Someone giggles, and I’m immediately reminded of the fact that in this crowd,better newsdoesn’t exactly equal the King of England’s good health.
At long last, Dylan appears in Kit’s feed. The crowd parts for him, revealing his dark outfit and stoic expression, and I immediately spot the odd bulge at his hip. “Singh…”
“I see it,” he says, and he immediately presses a button and speaks into a mic he hasn’t touched so far. “Alpha team, the suspect is in range with a potential firearm. Over.”
There’s a flurry of activity from half a dozen feeds that have shown nothing but darkness or dim lights so far, but I can’t pullmy eyes away from Kit’s monitor. Dylan steps closer, and Kit rises to greet him.
“Dylan,” he says. “It’s about time.”
“Lord Clarence,” says Dylan in a tone that makes it clear he knows how much Kit hates his title. “I thought I’d give you the chance to speak with your fans before I cut in.”
“And what a lovely conversation we’ve all had,” says Kit, and I can hear his warm, insincere smile. A few people nearby giggle, and my nails dig so deeply into my palms that my skin throbs.
“Get out of there,” I whisper.“Run.”
“Guy sends his apologies,” says Dylan. “He was hoping to be here, but I’m afraid something came up.”
Singh snorts. “Of course it did. Best to send in the sacrificial lambs first to make sure no one gets arrested.”
I ignore him. “Does Kit have an earpiece in? Can someone warn him about the gun?”
“We don’t know it’s a gun,” Singh points out. “Take a deep breath, Evangeline. Alpha team is on it.”
“You’re really going to tell me to relax right now when I can see the cords in your neck?” I counter. Singh swallows, and the tension in his shoulders lessens only slightly. But at least he doesn’t try to tell me to calm down again.
We’ve missed something, and now Kit is following Dylan away from the main party, his overcoat draped over his arm. My heart thuds against my ribs. “Where are they going?”
Singh presses the mic button again. “Suspect is on the move with asset. Alpha team, stay close. Beta team, get in position. No deadly force without my say.”
“Yes, deadly force,” I protest. “Dylan has agun—”
“Evan,” says Singh sharply, his stare fixed on the monitors. “If you can’t handle this, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I want to claw his eyes out. I want to reach across the space between us and do as much damage as I can to Singh’s face with my bare hands, but instead I clamp my mouth shut and rise to my feet, as if that will help Kit somehow. But I don’t move from my spot.
They end up in an empty room that looks like it might’ve been an old-fashioned parlor at one point, with mauve wallpaper and large dark spots on the sun-bleached floor where furniture must have once stood. Dylan leans against the wall, fully at ease, while Kit remains several feet away, his back to the door.
“Why am I here?” says Kit, and Dylan shrugs.
“Guy thinks you’re useful to the club, and it’s my neck on the line if I lose you. Besides, you’re my mate, Kitters. And I’d hate for a misunderstanding to get in the way of years’ worth of friendship.”
A misunderstanding. He’s calling the bombing and the deaths of eight people amisunderstanding.“That’s it?” says Kit. “This was a test to see if I’d come?”
“It’s an apology.” Dylan reaches for the bulge on his hip, and I grip the back of my chair as Singh presses the mic button again.
“Hold—holduntil I say so,” he says with a note of anger in his voice, and I notice a high-powered rifle on a monitor in the corner, pointed through a window and aimed directly at Dylan.
“For you,” says Dylan as he pulls something from its holster at his side. A strange buzzing fills my ears, and my brain goes wild trying to fill in the blank the camera hasn’t caught yet. But when we finally get a good shot of the old-fashioned pistol in Dylan’s hand, the first thing I notice is that it has a ribbon wrapped around the barrel. Which is pointed at the floor.
The gun is a gift.
“What the hell?” mutters Singh, and he presses the mic again. “Stay at the ready, butdo not engage.”
Kit reaches for it, his hands shaking slightly. “An antique,” he says, the words strained. “How thoughtful.”
“From Guy himself,” says Dylan, relinquishing the weapon. I almost melt with relief. “Your father collects them, doesn’t he?”
“He used to,” says Kit shortly. “Please thank Guy for me. I look forward to meeting him.”
