"Double the lab security," Algerone ordered, already moving toward his bedroom to dress. "Lock down the Banshee project."
I frowned. “Do you think he’d try corporate espionage?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Algerone muttered. “Make sure everything’s secure, Xavier.”
Xavier nodded, shot one more glare at me, and left. I remained in the therapy room slowly packing my supplies. The massage oil went back into my medical bag. The table would stay. He'd still need treatment, though perhaps from an actual therapist now instead of the man who'd betrayed him.
The shower was running in the master suite. In thirty minutes, he'd emerge dressed in one of his perfect suits, every inch the CEO of Lucky Losers Inc. He'd walk into that building tomorrow and reclaim his throne, and everyone would pretend the last eighteen months hadn't happened.
But they had happened. Every injection I'd administered. Every therapy session I'd overseen. Every night I'd sat beside his bed when the pain was too severe for sleep, not touching, not speaking, just being there because even his hatred was preferable to his absence.
I ran my fingers over the massage table. It was still warm from his body. I loved him. I’d loved him for thirty-two years, and I would love him until my last breath, regardless of whether he ever forgave me. The eighteen months of penance hadn't changed that. If anything, seeing him vulnerable, watching him fight to rebuild himself, had only deepened my devotion.
"Maxime," Algerone called, and I went to him, as I always had. As I always would.
My leg hurt likehell, but I wasn't about to let General Victor Kirsch see it.
I'd been back at Lucky Losers for five days, proving to my board, my employees, and every vulture circling this company that I was still the man in charge. Eighteen months was a long time to be gone. Long enough for people to get ideas. Long enough for competitors to smell blood in the water.
Long enough for everyone to forget who built this empire in the first place.
Kirsch stood beside me in the observation room, watching the demonstration like he was at a goddamn zoo. The Banshee prototype hummed on the other side of the reinforced glass. The device itself wasn't particularly impressive looking, little more than a sleek array of titanium cylinders, switchboards, and wires. That was the point. Revolutionary technology shouldn't announce itself.
On the other side of the glass, the test subject was strapped to a table. He was a nobody, just a low-level drug dealer Reid'steam had pulled from county lockup. The kind of scum nobody would miss if this went sideways. I'd stopped caring about the ethics of these demonstrations years ago. You wanted to see what a weapon could do, you needed a live target. Simple as that.
Dr. Hardin stood at the controls, her prematurely silver hair pulled back tight. I gave the signal, and she pressed a button.
The prisoner started thrashing immediately. His body contorted, back arching off the table hard enough I thought his spine might snap. Then came the vomiting, the debilitating headache, the confusion. For all intents and purposes, he was completely and utterly debilitated.
Kirsch's knuckles went white where he gripped the railing. "You're certain there's no lasting damage?"
"Not at this setting, no," I replied, keeping my tone professional. "But it is deadly at higher settings. At least with mice and pigs."
He turned to me. "And it's completely silent?"
I nodded. "Infrasound below the threshold of human hearing. No projectile. No chemical agent. Just physics. Imagine deploying this inside an enemy base, or where you suspect a terrorist cell of operating. Simply deploy the Banshee, deploy the troops, and clean house."
I shifted my weight, leaning harder on the silver-tipped cane. My hip was screaming at me. The same hip Maxime had worked on this morning before I came in. I shook the thought away. The last thing I needed to be thinking about right now was his hands on me.
Kirsch glanced at the cane, then looked away. My hand tightened on the cane. I wished he'd just mention it or ask me how I was feeling. Being politely ignored was worse than being treated as broken.
Dr. Hardin looked at me. "Demonstration of lethal capability, sir?"
"That won't be necessary," Kirsch said before I could answer. "What about urban environments? Does it carry through concrete? Steel? How deep underground will it penetrate?"
I held out my hand, and Maxime deposited the tablet in it, the schematics for the Banshee MK II already pulled up. "You'll find all the technical information here, General," I said, handing it over. "But the Banshee MK II is a scalpel, not a sword. This model emits targeted beams that can penetrate most modern building materials aimed in a single direction. For three hundred sixty degree deployment, you'll want the MK III. Smaller radius, less powerful, but the same effect."
Kirsch studied the tablet, rubbing his chin, and I knew I had him. "You know, I heard the Russians were working on something similar."
"They're at least eighteen months behind us in development," I announced proudly. "And the Chinese prototype is at least twelve months behind. I wouldn't have brought it to you if I weren't certain we could put America on the map with this. This is revolutionary technology, General."
He snorted. "For six billion dollars, it'd better be."
The door opened behind us, and one of Maxime's assistants entered to whisper in his ear. A strange spark of something ugly nearly caught in my chest as I watched the two of them whisper in hushed tones, heads bowed, as if they were… intimate.
But then I remembered Maxime's betrayal, how he'd hidden my children from me—my legacy—and then lied about it for twenty years, and I shut that jealousy down tight. Maxime wasn't mine. He never was and never would be.
Maxime nodded and dismissed his assistant, approaching me with another tablet in hand. "The contracts are prepared, gentlemen, whenever you're ready to sign, General."
