by Wren Weston
He’d said he loved her.
Lila shook her head. She couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t think about that ever. Love and monogamy were luxuries that only the poorer classes could afford.
They weren’t for primes. Not ever.
Not unless you were Jewel Randolph.
Lila wiped away a tear and kicked away her satchel. She had to get hold of herself; all this blubbering at the slightest trouble was not how highborn handled their dismay.
They didn’t cry. They conquered.
The hack shouldn’t have taken long, but Lila refused to use her old exploit. Twirling her sapphire ring, she poked into the system, seeking another way inside, wanting her last hack to be her best, her injured fingers throbbing with every keystroke.
After an hour, she found a way in through a third party’s door. Once inside the system, she created a new login, assigning herself as a new account manager. Then she stole into the strange account that had paid off Davies and Muller.
It wasn’t new. Thousands upon thousands of transactions graced the account every month, stretching back for several years. Deposits and withdrawals shuttled to the far reaches of Saxony, some even traveling to the rest of the country.
Lila saved every piece of data. She’d piece together the entire operation and find out how far the blackmailer’s influence spread. Earlier mistakes would show here, for the account had been dated to a few weeks before the Baron had laid the first trap in BullNet.
Lila scrolled back through the account, searching the contact information for a name.
Freiherr. More German.
She did a quick translation search and found exactly what she had expected.
Baron.
Why would her blackmailer have a German name? Were Germans behind the hacks in BullNet? Were Germans paying off Muller and Davies? Had a German merc played Celeste and Patrick Wilson as puppets?
Had German mercs hired two Bullstow militiamen to poke at her? To assassinate her?
Perhaps both?
Perhaps it wasn’t the Germans. Perhaps it was the Italians again, setting up their German kinsmen to take the fall.
After all that had happened to Lila recently, it wasn’t unlikely that an Italian would want to kill her.
But Roman mercs and Bullstow militiamen would still have to scale the walls of the Randolph compound and sneak into her family’s garage. They’d still have to dodge Randolph patrols and avoid all the cameras.
On the other hand, Sergeant Davies was a rather small man.
Put a red wig on him…
Lila saved the data to a star drive and shoved her laptop into her satchel, ready to get rid of it at her first opportunity.
She had work to do.
Chapter 15
Lila woke at six o’clock the next morning, belly still tender from the surgery, muscles stiff and sore from the accident, hip bruised where she’d struck the pavement and rolled. Banned or not, she wasn’t in any shape to tackle the obstacle course, much less a few laps at the track. She couldn’t even muster up the energy for a quick walk around the compound, leaving her body weak and her mind groggy from the lack of exercise.
Lack of sleep hadn’t helped, either. She hadn’t avoided her bed because of more dreams of the oracles or nightmares about the warehouse. She’d been too busy, spending most of the night poring over the Liberté data, not able to tear herself away after seeing how many highborn the Baron had bribed.
Senators, too.
Especially senators.
She’d given up the hunt after several hours, too tired to hack cleanly, her fingers too sore to continue.
She’d have another long day of it ahead of her, a day cut short by the damn Closing Ball.
Reluctantly Lila forced herself out from under her warm blankets. She trotted through the drafty room, easing herself into a hot bath. Steam rose as she slid in, and she scented the water with apple, scrubbing her hair in slow strokes. She could have stayed in the bath quite happily all morning, all afternoon, and all night, lingering until her skin shriveled into pink prunes, the water passing from hot to warm to tepid to cold. She could have skipped the Closing Ball altogether if only everyone would leave her alone.
But no one left anyone alone in the great house.
Certainly not her mother.
Certainly not when that someone was prime.
Lila stepped out of tub with a great deal of effort and admonished herself for lingering. At least something good would come out of the Closing Ball. She hadn’t danced at one in ages, since an unmatched and childless heir caused too much of a stir.
Dancing was the only thing she actually enjoyed at balls, so long as her partner closed his mouth and stopped talking about children, either the ones he already had or the ones he inevitably promised to help her create.
How many senators controlled by the Baron would be at the ball tonight?
How many reasons did she have for not wanting to go? Not wanting to be prime, not wanting to dance with compromised souls, not wanting to waste an evening better spent researching the Baron…
Not wanting to drift further away from Tristan.
She hunched over the countertop, trying not to smack her head against the mirror. “I don’t want to go tonight,” she moaned, feeling like a teenager and knowing she was acting like one.
She promised herself another five minutes, and only five minutes, of sulking.
Ten minutes later, she finally pushed herself out of the bathroom and padded to her closet. She dressed in casual highborn clothing and sat for a quick breakfast in the morning room, consisting of tea, buttered toast, and an orange.
Thankfully, the rest of her family had not woken up yet.
Most wouldn’t, not for a while. The day of the Closing Ball was a holiday throughout the Allied Lands. She donned a thick woolen coat and sent a message to Sutton, then slipped from the great house doors.
