Page 114 of Outcast’s Vow

“What are you doing about the Masked Killer, Leopold? What’s happened is a monumental fuck-up.”

“I told you. We’re dealing with it, boy.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I nod at the lobby’s TV screens, which are currently showing rolling news of Beckett’s murder. The FBI is involved. There are already protests brewing in major cities. The President is about to give a press conference.

“It doesn’t look that way.”

“Despite what you may think or how you may behave,” Leopold says in a vicious rasp, “you are not an Elder yet, Baptiste. Leave this to us. Now, be a good boy and do the task handed to you.”

“What if I say no?”

“Not to me, Baptiste,” Leopold retorts. “You’ll lose everything. And not only you, but your pretty young wife as well. Her father is barely holding on to power as it is because of this. You need to worry about your future. Sylvie’s future.”

At the mention of her name, my fists clench.

“Get the thought of my wife out of your mouth, Leopold.”

“You mean nothing to me, Baptiste. Now be an obedient dog and obey the letter.”

“You can’t have me doing some bullshit task while Castaways Elders are getting murdered.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Leopold says with the cockiness of a man who knows I cannot do anything to him. No matter how much I want to, I can’t strike an Elder. I can’t ruin his business. I can barely even insult him to his face. My membership in the Castaways forbids all of that.

But I can do one thing.

“Have you heard about my federal contract passing through Senator Whitmore’s committee?” I ask him. “Good news for me. Bad news for whoever was orchestrating it behind the scenes, right?”

Leopold smiles. He’s got no comeback to that. All he can do is watch me leave.

Damn. That might’ve been too bold. Yeah, I might’ve won the moment with the man, but I’ve poked the bear. My defiance will bite me on the ass. I know it.

I turn and walk back to my motorcycle, Castaways letter in my hand, and with Leopold simmering with fury behind me.

43

BAPTISTE

I watch Brandon Crawford approach me from across the lobby. The first two things to notice about him are his broad chest and square head with no neck. He’s a tall man, probably a football player in high school. His big arms are noticeable even under his expensive ski gear. I guess he’s around my age, if not one or two years older.

And he’s my target.

He grins when he sees me. All teeth. I can tell there’s not much going on underneath.

As he lumbers toward me, his attention turns to a group of young skiers strolling past. All women. He’s laser-focused on their legs.

I can’t help but smile to myself. I’ve been at this Swiss ski resort for the last two days, pretending to be the dumb American tourist who can’t ski but has enough money to throw at it. All in service to trap Brandon. And it’s worked wonderfully.

I met my target at the resort bar last night as he and some other meathead friends attempted to buy a round of drinks for some clearly uninterested German college-aged women.

Brandon is an American ski instructor in Europe, always looking for the next easy client who’ll spend the dollars but won’t be much effort. And in that fantasy, I am Brandon’s Moby Dick. I acted drunk at the bar but hadn’t had a single drop, agreeing to an expensive private skiing session with Brandon today. The wonders of what a loud, obnoxious, and evidently clueless American accent and a bottle of beer in your hand can do to attract the con artists.

The Castaways gave me the instructions in the letter Leopold handed me, and it revealed all I needed to know about the man. Brandon is a nasty piece of work. Back in the US, he was tasked with looking after a college-aged daughter of a Castaway. Instead of protecting her, he assaulted her. He did terrible, unspeakable things.

And so, the Castaways want him. But most of all, they want to make him feel pain. A simple jail cell won’t do. Not yet. Not until he’s faced the right level of humiliation.