by Lila Dubois
Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Percy head for the door.
He focused on the ceiling. Whatever it was, it was mounted into, not on, the ceiling. He touched it. Plastic, not wood.
It might have been an access point for electrical wiring. Did electricians need access points? Why wouldn’t it be flush with the ceiling?
“What is it?” asked a knight in a heavily accented voice.
“I’m not sure.”
The door opened, and Leo Pierson, one of England’s security officers, stepped in, Percy on his heels.
Tristan turned to speak to Leo—and the ceiling exploded.
Tristan’s right arm burned and his face felt like it was on fire. He stumbled back, barely remembering through the pain that he couldn’t take too many steps back or he’d fall off the table.
He tried to open his eyes, but there was blood on his face, making it hard to see. He brushed at something sticking to his cheek and pain zinged through his whole head. Not stuck to his cheek. Stuck into his cheek.
He twisted, trying to look in every direction at once. There was a foot-wide hole in the ceiling to one side of the strange panel that had attracted his attention.
The admiral of Castile was flopped back in his chair, a large red hole in the middle of his forehead.
Winston stared at the man beside him in shock, and Tristan shouted a warning. “Get down!”
Gawain must have come to the same realization Tristan had. He leapt forward, grabbing Winston’s chair and hauling both the chair and the admiral back across the floor.
The bullet, meant for Winston Hammond’s head, instead pierced his stomach.
Gawain threw himself in front of their admiral, and the second bullet pierced the knight’s upper back. He fell forward, onto their admiral’s lap, then slid to the floor, his black robe sprawling around him, his sword useless at his side.
“Sniper!” Tristan shouted, though he could barely hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears. “Get against the south wall.” He pointed to the side of the table opposite where Winston and the admiral of Castile had been sitting.
Based on the angle between where the bullet had come in through the ceiling, and where the men had been shot, the sniper had a perch on one of the tall buildings south of their current location. Whatever caliber of bullet he was using was powerful enough to punch through the roof of the building, anything in the attic, and the ceiling.
If Tristan was right, huddling against the south wall would actually make it harder for the sniper, because it would require a sharper angle to hit people crouched there, and it might mean the round would have to pass through the stone facing on the side of the building, and maybe even through the room on the other side, before punching through the wall.
Lennon Giles, England’s security minister, dashed into the room. He swept his gaze over the south wall, where the knights had moved the seven remaining admirals. The knights were using their bodies as shields, but based on what Tristan had seen, it wouldn’t matter.
Lennon’s gaze paused on Gawain and their admiral. His eyes widened for a moment, but he didn’t panic. He looked to Tristan, who was crouched on the table. Tristan grabbed the thing sticking into his cheek and yanked it out. He threw the three-inch splinter of wood onto the floor.
Lennon muttered something into his hand and two more security officers appeared. The newcomers dashed toward the downed admirals and knight, running at a crouch.
“Where?” Lennon barked at Tristan.
“Coming from the south. Sniper.”
Lennon shook his head. “Not possible. He’d be shooting blind.”
“Sniper,” Tristan repeated. “High caliber. Really high caliber.” Damn it, he wished he knew more about guns. He was a knight. He knew a lot about swords, not guns. “If not a sniper, then he must be in the attic.”
Lennon shook his head again. “We have a man in the attic. He reported the shots too. There’s a hole in the roof.”
Tristan was a little lightheaded, and he was starting to shiver with cold, which he knew was a bad sign. “Then it’s a sniper to the south, you bloody fucking wanker.”
Lennon raised his eyebrows. “Snipers need to be able to see what they’re shooting at.”
True. How the hell had the man been able to put a bullet through a man’s head without knowing exactly where that head was? Tristan grimaced, swiping blood out of his eyes. That fucking panel. He needed to get another look at that panel.
Lennon tipped his head, as if listening, and then opened the door. Security personnel, all in black and carrying riot shields, entered the room, running at a crouch. They passed the shields off to the knights, then went to get more. The knights angled the shields so they protected the admirals from above.
At the same time this was happening, more black-clad people arrived with stretchers. They loaded up the injured—dead, Tristan, they’re dead—and carried them out. As they did, yet more men with riot shields created a protective wall between them, and the south wall and ceiling.
Tristan watched it all with an odd detachment, as if he were viewing a play. He was surprised how quiet it was. No one was screaming. No one ran. The knights were trained to defend their admirals and to stand their ground. No one had run out of the room, no one had screamed beyond the initial exclamations after the first shot.
There was something he was supposed to be doing. Wasn’t there? Tristan shook his head, trying to dispel the detached, remote feeling. The panel. He needed to look at the panel.