Gray clouds threatened overhead. Mist pooled around her. Little golden leaves dropped onto her hair, damp with fog.
She strolled down Villanueva Lane toward the south gate, recognizing Sergeant Nolan and his rookie inside the gatehouse. The rookie peered over the instrument panel as his superior pointed out different buttons.
Lila approved. Today was an excellent time for a lesson, for no traffic waited to be waved inside the compound. In fact, most business owners around the estate had shuttered their doors for the holiday. Only the most stubborn ran a skeleton crew on the day of the ball.
Only the highest of the highborn heirs throughout Saxony would attend the ball at the capitol, some traveling hundreds of kilometers to attend. The same would happen in the other three states: Bellevue, in the western state of Bordeaux; Andalusia, in the northern state of La Verde; and Westminster, in the eastern state of Victoria. A few wealthy and lucky lowborn families, like the Parks, managed to buy their way into an invitation. A lowborn could bring a couple of her daughters, though neither might be spoken to, except by the most gracious or youngest or desperate of senators.
Most everyone else in the country declared it a holiday. Many glued themselves to the screen, watching the arrival of each heir at their state’s capitol, or more correctly, squint at the dress the heir had arrived in. The rest would flip through the channels, pretend not to care, claiming only to be interested in the novel, expensive commercials shown during the breaks. They would find themselves unable to look away, though. Gossip would be created, repeated, and amended over the course of the night by journalists who had lost their integrity years before.
Everyone took the day as an opportunity to feast and drink and find partners of their own.
Even criminals.
Indeed, the Closing Ball signaled a holiday for the militia as well. Despite a few drunken arguments between family members and new lovers, the day and night tended to be fairl
y quiet for the blackcoats.
Too many people were too busy making babies.
And next August, every doctor would be busy in every delivery room.
“Happy Closing Day,” Sutton said behind Lila, startling her as she turned down another gravel path. “That might be the first time in a very long time I’ve surprised you.”
“I was just coming to see you.”
Sutton joined her in her walk. Their boots crunched the gravel underfoot.
“Tell me how.”
“How?” Lila asked.
“How you knew that someone had broken into the family garage. As well as why you’d ask for an investigation the same day you returned home without your beloved Firefly.”
“My bike is in the shop. I’m having some work done.”
“Captain McKinley and I watched the footage. Someone did something to your bike. I also watched the footage from last night, thinking the culprit might return. I saw a great deal of hesitation on your part to borrow your sister’s Firefly.”
The commander paused in their walk, her shoulders tensing. “You’re making it very difficult for me to do my job and keep you safe. Let me give you a rundown of my evening. No prints. No visual on the suspect except for red—”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“McKinley and I recovered a set of plugs wired into the lights. Someone used them to remotely switch off the motion sensors. They weren’t homemade, so McKinley’s going to track that angle and hope for the best.”
Lila wondered if Shirley had been doing the same with the devices that she’d pulled from her motorcycle. Perhaps Tristan had stopped her. Perhaps he didn’t care any longer, not even about her safety.
Her chest tightened as she recalled the pained way he’d looked at her the day before, waiting for her to say something after returning her bag.
Lila put those thoughts away.
She didn’t have time for them.
Instead, she slid her thoughts back to Sutton and back to work.
Always back to work.
“That sounds like a promising lead,” Lila said.
“It’s all we have. Until then, the garage is under surveillance. All vehicles will be checked before they leave the garage for tampering.”
Lila tried not to groan as they stopped in front of the security office, the glass and steel rising above them. “Update me when you have some—”
A cracking ping sounded in the foggy morning. A glass panel above Lila’s head cracked, leaving behind a spider’s web and a pinkie-sized hole.
Sutton shoved her to the ground, and the pair flattened themselves on the sidewalk.
A second bullet tore at a chunk of cement near Lila’s fingers.
Lila yanked her hand back, her gaze spinning around the compound. She caught sight of a group of slaves who’d frozen, bags of mulch still propped on their shoulders. A hundred meters away, a group of highborn had stopped mid-chuckle, the wind still carrying their mirth. Another group raced toward a building nearby, one young intern squealing in fright with every step. A passing militia patrol had sunk down at the first bullet, knees bent, ready to sprint toward the unseen intruder.
The warehouse suddenly seemed like a distant, pleasant memory. She’d had a gun in her hand then, pointed at those who might hurt her and her friends. She had a way to end the threat and a visual on those who would do them harm.
For the first time in two weeks, she desperately wanted a weapon.
She wanted bullets and a target, too.
She’d shoot, for oracle’s sake. She’d shoot again, and damn what dreams might come.
The asshole deserved it.
“Security office! Now!” Sutton ordered.
Lila shook her head. “No, too many people—”
“The militia exists to keep you and your mother safe, you idiot!” Sutton hopped to her feet and grabbed Lila’s arm.
