by Amity Cross
The darkness was broken by the orange glow of the street lamps shining through the windows in the living room, but I didn’t need anything to illuminate my progress. I knew this place like the back of my hand. Every loose floorboard, every chip in the paint, the location of every light switch, the place I’d left my empty coffee cup, the items of clothing Mei had left in my closet…and the scent of her perfume that still clung to the sheets on my bed.
Stepping into the lounge room, I turned sharply as movement flickered in my peripheral vision, my gun mirroring my movement perfectly. I’d always had the highest ranking in marksmanship in training.
The lamp beside the armchair flicked on, and my gaze collided with Moltke’s.
Snarling, I stepped forward, aiming my gun at the monster who murdered the woman I loved.
“Not so fast, Folsom,” he said, pointing his own gun at me.
“You deserve to die,” I said, rage beginning to cloud my judgment. He took Mei from me. The only woman I’d ever loved.
“If we’re going to play the blame game, let’s start with MI6,” he replied, rising to his feet.
“What did the agency ever do to you?” I snarled.
His face contorted, and he lunged. His bulky form slammed into mine and dislodged the gun from my hand.
We collided with the bookshelf, sending paperbacks flying, and photo frames and ornaments smashed on the hardwood floor.
“What do you want, Moltke?” I asked as we wrestled.
“Revenge,” he spat, punching me in the stomach.
The air was knocked from me, and I buckled, landing on one knee. Pain jarred through my leg and exploded through my face as his elbow collided with my nose.
I was dazed for a split second, and when I pushed to my feet, it was right into the path of Moltke’s gun. He pressed the muzzle against my head, and I stared right into his eyes. If he was going to kill me, then he’d have to watch.
“You’ll pay for what you did to Vesper,” he snarled.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I snapped. “I never laid eyes on your wife.”
His gaze faltered. “Every arm of British Intelligence is to blame for her death.”
It was that moment I realized Moltke’s end game. He was going to single-handedly dismantle every Military Intelligence agency throughout Britain and the world. He would pick us all off one by one if he had to. And for what? To avenge the supposed death of his wife? He’d never succeed…but he’d cause a lot of carnage and death.
“Vesper was never found,” I said. “You were the one who almost got her killed by Tatau’s assassin. You’re fighting a pointless war.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” he replied, his lip curling. “Vesper suffered more than you’ll ever know. She’s dead, and you murdered her.”
He was insane. Absolutely bloody insane.
“You might kill me,” I said, knowing my end was inevitable, “but you’ll never get away with it, Moltke.”
He laughed softly. “It’s much too late for that.”
“You’ll pay for what you did to those people,” I snarled. “And for what you did to Mei.”
“If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t meant to be there. That’s the consequence of being early, I suppose.”
“Am I meant to feel sympathy for you?” I scoffed. “You’re a monster.”
“Don’t worry, Folsom,” he murmured. “You’ll be seeing her real soon.”
There was a boom that cut off as abruptly as it began…
Then…
Nothing.
Chapter 11
X
Our safe house was still secure when I arrived back from my midday rendezvous with the mystery woman.
Mercy rose to her feet as I entered, and I supposed Jackson was there, but I only had eyes for her. Running my fingers over the red mark on her temple, she pulled away.
“It’s nothing,” she murmured.
“Nothing compared to Gruber,” Jackson said, raising his eyebrows.
Mercy paled, and I glared at him. “Tact, Jackson.”
“It was the way he died that gave me the creeps,” she said.
“How?” I asked, ushering her back to the couch.
“He tried to disengage the chemical from the firing mechanism,” she replied. “He spilled some on himself…” She glanced at Jackson.
“We got some pretty useful data from their server,” he said.
“The bomb?” I prodded.
“That stuff was nasty,” he replied, scrolling through the data Mercy had retrieved. “I’ve never even heard of it before.”
“What exactly was it?”
“Their chemists called it Veltium-34,” Jackson explained. “It attacks the nervous system, then breaks down the base cells that make us, well…solid.”
“It melted Gruber like he was an ice cube,” Mercy said, shivering.
No wonder she was unsettled. I’d inflicted some extreme wounds on men before, but melting? That was a new kind of horror. My hand found Mercy’s and squeezed, the softer side of my combined personalities surfacing.
“It looks like they’d developed it into a vapor,” Jackson went on. “It’s a particularly effective delivery system. It could be absorbed through the skin, breathed in, ingested, you name it.”
“So they could’ve put it in the water supply?” I asked, and Jackson nodded.
Mass genocide was what they had been capable of. Entire communities and countries could have been wiped out with that stuff. What the fuck was Moltke doing with a bomb like that?
“Could they reproduce it?” Mercy asked. “Perhaps we should give the intel to MI6…”
“It’s possible,” Jackson said. “I was just able to skim the surface of their data, not disable anything.”
This wasn’t good. If Gruber’s replacement could mass-produce this Veltium-34, then we had big problems. The human race was at risk. If they sold it to warring countries, they could wipe out each other with little effort. Mass murder was on the horizon.
