Page 45 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘Mm.’ Penhalyx is clearly feigning interest. ‘Children can be difficult.’

Troy drinks a healthy mouthful of neat whiskey.

‘How’s yours?’

‘My children?’ he echoes like he’s half certain Troy couldn’t possibly have asked. It’s almost funny the way Troy treats him, like they’re a couple of Saturday dads at the park.

‘Yeah.’

‘They are exemplary and well, thank you.’ Penhalyx sits again, eyeing Harker with barely concealed dislike. Ground level, he had called Troy last time. ‘I assume Maddox has already briefed you?’

‘He did.’

‘You will work with my head of security to contain any spillover.’

‘What do you expect is likely to spill?’

‘I am not in the habit of anticipating failure, but prevention is far more valuable than cure. She had contacts in the special forces, I recall.’

‘Understood.’

‘I will walk you through it.’

It’s ten minutes of worst-case scenarios, and then Penhalyx reiterates that Lachlan is to assist Troy however he sees fit, and Lachlan agrees. His mind is a sodden mess of too many things. All he can cling to with any clarity is his doctrine of protecting Jules and Mimi.

Whatever is necessary to keep them safe.

Necessary.

What does necessary mean, though?

The definition broadens day by day in this place, under this man, bound by the contract he signed years ago in this very room.

‘Very well, keep me apprised of the situation,’ Penhalyx says, rising to stand, which signals the end of the meeting.

‘You got it.’ Troy sets the glass down on the old man’s desk and cracks the bones of his neck. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘See our friend to the door, Lachlan, and send my son to me.’

They leave together.

Once they’re away from the door, Troy says, ‘You look like shit.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Harker.’

‘Was she your friend? Girlfriend? That why you’re twisted up?’

‘I’m not twisted up.’

Troy stops and grabs Lachlan’s arm, yanking him back.

The touch is unwanted in the extreme.

Lachlan’s fist coils tight, muscles locking into Focus Mode before he can rationalise it, prepared to punch until the bones break, but Troy raises both hands, brows lifted as he gestures ahead to the freestanding stone column Lachlan almost walked into.

‘Oh.’ Lachlan blinks at it. ‘Thanks.’

‘How old are you, boy?’ Troy asks, his tone oddly gentle. ‘Mid-twenties?’