The pair ran toward the security office’s front door.
Another glass pane shattered into webs.
A fourth shot rang out and hit the coat of arms on the front door. The metal wolf’s head exploded as Sutton reached for it.
The commander did not shrink back even as metal shards sliced her fingers.
The pair burst inside.
Sutton turned quickly once they reached the lobby. “You hit?”
Lila looked down at her torso, patting her body as if she’d lost something. “I don’t think so. You?”
“No, just a few paper cuts. The shooter can’t hit the broadside of a barn.”
Sutton stalked toward the front desk, rolling her eyes at a few curious militia members who crowded the glass walls and peered through the panes. She leaned over the desk with a grunt and snatched up the receptionist’s headset, slamming the all button with an angry, bloody palm. “This is Commander Sutton. There is a shooter on the compound. I repeat, there is a shooter on the compound. Emergency teams get suited up and meet me at the back door. Two minutes. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. And for gods’ sake, everybody, get your asses away from the walls, or I’ll shoot you myself.”
A few embarrassed blackcoats, mostly office personnel, slinked away from the glass.
Sutton tossed the headset back to the trembling receptionist. “I want a full lockdown throughout the compound. Contact the great house first. Have the guards shuttle the matron and her family to the vault.”
As if Sutton had reminded everyone that two plus two did equal four, the blackcoats hopped into action. Only their panicked eyes revealed it wasn’t a monthly drill.
Lila started off with Sutton for the ground-floor armory, but the commander shoved her back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“With you!”
Sutton cocked her head to the side. Whatever she wanted to say, she didn’t. “You’re not going anywhere. Get upstairs, where it’s safe. Don’t make me tranq you.” Sutton snapped her fingers at a passing sergeant. Judging by his stubble and the creases in his uniform, he’d been on patrol all night. “Assemble what’s left of your patrol shift and escort the chief to her office. Shooter’s targeting her. You know what to do.”
The man did not seem surprised at the order. He turned immediately, calling out on his radio as he jogged back toward the cafeteria to fetch his squad.
Boots thudded on the granite. Leather swished. Cotton rustled. People brushed past Lila en route to the armory or their positions around the building. Annoyed by the jostling, Lila planted herself beside the elevator, waiting for the sergeant to return.
She did not have to wait long. The squad assembled quickly, still wiping away crumbs and drawing their weapons.
Lila swiped her keycard through the slot as the dozen blackcoats swarmed the elevator.
The doors closed. The glass chamber rose. Lila watched her bustling people grow smaller and smaller below.
Not her people. Not anymore.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. The militia poured into the waiting area. The receptionist gave the patrol a stiff nod and joined them, her rifle pointed toward the ground. A careful finger stroked the trigger guard.
The woman had not been chosen to work in the chief’s office for her filing skills.
Neither had Sergeant Jenkins. He twirled his wheelchair, leading Lila back toward her office. They left the others behind, all crowded in the lobby, their tranqs pointed toward the elevator.
“Awful lot of fuss,” Sergeant Jenkins said as the pair passed through his office and entered hers. He wheeled to the window and closed the blinds and curtains.
Lila locked the door. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Someone’s come for you.”
She shrugged.
Jenkins parked his chair beside her desk and laid his gun in his lap. Lila knew what filled the chamber. Like
her receptionist, Jenkins carried live ammo, precisely for this reason.
The oracle had taken Lila’s guns at the warehouse. She’d been glad for it at the time, but now she regretted handing them over.
How had her switch been flipped so completely?
She drew her tranq for lack of anything better to do. Shoving her inbox aside, she sat on her desk, feet swinging.
“Stand up, chief. At least pretend you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried. I should be out there—”
“Getting shot?”
“Finding the shooter. Defending the family. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I think Commander Sutton can do just fine without her boss looking over her shoulder and drawing fire.”
Lila looked at her bookshelf.
When had her books gotten so out of order?
Lila hopped up. Instead of fixing her books, she opened her top desk drawer and rummaged inside. Pens and notepads rattled together.
“What are you looking for?”
Lila withdrew a box of cookies.
“You can’t be serious.”
Lila popped a cookie into her mouth and pointed the package at Sergeant Jenkins.
Reluctantly, he took a few. “How’d they die, Commander Sutton?” he muttered. “Oh, the assassin just walked in and killed them both while they had a snack.”
“We’re not going to die. No one is going to die.”
“No, they probably won’t. Commander Sutton took away the target. Shooter’s probably long gone now.”
“Did you hear the shots?”
Jenkins nodded. “Shooter was close. Didn’t have to be, you know.”
“I know.”
“I never liked the sound of those damn rifles much myself. The commander hates it worse than me. She’s probably on the roof, hunting, just like when she was on the front lines.”
Lila chewed on her cookie. “Never understood why she joined the military. She’s a highborn.”