Page 138 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Visions of Gwen circled my brain—standing in front of the door, with Rick’s hand on her throat while the metal went cherry red and she screamed. He’d turn our tools against us. I couldn’t let that happen. The vision shifted to Gwen in the car on our way to the ferry, before we’d reached Caen. She hadn’t yet picked up the condoms she’d hidden in her bag, still hoping to pull me out of my self-pity. ‘You’ve got a reserve of love built up inside of you.’

She was so fucking right, and I was going to do everything in my goddamn power to shower her with it.

The intercom clicked, and a voice I didn’t recognize came over the speaker. “The authorities have been called. The local constabulary are on their way. I suggest you use what time remains to remove yourselves.”

It wasn’t Rick, nor was it Hopkins. It belonged to someone older, someone whose lazy confidence reminded me of my father.

But for all his confidence, his police threat didn’t worry me at all.

In Prague, I’d reached for the police first, when we had to rescue Galahad’s girlfriend. I’d believed they’d go inside a large estate, find the kidnapped woman, and put everyone in cuffs. Instead, they’d left with a wad of cash.

We’d invaded that house, and I’d wound up in custody. My father made one call from wherever the hell he was at the time, and within minutes, the charges had thinned out to nothing more than a warning. It had been so fucking easy to call Daddy to fix things.

That night, money hadn’t found justice. Money had paid the law to turn around and leave.

I’d spent my adult life refusing to run my father’s playbook. But I had to admit, sometimes it worked. Tonight’s team backed me up because of it, and I was only getting started. My father’s words from this afternoon returned: ‘Get her back first. Decide what she is to you after.’

Half right, Dad.

Because the deciding was done.

I marched back to the thick steel door, thumbed over to the open channel with my team, and faced the camera for Mr. Unhurried. “I anxiously await their arrival.”

Nothing from the speaker.

“However, we both know you haven’t called them, nor will you.” I kept my voice casual, obviously glancing at Seven and his det cord. “Whatever this place is, whatever you all are, the discovery of a kidnapped American historian in your basement will bring it all down. Sure, we’re breaking at least a dozen laws⁠—”

“Two dozen, I think,” added Lance.

“There you go.” I nodded at him. “We’re breaking at least two dozen laws, but at worst we go to jail. You? You’ve been working too fucking hard to keep this place hidden from the world to survive any scrutiny.”

“We’ve survived for—” started the man, but I cut him off.

“And if a patrol car ever does roll up the drive, I’ll pay the cops to turn around and leave, the same as you would have paid them if I’d called about a kidnapping. So let’s skip the call. We can end this right now, and I’ll give you every penny I’d give the police.”

Seven paused in his coiling work. I could feel his eyes, and probably everyone’s brains, click over to me. If any of them had wondered if I was the Arthur—their boss’s son—they likely knew it now.

“Five million dollars.” I said the words clearly, aiming each one at the woman beyond the door. She was listening. I’d have bet my life on it. Let her hear the terms. Let her hear that it wasn’t about the money for me, that she was worth more. “Five million, US, moved tonight to any account on earth. Dr. Lyons walks out unhurt, my men and I are off the grounds before the transfer settles, and nobody ever learns about this house from us.”

The old man answered without hesitation. “We are not for sale, Mr. Penn.”

The name stung. It shouldn’t have, and I should have expected it. Rick would have handed them everything but my shoe size.

Rick laughed somewhere deeper in the room, the sound ugly through the intercom pickup. “What’d I tell you? The Boy Scout negotiates.”

Lance leaned in, off-channel. “Should’ve opened with three. Five’s a pretty high starting offer.”

I whispered back, “I’d pay a hundred.”

The intercom changed hands. The next voice was smoother, rounded at the edges. The voice of a man who discredited anyone who got too close to his secrets. Dr. Theodore Hopkins. “Mr. Penn, your brutes have shot up my home.”

“Check your cameras, Hopkins. Every shot fired in this house tonight came from your men, not mine.”

“I have a civilized alternative. Remove your men, all of them, off the grounds entirely. When the last of you has gone, Dr. Lyons will walk out the front door of this house, whole and free.”

Bullshit she would. “No.”

“You might do me the courtesy of considering⁠—”