A lot of people showed up on the day of the funeral.

Some were distant relatives, some were close friends… Hell, even some enemies have attended the ceremony. However, the large crowd of mourners consisted of common people. Rather appeared to be, according to the press. Despite the identity of the attendants, the deceased was a well-known head figure, a commander of great influence and for several achievements, he possessed huge popularity in civil society.

In other words, he grew to become a national symbol.

The old lady stood firm while receiving the mourners’ procession on her face, shaped by life’s tough experiences, a frame of wisdom and dignity. Granting her posture another layer of depth and splendor, far more than the traditional picture of an outdated widow grieving the death of her husband.

Although the sadness gnawed at her heart, no thick trace of sorrow could redraw the details of her stern countenances. Akin to a divine sculpture of a deity guarding the entrance of a great palace, She rose, leading the ritual initiating to another world.

In the composure of queens, the Mccarthy lady devoted her sunken eyes towards the crawling human queue, slowly driving in her direction. Holding the offered hands while thin lips poised, echoing words of thanks and gratitude. Whether the attendees came to present their genuine condolence or sneer at her loss, as well as others' unspeakable motives, her treatment was the same and demonstrated in one fashion. Cold equity.

Behind, two ladies, no less in confidence and calmness, saluted this stream of humans. One of them sealed a great resemblance to the old lady. As if she was a reflection of a bygone past. Both helped in receiving this sour blend of mourners. Their strong mien amassed an amalgam of meanings, blackness, sadness, and flaring preparedness to fight.

And not far away, three girls in their prime of youth, the similarities between them were light, nonetheless noticeable to the Keen observers, regulated the organization and the guidance of the attendees. Regardless of their neutral features, the redness in the rim of their eyes couldn’t be concealed.

After more than seventy years of continuous struggle and fight, in the eyes of his family and loved ones, after more than forty years of arrogance and tyranny, in his opponent's and enemies' perspective, at midday, Mccarthy Benjamin Desmond’s body will be transported to its final resting place. Out of respect for his will, he will be buried in the Whitestone cemetery, next to his parent, as well as some of his children and grandchildren who weren’t lucky enough in this world and left early.

It wasn’t widespread knowledge that the Whitestone cemetery turned into the last resting place for many generations of the Mccarthy house. This ancient, deep-rooted family, whose origin went far back in history, in which names and titles changed. Social standing varied. Yet the origin remained one, the same pure and clean blood.

Under its last surname flourished a few generations dating back older than the new political and economic movement the world is currently witnessing. And now, here rose the moment for this generation's leader to hand in the torch of this house to the next one.

In the news, it has been rumored the cause of Benjamin Mccarthy’s death, the head of the Mccarthy house for more than forty years, was a sudden cardiac arrest. However, the truth unrevealed to the public was only known by a handful of people; influence monopolists, power grabbers, and sovereignty holders. Of course, for the sake of national security and public opinion, facts that bring panic and chaos to the community must be tempered with, obscured, hidden then changed, and manipulated before being published and disclosed in the media.

Maby this restricted truth fueled the reason that urged the potential and expected heir of the Mcarthy to order tight security, around the residence, in the streets, and also at the cemetery, while he contented himself in showing the traditional mysterious, stern face.

Not far from where he stood, the rest of the family men scarred near him, exhibiting a mechanical reception, a well-thought-out formality atop fake expressions, and extreme caution. In which, an ordinary individual will be confused, wondering if he was at a funeral or in a charged diplomatic meeting.

Every handshake accepted by the potential heir, accompanied by sympathy and condolence recitals. Its resonance reverberated hollow, lacking authenticity in his ears. Just an empty speech, occasionally provocative, exceptionally unearthed with contradictory meanings. Sometimes he coupled the sound with a scrutinizing gaze. Different faces yet equal stiff, woody features.

