“Don’t do this, Ghost. You’re making a mistake,” he whimpers, finally coming to terms with the fact that his fate is sealed.
“It’s not my decision to make.”
He flicks the lights on, but they barely penetrate the darkness of the tunnel. We move deeper into the tunnel at a crawl. When we reach the end, a rock face, left over from when the construction was halted, forces us to stop. I exit first, my gun trained on Maxwell’s window and he joins me outside.
“I’m not stupid enough to draw on you,” he says, defeated, and casts his eyes toward the opening behind us in the distance. He gazes long and thoughtfully at the freedom he had a moment ago.
It sets my mind down two different paths.
One train of thought brings me to the conclusion that Maxwell must be guilty. If he weren’t, he’d object and plead his innocence with more vigor. The other, I’m loath to admit, sees him as innocent. Pleading his case to me won’t do any good. I’m neither judge, nor jury, nor executioner.
I’m a simple chauffeur bringing him from one point of his life to the next. However, his lack of fight keeps me wondering. He knows that if it came down to it, he wouldn’t survive a fight with me. Yet, when he knows that he will face a trial, that will see him shamed, disgraced, and killed, I find it odd that he doesn’t try everything in his power to prove he’s guiltless. I’d listen, not to Maxwell Henderson who stands accused, but to the man he once was. The Hand of the Veil.
It seems we both know there’s no use arguing. No matter the reason and even if I think they are true, I can’t and won’t release him.
Just as I reach the comfortable conclusion that Maxwell intends to face his trial with his head held high, he opens his mouth and shatters the illusion.
“Whatever this is, I can fix it,” he says in a last-ditch effort to win me over.
I sigh and jam the suppressor into his back. “Walk.”
And so he does. Over the tracks and to a service door that would look completely out of place in this tunnel, in daylight. I press my hand into a box next to the handle. Thuds and clangs from mechanical pins being dislodged from their locks erupt from inside the door. Their horrid cries come to an end with a loud, deep groan and the door swings inward, exposing an equally out-of-place corridor.
Unlike the dilapidated tunnel housing it, the corridor is lit with bright white lights that seem unending in length. Equally secure doors run along the walls, each three feet apart from one another.
Our arrival stirs a cacophony of howling from those who dwell behind those doors. Some beg, some cry, and others who have accepted their fate simply hurl insults and curses at Maxwell and me.
We walk past those who await their judgment in their tiny prison squares. Their misery grows louder and more frantic with every step. Some will never have their audiencewith the Council. They will spend the rest of their sorry existence in this cold, clinical hall. Others will be tried, by the Veil or the Head, but that wouldn’t be the outcome they might wish for.
From my experience, none will survive.
At the first open cell, I press my hand into another biometric scanner, and listen to the door’s protest before it opens. I usher Maxwell into the three-by-three block interior.
“You’re making a big mistake, Ghost,” he says, not bothering to face me.
“It isn’t my mistake to make,” I answer, closing the door.
I leave the Bentley in the tunnel, and start back to the Bleed on foot. My bike will still be there, I know. Because even though they scorn me in passing, those who live in the Bleed know not to touch what belongs to the Ghost.
If you do, he will find you. He will make you suffer.
Chapter Sixteen
Lilith
Everything’s happening too fast.
One minute, I’m meeting the Crawfords. The next, I’m being followed. The damned second after, I’m living under their roof. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, most of the week has flown by and we’re two days out from the wedding.
But, while I hate to say anything kind about being forced to live in their mansion, if I had to choose just one, it’s that they pretty much aren’t here most of the time. Alistair and Colter are so busy, all the time, runningtheir empire and everything that comes with it, that they hardly ever have time to set foot in their own home.
Alistair spends his days in the city, and his nights God knows where. He blows into the house like a gust of wind at dinnertime, talks to Mom and gives her a big kiss on the cheek, and then he vanishes out the door until long after I’ve gone to bed. Buthisschedule isn’t the one that bothers me. If Mom’s happy with it, then I am too.
Colter, however, leaves me more than wanting for an explanation. I don’t even get to see him much in passing. My first instinct screams he’s uncomfortable around me after what happened during the move. That when he said “away”, he didn’t mean for a few hours, but from me altogether.
But I knew that was wrong, when we did happen upon each other in the house one time. He’d just stormed out of a door leading up to one of the spires on the corners of the house. He was muttering something to himself and looked flustered and frustrated. I assumed he’d just had a conversation with his dad, as the top floor is his home office.
But the instant Colter’s eyes fell on me, they softened and lingered in a way I’m becoming too used to. Too comfortable with. We didn’t say a word to one another. We didn’t have to, I suppose. We simply relished the quiet comfort enveloping us.
