“You know how we talk about her.”
I smile. Drink the last of my coffee. Stand up. “However we fucking like.”
I leave her in the coffee shop and I don’t look back. Majken is family, one of three people I’m blood related to. I could leave her behind if I choose and let her rot in her own political schemes.
But there’s an old adage about keeping your friends close.
Majken has never been a friend.
* * *
This seems cruel.
A ballroom full of people mainly wearing black shimmy with champagne and wine and utter their condolences, with at least a quarter not being sincere. Lennox was loved by some and hated by others. Then there were those who sensed he could be a puppet and a lot of people in politics loved a puppet.
Blair is dressed in navy blue; a long gown that clings to her tits and her ass and shows a hint of cleavage. There are a flicker of diamonds at her neck and a flicker of knowledge in her eyes. This room is hers and she knows it. Everyone’s here to see her and how she’s dealing with the death of her brother. Everyone’s a vulture.
I hide in the shadows, some phantom of a ghoulish opera, watching. Blair isn’t the only one I see. Tonight is when the first wave of puppet masters will appear, that we’ve predicted. This isn’t just about physical threat but also one that will try to claw and manipulate. It’s part of our job to make sure she is aware of people’s intentions when they start their rhetoric.
William Goldsmith wears a black suit and tie. His hair is under-styled compared with usual and he wears a sorrowful expression that’s probably more genuine than most. Without Lennox, some of his plans are dead. With Blair, they could be easier. Without her, his dreams could be dead.
If they were his dreams.
He touches Blair’s arm and she gives him the slight smile she’s practiced. It glitters at first, but behind it she keeps the barriers taut. His fingers tighten around her arm and this time I stiffen. I know Goldsmith’s intentions: fuck her and get her pregnant. I also know Blair’s and that the wetness she’s feeling between her legs is from about ninety minutes ago when she pulled up the length of her dress and bounced on my lap like it was her own personal living sex toy.
Majjie’s words resonated in my head:she’ll screw you over like every other woman.
Maybe.
“Two men have just entered.”
I don’t hear Micky as he walks up to me. Unfortunately, his new hip has made him even more quiet than before.
“Guest list?”
“Guest list and verified. Security check passes them with gold medals. James Wordsworth and Andrew Joyce.” Micky stands too close.
“Who are they known to?”
“End to Terror Charity.”
“How long’s their history?”
“Long enough for them to be verified. Not long enough for me to trust it.”
Micky may have introduced Blair to kink and kept her safe while she did it, but he’s still the best in the business.
“That’s your job: follow them. Watch them.”
Make them disappear.
He doesn’t need to say the words. Micky more than anyone knows what I am. All of what I am.
Goldsmith continues to talk to Blair, to touch her arm. I put what I feel in a box that’s neat and tight and can stay locked for as long as I need. I have other things to occupy me.
* * *
People underestimate the power of the internet. Within minutes of Micky voicing his concerns, a file of information hits my phone, details dug up from the dark web, the things people didn’t want you to know are all there, only hidden out of sight of those who don’t know how to see it.
