me and how handsome they were. They wore matching outfits, black silk shirts and trousers. A man with bright ginger hair and emerald eyes stared intently at one of the computers. A thick and stocky man handed his brunet comrade a dagger. My stomach lurched at the way the brunet stared longingly at the blade. The fourth man had jet-black hair with startling cobalt eyes. His long fingers clutched a briefcase with a haunting, crooked smile.

These men ignored every classic mediocre-thief rule! Most robbers wore some sort of mask to hide their identity while committing a heist of any kind, but they didn’t. They didn’t mind walking out of blind spots, letting the security camera get a perfect shot of their striking faces, or taking their time. Their confidence made it seem too easy.

Only the well-trained could ignore these rules. I smiled at the slightest hint of competition. They basked in the spotlight; instead, I preferred to keep my occasional five-finger discounts discreet.

Brilliant, I whispered.

Thank you, a voice emerged from the shadows. The accent made it nearly impossible to pinpoint the origin. It was almost a mixture of British and Russian.

A figure made its way to the light. My eyebrows shot up in surprise when I saw it was the same man with the suitcase, from the news. He was a contrasting image of black and white. His inky black hair curled slightly at the temple; it was so black that it nearly shone a bluish tone in the light. Brilliant cobalt eyes shone like marbles on his angular pale face. Sharp cheekbones jutted out, creating deep shadows on his face. He easily towered over my short structure. Toned muscles rippled underneath his thin black shirt. His fingers rubbed his strong and pronounced jaw as he studied me.

How could I not have noticed him walk into the bakery? I certainly would have noticed someone with the kind of looks he had. I noticed everyone and everything to the best of my ability. It was an awfully tedious habit of mine.

Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I would like to have this fine day? His bright eyes carried a slight crazed look. The look was dangerous, but intriguing. It held a pure look of insanity, but attractive nonetheless.

I’m going to call the cops, I shot back too quickly.

No, you’re not, he said with a smile as he took one confident step closer.

What makes you so sure? I fought hard to keep my voice steady. My body betrayed me by a racing heart and unstable breaths. I had been in worse situations with even more dangerous people than a simple bank thief, so why was I losing my composure?

The nice lady on the television says to wait until it’s safe, he grinned.

Relying on the police is just proving the fact that you are pathetically incapable of fixing your own problems. It was against my nature to call for help. If things turned for the worst, I would fight.

You don’t look like much of a threat.

Now, that’s just rude. He pouted. However, I was informed this was the place to have … He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out on his knee. A cookie cake bomb. The statement sounded more of a question than anything. What is that exactly?

The outside is cake, the second layer is caramel, and the third is a no-bake cookie dough that is infused with chocolate sauce. It is served with homemade vanilla ice cream on the side … My voice trailed off when I saw him pull out his wallet but closed it when he puckered his lips as if still unsure of what he wanted. You aren’t going to rob me? I asked bewildered and nodded to the gun tucked into the side of his trousers.

Why would I rob you when I have 3.2 million dollars? He looked at me like I was the insane person in the room. Shouldn’t it be called a cake cookie bomb if the cake is the first layer?

When you own a bakery you can name the desserts however you’d like, I muttered under my breath. I’m sorry, but we are sold out of cookie cake bombs, I said a little louder for him to hear.

So, make more, he said it as if it was the obvious solution but hinted an edge to his voice.

I attempted to form the right words, but they never came. Why was it so hard to talk to him? I was more nervous around him than scared. I could easily disarm anybody with a gun with the correct twist of the wrist, but he somehow set me on edge. They take about an hour to make, and we close in five minutes. I looked at the clock and bit my lip.

I can wait. He folded his arms across his chest. I opened my mouth, but he dismissed me with a hand. You have a sign that clearly states you will serve every customer with happiness. Now, be happy, and make me what I came out of my way to get. The man was starting to lose his temper, and even worse, so was I.

I nodded obediently and