“Of course,” I smile. “But I was actually hoping to speak toyou. I was reading the audit regarding your surgical steel donation this morning. Did it rust, Max? Or did it melt?”
Max steps up instantly, reading my play. “It was catastrophic,” Max lies smoothly. “Grade-D alloy. We tried to perform a valve repair and the retractor turned into a soup spoon. A tragedy.”
“A soup spoon!” Alistair shouts, delighted to join the skirmish line. “It de-magnetized my credit cards!”
“That is slander!” Vane sputters. “My steel is top tier!”
“It’s intel,” Jax adds, crossing his arms and looking menacing. “We had to call the EPA. Something about radioactive isotopes? I think I saw a Geiger counter go off in the supply closet.”
“Radioactive?” Catherine gasps, clutching her pearls. “In my hospital? Harrison, explain yourself.”
“It is a sin to cut corners on charity, Harrison,” the Archbishop chimes in, shaking his head gravely. “The Lord sees all. And so does the IRS.”
“You literally just bet me five hundred dollars the sculpture would collapse!” Alistair argues.
“That is physics, Alistair,” the Archbishop corrects smoothly. “This is fraud. There is a distinction in the catechism.”
Vane turns purple. He realizes he is outgunned by medicine, money, and God. He flees the area of operations, knocking over a waiter on his way to the bar.
I turn to Luke, checking my cuffs. “Asymmetric warfare,” I explain. “Jax calls it ‘shaping the battlespace.’ You don’t wait for the enemy to dig in; you neutralize the threat with overwhelming force.”
“Textbook ambush,” Jax nods approvingly. “Good kill, Preston.”
“You people are maniacs,” Luke whispers, staring at us with adoration.
“He’s a York,” a cool voice interrupts. “It’s genetic.”
Cousin Sloane appears from the shadows. She is wearing a black tuxedo jumpsuit and eating a crab cake with lethal precision. Sloane Kensington. My mother’s sister’s daughter.
“Sloane,” I say. “My favourite psy-ops specialist.”
“Visual on the target fleeing,” Sloane notes, gesturing with her crab cake toward Vane’s retreating back. “Sloppy retreat, but effective. I see the Church provided spiritual covering fire?”
“I merely reminded him of the commandments,” the Archbishop says innocently, checking his racing form. “And the tax code.”
“Excellent synergy,” Sloane nods. “While you were handling the ground war, I took the liberty of calling our friends in St. Petersburg.”
Luke blinks. “St. Petersburg? Like… Florida?”
Sloane stares at him over the rim of her glasses.
“No, Dr. Silva. St. Petersburg, Russia. I activated the bots. Vane Shipping is currently trending alongside ‘Toxic Waste Dumping’ on three continents.”
Luke looks horrified. “You used… Russian bots? To tank a stock? Because he insulted me?”
“I used them because they were available,” Sloane shrugs. “And because the server farm owes me a favour from the last election cycle. Don't look so concerned, Doctor. It’s just ones and zeros. And petty revenge.”
“Who is she?” Luke whispers to me, terrified.
“Sloane Kensington,” I explain. “My cousin. She handles Crisis Management for the entire extended family. Do not ask about the server farm. Plausible deniability is the only thing keeping us out of federal prison.”
“I prefer ‘Strategic Communications,’” Sloane corrects. “Speaking of strategic failures… look who just breached the perimeter.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Walking toward us is theotherYork faction. The Rival Court.
Leading the charge is Uncle Frederick—Alistair’s older, richer, meaner brother. He is flanked by a woman in emerald green silk who is holding two martinis, and Cousin Tripp, who is wearing Google Glass.