I sighed. “Then we give the intel on the chemical to MI6 and continue our pursuit of Moltke under the radar.”
“What did you find out?” Mercy asked me. “Did Bateman lead you to Moltke?”
“I lost Bateman before I could get very far,” I replied. “I had company.”
“Is that what this is from?” she asked, running her fingers along my neck.
Prodding the place she’d just touched, I realized I’d been cut by the woman’s knife after all. Beginning to get really pissed off that I’d been bested, I snorted.
“A woman confronted me,” I said sharply. “She seemed to have a rather large stake in this game. Or at least, that’s the impression she gave when she questioned my motives rather than trying to gut me.”
“Did she say who she was?” Mercy asked.
I shook my head and glanced at Jackson. “If I describe her to you, can you render an image?”
“I can punch some details into the facial recognition software I pilfered from the office,” he said with a shrug. “No guarantees.”
“I can’t see we have any other leads since Bateman dissipated like a fucking fart in the wind,” I declared.
He tapped on his laptop and nodded, his anxiety seeming to have calmed now that he had something technical to work on. “Then let’s give it a try.”
I gave him a fairly accurate description of the woman while Mercy listened in. Considering studying faces and identifying marks was one of the skills I relied most heavily on during my time running hits for Royal Blood, I was thorough in my recollection.
Leaving him to work on the data, I led Mercy into the bedroom so we could have a moment alone. It had taken a great deal for me to allow her into my world and to toil alongside me. Having a third wheel in the guise of Jackson was probably never going to work well with how I preferred to operate.
Mercy and I were connected in a lot more ways than was professionally acceptable in the MI6 charter. Then again, so
were Mei and I at one time. At the thought of my past lover, who was probably being buried in an empty grave any day now, I narrowed my eyes.
“What is it?” Mercy asked, her voice low.
Staring out the tiny window at the Berlin skyline, I shrugged. The vibrant glow of sunset dusted everything in an orange hue…like the fire that had engulfed Section Seven and all that had been within its walls.
I briefly wondered about Lorelei but knew we’d never hear from her again. Her story was no longer entwined with ours.
“X?” Mercy stood beside me, her hand sliding over my back and winding around my waist.
“I haven’t thought about her since we sat in Folsom’s office,” I murmured. “Now we’ve lost Moltke’s trail…”
“You have to face her loss at some point,” she murmured, understanding who I was talking about. “Putting it off is only going to make that moment so much worse.”
“Why should I mourn her?” I asked, closing my eyes.
“It isn’t about love,” she replied. “It’s about your past. Mei was one of the last links to your identity as Oliver Cassel. She was one of the last links to your family. It’s a hard loss to take.”
Turning sharply as her words hit home, I fisted my hands into her hair and took her mouth with mine. Our connection, her love…it always grounded me when I began to spiral. My frustrations were eased when I joined with her. My one and only.
Thrusting my tongue against hers, we kissed, the world shrinking until only we inhabited it. “Mercy.”
“Jackson’s in the next room,” she said, turning her face away from mine.
Shivering at the loss of her taste, I replied, “If you’re embarrassed, then be quiet.”
“X…” She hesitated, and when it came to this, she never thought twice.
“You were hurt today,” I whispered. “You know why I need you.”
Her gaze met mine and it was full of understanding. “I know,” she said. “But—”
Leaning forward, I pressed my lips against hers, silencing her complaint before she could voice it again.
“Never question this,” I said, pulling away.
Her gaze dropped to my lips, and she shook her head. “Never.”
Ridding her of her clothes, I set her down on the bed, forgetting that we had an audience in the other room. Knowing a little about how Jackson operated, I knew he’d be so focused on his work that he would surface hours later none the wiser.
Her hands traced the outline of my tattoo, palming each scar as I kissed a trail along her chest. Sucking a nipple into my mouth, I teased her sensitive flesh with my teeth.
Her breath was sharp, but she never uttered a sound…even when I thrust my cock deep inside her body. I worshipped her, caressing slowly until we rose to the place where our souls united in the darkness of our lives. The spark that held the monster at bay.
It was the first time I’d made complete love to her. There were no harsh words between us. Just soft murmurings that were undecipherable as we came.
It was the softest I’d ever been in my entire life—and she knew it.
Xavier Blood had evolved yet again.
Mercy and I emerged, freshly showered, some hours later.
Jackson was still in the armchair where we’d left him, the glow of his laptop the only thing lighting the room. When Mercy flicked on the lamp, he jumped a mile.
“Miss Reid!” he exclaimed.
“Any progress?” she asked, finding a spot on the couch.
“Some but it’s slow going.”
“What have you got?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms over my chest.
“A hit on your mystery woman,” he declared proudly.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph?”
“Yeah, actually.” He turned the laptop around to reveal an image of the woman who’d tried it on with me in that alley. It was a grainy surveillance still lifted from CCTV footage, but it was definitely her.
Jackson continued his explanation. “She’s a gun for hire, but mostly, she seems to work for herself. No known associates, multiple aliases…the list goes on. She’s been linked to several assassinations of Russian officials. Military and government.”
