I tap out my reply.Yes.
“So you’re traveling to England, then, sir?” Pierre dons his best British accent, which is as appalling as my French one.
“Looks like.”
“As Lincoln, or covertly?”
“As Lincoln.”
“Won’t that draw attention? If you’re in the UK when a Rook is murdered, then it could bring suspicion?”
I know that it will, and maybe that’s why I’m doing it. It’s taken me eighteen years to get this far, and I can’t wait another eighteen to find another one. Rooks are given high-level access for a reason. They are chosen because they would die before they’d betray the Brotherhood, so this might be my only chance to send a message that I can get to their elite. It might be the only chance I get. Playing the long game and picking them off one by one was viable when I had nothing but time and nothing else to live for, but now I have Imogen. And she’s made me realize that this all needs to fucking end. Maybe another King will take this one’s place and maybe the Brotherhood will go on forever, or another organization will rise to power in its stead. But I want the opportunity to lookhimin the eye. The one who established the auctions, the one who gave the orders for the murder of Luca and Carmen DeMotta, and who framed me for the crime. I want him to know that it’s me taking his life.
Then, I can walk away.
“I think maybe it’s time to stop playing so safe and up the stakes, Pierre.”
He smiles. “And not before time, sir.”
Chapter 53
Lincoln
After spending the day in a suit and tie meeting with dozens of CEOs from start-ups that are looking for funding, and then dodging paparazzi getting to and from the office building to my car, it’s a relief to remove all the vestiges of Lincoln Knight and put my usual uniform back on.
When I slip out of the hotel again, dressed all in black, with a surgical mask and the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up over my head, nobody notices me. One of the things I love about London is that nobody notices anybody. People are too busy in their own lives to even look up from their cell phones.
I take the Tube to the train that will take me to Surrey, the small part of the English countryside where Fraser Lane, or Francis Davies as he’s currently known, lives. Here in the pretty village of Shere, I’m much more conspicuous, so I don a regular face mask you can buy in any drugstore, and swap out my black hoodie for a Barbour coat, stuffing the former into my backpack.
As luck would have it, a few minutes after I situate myself in a prime position hidden amongst some trees opposite Francis’s house, he ventures out for an evening stroll.
He’s changed a lot since I last knew him. Gone are the camo gear and shaved head, and in their place are some slacks and acashmere jumper, along with a thick perfectly styled head of sandy-colored hair. The arrogant fuck heads straight toward me, stopping a few meters ahead, where he walks in circles while chatting on his cell phone. From the creepy laugh and the low timbre of his voice, not to mention the use of the wordsnaughty little sugar muffin, I’ll wager he’s not on the phone to his wife, Agnes, and is instead speaking to one of his mistresses. Even the most calculating and intelligent of men can make mistakes when blinded by the promise of some good pussy. The irony of that is also not lost on me, even though Imogen is much more to me than that.
I take the syringe from my backpack and wait for him to end the call before I step out of the trees and into his path. He regards me with suspicion upon seeing me, but continues walking, turning back in the direction of his house.
“Fraser, that you?”
He stops in his tracks and spins around, teeth bared like a rabid dog now. The country gent act has been dropped, revealing the Fraser I remember. “Who the fuck are you?”
“An old friend.” I take a few steps toward him.
He pulls a knife, like the good soldier he is deep down inside. Never go anywhere unprepared.
“Who sent you?” he growls.
“The King himself.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, or who you’re referring to. But back the fuck off, or I’ll slit your throat and bury you so deep nobody will ever find you.”
“You can try, but the King wouldn’t be very happy about that, now would he? Not after he asked me to give you a message.”
He jerks his chin in an arrogant challenge. “What message?”
“He wants to know about the traitor’s daughter. You know where she is?”
He frowns, still assessing me. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Oh, come on, Fraser. You don’t remember Imogen DeMotta? Luca’s kid? He was a Rook too, you know?”