Hand after hand, for seconds, fingers intertwined then slipped apart, separating for the ritual to repeat, again and again. In the end, people hear what they wanted to hear, see what they wanted to see and he was no exception to this rule.

General Mccarthy approached his eldest son, hissing into his left ear, “where is Kieran? Everyone noticed his absence.”

Silence governed Alfred's response, his eyelids flickered, eyebrows raised. The answer to this question stretched beyond succulent words. Swift action needed to be carried out. No matter where was Kieran, he must force him to show face. Needless to say, he must find him first.

This day, an important one for the family’s reputation. it will be long as well as overtaxed. Even so, nothing unplanned allowed to emerge, nothing unexpected shall defile the family prestige and no unfavorable remark qualified to emerge as rumors.

Considering most of the other powerful houses, strong clans, who sang the grief melodies of loss to the Mccarthy, were mere fiery hyenas and bloodthirsty wolves. The funeral ceremony molded a fancy umbrella for their hungry claws and a shallow napkin for their eager drools. Under the humanity and compassion masks, they concealed their greed.

For their success, there were no better opportunities than monitoring a headless prey, in a state of confusion and dispersal. And this was as it was expected after the sudden death of Benjamin Mccarthy, escorted by the well-known whispers of the bad relationship between the Patriarch of the house and his potential heir.

For the sake of assessing circumstances, spotting the defiances then elaborating plans, the attendees perfected their performance. To what level spread the control and authority of the new head? did his strength plenty to withstand an outside threat? Or will there be openings, fragile balance, weaknesses that can be exploited in near future?

Everyone, everything had the possibility to be profitable. A child from the family's main root, spiteful relatives from its branches, close allies, frenemies, incompetent operatives, bad security… The list goes on and on…

This day deemed a matter of life and death, a matter of continuity and survival. General Mccarthy was well aware of this truth. The victory crown only decorated the head of the worthy.

On the afternoon of Benjamin Mccarthy's funeral, from the residence gate to the cemetery entrance, the streets filled with myriad clusters of people. Overcrowding the roads. Those who knew the General predicted half of the mourners to be his trusted men.

That afternoon, no one witnessed Kieran Noah Mccarthy's presence, even the closest members of his family.

Condolences continued throughout the week, while evidence of grief still hung on the wells and balconies of the residence. The neighborhood crowded with the arriving as well as leaving cars, felt restless. Unable to attend the funeral day, some reached from far regions, most ranked low on the hierarchy scale of power and influence, others with diluted blood, distant small branches in the family old tree.

The anxiety nets, the caution axes, waving around the family members' necks, began to recede and the danger to retreat. The huge weight fell on the General shoulders, from the death announcement day until the burial day, started to shrivel, little by little. But some stalking eyes in their constant, diligent surveillance, forever active. Like stray dogs, Hiding among dark alleys, they never slept and always sniffed out the well-swept dirt.

Not long before the sunset on the tenth day of the patriarch's death. Against the magnificent powerful display. From the worn forgotten corners, a loud barking resurfaced, explaining and analyzing the justificative reasons regarding the Mccarthy third son's absence.

What a disgrace, it was a scandal. No matter how much general McCarthy's power had grown, he was unable to educate his son.

“Do I supervise the process of searching for the source then silencing them?” Calmly said Alfred, his arms stretched along his body, according to the military custom. As if he was one of them although he didn’t wear any official uniform to prove his affiliation.

“No.”

One word rejection, the general command voiced clear, furthermore anticipated by his elder son.

Anyway, Alfred's purpose for laying down this suggestion dug deeper than gaining investigation approval, rather it gravitated more towards learning about his father's intention regarding his little brother's behavior.

It called, sibling curiosity…

“We have far more important affairs to deal with,” added Jeremiah, and he wasn’t the type who dwelled on subjects he already had decided on, especially when his answers shortened under the “yes” or “no” label, hardly an explanation or reasoning will follow, “what we will get after silencing big mouths? We will only confirm the doubts of their patrons.”