“Could she be Russian Intelligence?” Mercy asked.
“While we fought, her accent slipped,” I mused. “She’s skilled enough to mask her identity, but it’s possible.” Nodding at Jackson, I asked, “Do we have a name?”
“She goes by the handle Banshee. Other than multiple discarded aliases, there’s nothing to determine her true identity or country of origin.”
“Banshee? That’s a tad dramatic,” I drawled, rolling my eyes. “How is it that I’ve never heard of her?”
“She operates in Continental Europe and Russia mostly,” he explained, “targeting corruption and the odd terrorist or arms dealer.”
“Great. A vigilante with a chip on her shoulder.”
“Do you think she’ll be trouble?” Mercy asked.
“Hard to say,” I replied. “Now we have a photograph, we can keep an eye out for her.”
“Just another piece of an elaborate puzzle,” she mused. “I wonder what her interest in Moltke is about?”
“I’ll be sure to ask again next time she fucks up a tail,” I retorted.
“I’ve also got a lead on that if you want to hear,” Jackson said, waving his hand to get our attention.
“Spit it out,” I demanded, my interest zeroing in on our slippery target. He could surface anywhere, and we had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. If there was a lead, we were following it to the end.
“Bateman is going to the UK,” Jackson said. “I picked up some chatter.”
“But Gruber…” Mercy began.
“Seems they found the puddle,” he replied with a shrug.
“I assume he’s going to meet with his employer about a contingency plan,” I said. “Since Moltke’s precious bomb was ruined and melted its maker.”
“That’s the thing…” Jackson said slowly.
“What?” I barked.
He shrank back from my tone and pressed his finger on the keyboard.
“We have an alternate source for the compound.” Bateman’s voice filtered from the laptop speakers.
“Good. The time for the meet has been arranged.” Moltke. “I don’t need Gruber.”
“Where?”
There was a slight pause before Moltke replied, “Tilbury.”
“The—”
“Eleven p.m.,” Moltke interrupted. “Don’t be late.” Click.
I glanced at Mercy, and she straightened up. “Tilbury, as in Greater London?”
“How did you…” I stared at the laptop and wondered how the fuck Jackson had gotten all that information out of the stupid brick.
“I know a thing or two about decoding elaborate software encryptions over a phone line,” he said with a shrug.
“We need a specific location,” Mercy said. “How—”
“Already on it. Agent Folsom gave me a protocol for contacting him below radar,” Jackson explained. “He can look into the intel and see if MI6 has picked up any additional chatter.”
“There’s a dock at Tilbury,” I mused. “Container ships. There’ll be storage… Highly industrialized…”
“Plenty of places to hide some Veltium-34,” Mercy added. “I’m sure Folsom can task a satellite or whatever it is they do to find the meeting point.”
“Uh, guys?” Jackson said, sounding panicked.
“What is it?” I hissed.
“Folsom… He’s…” Jackson paled further.
“He’s what?” Fuck it to hell, that man’s penchant for stuttering his words…
He turned around the laptop, and Mercy and I stiffened as we beheld the crime scene photograph. One shot directly in the head.
Jackson swallowed hard and declared, “Folsom is dead.”
Chapter 12
Mercy
Folsom turning up
dead had thrown a dirty great big fucking spanner in the works.
He’d been right about a lot of things, the big kahuna being that Moltke had fingers in MI6’s pie. He knew Folsom was onto him, so he’d broken into his home and executed him. It brought back a lot of memories that I thought I was done with, but bad guys were forever shooting one another in the fucking head— like Sykes had murdered my family and how I put an end to him.
BAM. Right between the eyes.
Folsom being dead meant Moltke knew we were hunting him. Not just the whole fucking world but us specifically—X, Jackson, and me. He’d probably always suspected we would, but now he knew for sure, and that would make this much harder than it already had been. He knew our strengths and weaknesses from working at Section Seven. He knew what made us tick, and he’d use every last shred of intel against us.
The only ray of light was that Jackson’s family was safe. Their location hadn’t been compromised, and the agents assigned had been loyal to Folsom. They’d be well looked after until this was over, just like they’d been promised.
This whole thing seemed like a bridge too far…if you know what I mean. I had a bad feeling we were being set up, and this meet with Bateman was an elaborate ruse to flush us out like rats.
Staring at the rows of shipping containers through binoculars, I studied the ship docked closest to our position at the Tilbury wharf, the lights of Greater London stretching off into the distance across the River Thames. I’d counted as many as twenty vessels, from tankers to container ships to passenger liners. Chatter Jackson had picked up indicated Moltke and Bateman were to meet within the rows of containers being unloaded from the Maersk Norwich.
“This is bad news,” I said, my gaze raking over the stern of the ship. The huge black letters read Maersk Norwich. That was the one. “This has been too easy.”
“It’s a trap,” X declared. “Of course, it is.”
Dropping the binoculars into his hand, I asked, “Then why are we walking right into it?”
“It’s the only lead we have,” he replied. “We have no choice.”