Once Konstantine has his revenge, once Devin Blake has hunted down those responsible for Ines’s murder, then everything will be as it was. Our leader will be as he was.
And in the meantime, I have to continue doing everything I can to ensure no one, and I mean absolutely no one understands how close to complete catastrophe we all are.
“I want them punished, Antonio.” Konstantine’s voice spirals into a scream, tearing through the phone line. “I want their blood to water the earth around her stone. I want their heads. You hear me? You will sort this, you will make them suffer…”
His rage is a tidal wave, and for a moment, I am drowning in it.
I am about to reply, to impose order on his chaos, to tell him to lock down the estate and that I am on my way.
The words are on my tongue.
And then the world explodes.
It’s not loud over the phone. It’s a series of sharp, percussive cracks. Pop. Pop-pop.
A sound I know intimately; a sound that is utterly, horrifyingly out of place in the sacred quiet of our Grand Master’s gardens.
The scream is cut off. There’s a thick, wet gurgle. The sound of a man drowning on dry land. My hand tightens on the phone, the polished metal groaning in my grip. I am frozen in the hallway, a statue of ice and fire.
No. No. No. No.
Scuffling. A grunt. A shout for ‘medic’, and then a new voice picks up the phone. Young. Cold. Laced with a mocking deference that makes my stomach clench.
“Hello?
It’s clearly one of the guards, one of the few men we trust to be around Konstantine.
“What the fuck is going on?” I snarl, forgetting myself for an instance, forgetting where I am, and how many ears are listening in on this conversation.
“There’s been an incident. The Grand Master. He’s been shot. It’s not good.”
The ice in my veins spreads. I can see it; Konstantine gurgling, bleeding out. The images flash, unbidden and devastating. The foundation of my world, oftheworld, is cracking open beneath my damned feet.
“Apply pressure.” I bark back. “Do not let him die. Do you understand me? I am airborne in ten minutes.”
The silence in the hallway is absolute as I end the call. I take one breath. Two. I school my features into a mask of mild, professional regret and then I turn and walk back into the study as if nothing is amiss.
The PM looks up with a question in his eyes. I offer a thin, apologetic smile, not that he needs one. “My deepest apologies, Prime Minister. A critical family emergency on the continent requires my immediate attention. I assume you have everything you need? My office will be in touch.”
I don’t wait for his response.
I am already moving, my security detail converging on me as I stride towards the exit, towards the waiting car, towards my jet that will carry me to another unfolding bloody nightmare.
The performance is over.
The real work, the bloody, brutal work of survival, continues.
The private hospitalis a temple of antiseptic and anxiety. The air hums with the silent scream of machinery and dread.
I pace the short, worn length of the vinyl floor outside the operating theatre like a caged animal in a five-thousand-pound suit.
Each swing of the double doors makes my heart stutter. The rational part of my brain, the strategist, is locked down. All that is left right now is a raw, primal fear.
If he dies… the thought is a splinter driven deep under my fingernail.
If he dies, it is over.
Everything is over.