Alfred sighed without sound, it seemed his father did not intend to punish Kieran for the time being, or was there another motive for the delay?

“How about Kieran?” So he attempted a direct approach.

“Leave him alone.”

Jeremiah's eyes flickered above the documents bedding his desk. The pen hugged between his fingers halted its unwavering dance above the papers. He leaned his weight back on the chair. It wasn’t a look of anger nor resentment that besieged his face, just the one out of thoughtfulness and concern from a father to his gullible son. His ignorant son.

“He is stubborn, only acts on what his demons dictated in his head. Regular discipline, normal punishment methods will not bring me satisfying results, I will deal with him later.”

Ah… He will deal with him later...

Soundless Alfred murmured the last sentence under his tongue. The all-encompassing undisclosed implications perched at the back of his mind. “I will deal with him later,” when this sentence left his father's mouth, it did not bode well.

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Faster than the train of his thoughts rampaging the laying possibilities, a file flapped in his direction, settling in the nearest corner to his visual field. Above its cover fixed a picture of a person getting out of a black car. His attire combined the luxurious elegance of businessmen and the brutality of impulsive outlaws, in a harmonious, subtle blend, only discerned by well-seasoned observers and body language experts.

“Have you checked his background?” Demanded Jeremiah, who was still relaxing in the comfort of his chair. Yet the serious mien told a different story.

The General lost ruminating about his brief encounter with the man. The quick handshake, the applied pressure, the way the stranger carried himself, then the condolence words slipped out of his breath. Everything about this man sparked the General's irritation and flared the fire of his curiosity. Did he motion that this businessman wasn’t registered in the authorized attendees' lists, at least in his lists?

“Emery Cromwell, a nouveau riche, a rising businessman. The core of his wealth revolved around a series of gambling houses, nightclubs, and hotels, yet his true passion lay in antiques, monuments, and historical artifacts. I believe he reached the town about ten hours after the public announcement, but the opportunity to offer his condolence was granted to him only days later.”

“Hmm…” The general interrupted him, finally got himself an insight, not deep enough but sufficient to build a theory upon it, “Hmm, antiques, monuments, no wonder he was able to approach your grandfather's circle?” He glanced at Alfred demanding further elaboration, “Is this all you got?”

Old Benjamin wasn’t exactly a fan of art or antiques, his favorite hobbies leaned towards action and violence more than beauty and esthetic, such as shooting, hunting, or airports… Yes airports, he obsessed with everything that had to do with flying, light aircraft, airplanes, even hang gliding and parachuting.

Except, after he advanced in years and old age weaknesses bit on his health, the pursuit of those delights waned. Excluding the great influence of his wife who tended to appreciate classical music and collect antiques, the change in his avocation in his last years due not only to his wife's taste or withering body but also, to a certain of his grandchildren, participated in the transformation process.

“Accurate details about him or his work are scarce, I will need longer than a few hours to do a large-scale profound digging about his background, connections, and transactions. I presume he isn’t a fan of popularity attracting public attention.

“Since he trade in monuments and antiques, he must be familiar with a particular variety of our transactions.”

“It goes without saying, but I don’t think grandfather just used as a mediator and supported his growth simply to collect antiques.”

“Humm…” Jeremiah's head jolted by thoughts, sorting information… scarce details, not fonded of popularity, his old man supported him, antiques, monuments…” Humm…” then why the man rubbed him the wrong way?

Jeremiah wasn’t the kind of man that placed others above their worth. However, something about this man gutted his reservation, aroused his doubt, upset him. Something he wasn’t able to put his fingers on or define it. His intuition seldom failed him before, and certainly, he can’t leave unsupervised possible danger.

Too bad he was at a sensitive period, establishing his control, deterring big competitors, and sniffing out rooted traitors summed up his urgent objectives. Not enough time left for small arrogant fishes that annoy and fiddle with his suspicions.

