“You sure about that, little one? I’m fairly sure I nicked you,” Andrews calls out.
“Go fuck yourself,” I say through gritted teeth as I look at my arm. Jesus Christ, I’m going to have matching scars at this rate. Someone is clearly looking down on me, as the bullet only grazed my skin.
It still burns like a motherfucker, though.
Knowing Andrews, he’s got a Glock 19, which means he has fifteen bullets. Minus the four he has shot at me, so that’s eleven left.
I’ve got seven.
But I only need one.
“So, this whole assignment was a set up then? Nothing to do with our past, and everything to do with the hard drive. Tell me,were you the fucker who ordered the attack at the charity dinner or was that the work of The Covenant?”
“Come on, Kara, there’s casualties in every war. Besides, you know how long the Langleys and I go back. Why try to fix something that isn’t broken?”
The Langleys, one of the four families heading up the Covenant, they run the Isle of Dogs like it’s their own private empire. Everything that goes in or out—money, drugs, people—it flows through the Covenant, via them.
Canary Wharf is their playground. Was, should I say. A glass and steel façade of power, ripe with overpaid, under-stimulated executives looking for something to take the edge off.
The Covenant supplied it.
The Langleys transported it.
I never knew about Andrews’ link with them. How fucking naïve of me.
“Isn’t broken for who?” Owen spits incredulously.
“The Covenant may be reeling from the death of John Weston, and the destruction caused by Luca and you for that matter. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone,” Andrews says, ignoring Owen.
“Yet,” Owen adds.
I forget he has history with Luca. Maybe one day we will finish that heart to heart we started upstairs.
If we make it out alive, that is.
“Do you even know the importance of what’s on that hard drive? How much power you hold in your hands? I can’t let you walk out of here, either of you. It’s nothing personal. You know how this works,” Andrews continues.
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself.
Stubborn, reckless, pig-headed.
That’s what I am.
Andrews also used to tell me I was predictable, so I do something that he won’t expect.
I throw my gun out and stand, holding my hands up in front of me. I think I’ve got a plan, but I’m kinda winging it.
“Well, that’s surprising,” Andrews says, tilting his head to the side. “I have to say, I was expecting more of a fight. I’m a bit disappointed, to be honest. You’re usually so stubborn.”
I shrug.
“Knowing when to concede—”
“Is as important as persistence and pivoting,” Andrews finishes the saying.
“It’s up to us.”
I plead internally, plead that Owen knows what I’m doing here, hoping that he still has the gun I gave him.