Aware of his father's top priorities as well as his busy schedule, Alfred shoved the decision threads from under his father's grasp, “Don’t worry too much.”

The general gifted him, his famous ambiguous stare, neutral yet inquisitive, perhaps nonchalant or resentful, anyway he resumed, “leave him to me.”

……

“Are you certain of your ability to discipline an insidious wild beast?” Following a short silence, the general finally interacted, “or getting rid of him if it ruled a necessity?”

Alfred threw him his charismatic smile, stained with loads of confidence, “I am not talking about myself, I am just saying I know who is best suited to this job.”

The conversation cut by the light knocks on the door, a formally dressed guard saluted after getting permission, “Sir… the car is ready.”

The general stand up, the sunlight swept over his uniform, first highlighting the number of stars adorning his epaulets then reflecting on the medals and badges on his chest before it fell on the desk surface.

He picked up his hat, straightened it above a perfectly sleeked backward hair. Calmly pushing towards the door he left Alfred a rather last warning than passing advice, “Be careful, this kind of ambitious individuals who climb through ranks in such a short time, possess plenty of tricky packages if you weren’t able to control and use him, get rid of him.”

Minutes after General McCarthy's envoy set off, a gray pickup truck joined by two black cars left the same residence but in the opposite direction. In the direction of Benjamin McCarthy's favorite hunting spot.

Miles out of the town, expanded, as far as the eyes could reach, breathtaking plateaus and virgin forests that survived the absurd destructive touches of humans’ hands. How not? When this area has been incorporated under the law protecting and preserving natural domain, thanks to the effort of a well-known association.

However, this lawful protection didn’t prevent a handful of powerful figures from stamping their trace on the border of this natural reserve.

Nothing counted far from a person’s hold as long as they have the means to grab it so.

Some of the existing structures possessed a simple look and traditional rustic feel, delivering to the spectator, a warm impression and a subtle nostalgia for the region's ancient history. The original owners of the land, inherited it, from grandfather to father to son. Whereas other buildings were modern in construction, new in design, and fancy in execution. The ownership of the land measured recent. several buildings stank of tourism investment for those who can pay the accommodation cost.

Alfred and his sibling always considered the mill residence, the summer house of the family.

In fact, it was more like a farm than a summer house. Horse stables, greenhouses, and bee boxes sprawled around. In addition, a wide field protected by meter long wooden fence spread on left. Likely for practicing horsemanship. Whereas the archery field concealed in the back of the main building.

As for the ground behind the name, represented in two very old built towers, nearest to the protected land borders, once the main mills for a prosperous village. Today, they serve as watchtowers.

How much this place sparked back his childhood memories... And how dear this farm was to his Grandmother's heart.

She never fed up repeating the same stories; the period in which the family was forced to settle here before the restoration of the city, or about her wedding ceremony, to impose with this soft tactic, her firm rejection of all the renovating suggestions while strongly encouraging the restoration means.

“You all can do with this farm whatever you want to, but after my death.” One day she said to his grandfather, and father, also to him. When they brought the idea of establishing a hotel or turning the land into a tourist center.

She never thought Benjamin will be the first to go… Since his health was in a better state than hers.

Whenever Alfred heard his grandmother's stubborn declaration, doubts submerged him, to the point he became certain of the fact that this farm will withstand the overarching tides of time as long as the property contract was inherited by the women of his family.

The car stopped in front of an old but large building that combined the grandeur of palaces and the simplicity of cottages. His accompanying bodyguards opened the door…

Swimming among the waves of his memories, Alfred was in no hurry to put his shoes on the muddy soil.

As soon as his eyes wandered exploring the way to the house gate, he felt great regret for not wearing thick boots. A long sigh escaped his lungs… Lamenting the catastrophic state at the entrance of the house and wondering what caused the roads to deteriorate into this miserable state...

Didn't the restoration process, to which his grandfather allocated a large sum of his income, end?

Escorted by two guards... Once Alfred reached the big wooden door, all his senses jumped fluttering to a nearby loud racket of a gunshot.

One of the two guards rushed towards the source while the other squared up to a protective, alerted posture, as he twiddled the arm from under his jacket… Yet Alfred's first reaction was to chase the gunshot root.

The neglected bodyguard had no choice but to catch up in his superior footsteps as fast as he could.

The mud defiled not just Alfred's shoes but also his luxurious clothes.

Oh my God... Could it be that they didn't target the official residence during the mourning period because their eyes were on the farm?

This terrifying thought dominated his being, growing to a panic attack, urging him to run quickly, not caring about the muddy puddles and animal waste in which his feet sunk in…

How come he didn’t consider this possibility? His conscience yelled.

How could he diminish the threshold of his caution after a few days of calm?

How could he not have put tight security on their summer residence when he expected his grandmother to come back right away after the mourning period?

Besides, didn’t Evelyn must have accompanied her too? Mabe also his fiancée was here…

He would never forgive himself if something happened to them.

From afar... Behind the wooden fence, Alfred and his bodyguards spotted two men running to the same destination, the source of the gunshot noise. From their uniforms he deduced their affiliation, they were farm workers.

He paused catching his lost breath… Watching with eyes charged per chaos. the scene unfolding in front of him carried unmistakable clarification...

When the workers reached the said location, the outlines of a familiar shadow entered Alfred's visual field. his movements drifted graceful, dejected, confident, angry, a lot of contradiction blended into one appearance. The shadow crouched down, adjusting the hunting rifle in his left hand, and feeling the withdrawn life from the corps under him with the other one.

Once more, Alfred took a deep breath... and watched the merciful farewell scene of his grandfather's favorite horse...

Under the skin of his face, many conflicted feelings feuded…

Kieran’s actions always made him bewildered... indignant, upset, relieved, and reluctant to be angry at him much less master the heart to scold him.

Did he need to pity him or condemn his irrational, public- unfitting conduct?

How many times did he advise him to leave the dirty work in others' hands? And care more about appearances.

Even principles honoring, morally uptight, ideals chasing Jacob understand this necessity.

Seconds passed quickly, during them, Alfred froze up in his place, surveying the profile of his little brother hovering above the horse's corpse. Hooded darkness concealed his expression before his gaze flickered into the distance, to the soil under his feet, then to his own clothes, his miserable expensive clothes.

He attempted to shake off the dirt excess before moving on, walking away, back to the house.

“Oh my god, Alfred, what happened?” Evelyn exclaimed at the top of the stairs. “You look like you have soaked in swam of horse shit.” she chuckled amused, “you better take shower before grandma sees you.”

“Is there enough security in here,” He asked, something unsettling besieging his voice, undefined, at least to Evelyn…

“Yes, uncle Fry sent with us some of his men,” she rubbed the base of her nose, tired while eyeing the restless outlines of her brother, “Why what's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Alfred mused, way absent-minded, heeding the surroundings, “you should have informed me of your departure, I could arrange a few more guards.”

Oh... Evelyn hummed in understanding, he must have met Kieran.

No..no, if he had met Kieran, a verbal fight would have already broken in. He must have seen him from afar...

She strode downstairs wondering what errant brought her big brother here. He rarely visited this place even less outside his vacation days. At the same time, she thanked god it was Alfred who came not Jacob... The latter will lunch a war against her twin's strange yet very understandable to her, behavior.

“Are you angry?” she asked, tearing her gaze away, “at Kieran, I mean?” Avoiding lineal contact.

Prior to Alfred's reply, the silence throbbed a gloomy air. Evelyn could swear on her old brother's protest against Kieran…

“No.”

They exchanged abrupt, sharp stares. The answer was unexpected. Incredible.

“No.” Alfred repeated for his sister's disbelief to be erased, tilting his head to the side, his tone was low-pitched, almost soothing, “the coffin was empty anyway.”