Taking a deep breath, Tristan jumped to his feet. The holes punched by the bullets made it easy enough for him to grab the ceiling and pull, using his body weight. He yanked out two lengths of glossy, stained wood, until he was able to see the box.
He’d been right, it was partially embedded in the ceiling. While only a quarter of an inch had protruded into the room, in total it was five inches deep. Colored electrical wires snaked out of it, connecting up to a larger electrical cable running through the space between the ceiling and the floorboards of the attic above.
Tristan grabbed hold of the box and yanked. His right arm screamed in protest, and something snapped. His stomach heaved with the need to vomit, but then the box came loose.
Lennon had finished getting the wounded out and making sure the admirals were shielded, so he jumped up on the table with Tristan. Since his right arm didn’t seem to be working, Tristan let the box fall, and Lennon caught it. The electrical wires had torn free when Tristan yanked, and Lennon was muttering into the mic at his wrist for someone to cut the power to this room.
“I got up on the table to look at this.” Tristan pointed to the box. “It didn’t look right. Once I did, the shooting started.”
Lennon examined it, then peeled away the plastic wood-effect veneer that had helped it blend in with the ceiling. Under the veneer, it was a matte-black plastic box with embossed writing, and what looked like a company logo in one corner.
Lennon peered at the writing—and cursed a string of profanities that would have impressed even the foul-mouthed fifteen-year-old Tristan.
“What?” Tristan asked. The lightheaded feeling was getting worse, not better. As was the need to vomit.
Lennon looked over Tristan—and his eyes widened. He spoke quickly into his mic.
“What?” Tristan repeated.
Lennon balanced the box on his hand. “I’m going to get you help.”
“What’s the box? Was I right or did I just make an ass of myself?”
Lennon grabbed Tristan’s shoulder. “This is a stationary heat sensor. It reads body heat. The gunman had a bloody diagram of every occupant in this room, based on their heat signatures, thanks to this.”
Tristan pursed his lips. “Pardon me for asking, but why the fuck would you put something like that in our top-secret room, hmm?”
“I. Didn’t.”
“Oh. Ohh.” Tristan swayed slightly.
Lennon tightened his hold on Tristan’s shoulder and
dropped the heat sensor in favor of barking into the mic on his wrist.
Tristan lost a few moments, but when he focused again, Lennon was helping him climb off the table, and medics were urging him to lie down on a gurney.
He sat and finally looked down at his right arm. There was bone sticking through torn and mangled flesh. Ah. Well then. No wonder it hurt.
There was also blood smeared across the table and on the floor. His blood. Too much blood.
I’m dying.
“My husband, my wife,” Tristan said to no one in particular. “Tell them I…I would have loved them. Taken care of them.”
Hands helped him lie back, supported his mangled arm. Tristan let his head fall to the left, so he wouldn’t have to see his arm. What he did see was Giovanni’s face, pale and determined. He met Tristan’s gaze and nodded once.
That was nice. He’d gotten his father-in-law’s approval before he died.
Chapter Nineteen
“Principessa, come with us.” The words, yelled through the door and accompanied by a booming knock, made Sophia jump. She was perched on the end of the bed, fingers clenched in the fabric of the hotel duvet.
James was sitting at the small desk, pretending to examine coins, but he had been staring at the same coin since Tristan left nearly six hours ago.
He should have been back by now.
James rose, but Sophia waved him back and bounced to her feet.
“Don’t answer that,” James warned. “How did they know where you are? I’ll call Tristan.”
“I won’t answer it.” She just needed something to do.
She pressed her back against the wall near the bathroom and yelled back, “Who are you?”
“Martino Cavaliere, Principessa. Your father sent me to fetch you. You and your husband need to come with me.”
Martino Cavaliere was one of the knights of Rome, and that sounded like his voice, but she wasn’t a fool.
“I will not come with you, Martino.”
There was a brief pause, and then her phone rang. She picked it up. It was her father.
“Father?” she answered.
“We’ve been attacked,” Giovanni said without greeting. “Our knight will escort you to safety.”
“Attacked,” she repeated, but in English. James stared at her, eyes widening.
“Yes. Bring your husband. The big one. Our knight will take you to Tristan.”
Her father had used Tristan’s name. And there was a note of respect in his voice.
“What happened?” she asked in a whisper, as if keeping her voice low could protect her from the answer.
“Too many things happened.” Giovanni paused. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”
“No, no, no, no.” Sophia started to sink onto the floor. James caught her. She pressed herself against him.
“Go with Martino. Do what he says.”
The call ended.
“What is it?” James demanded.
“They were attacked. Tristan…something happened to Tristan.”
Sophia snatched up her jacket and purse, more on instinct than because she was actually thinking about what she’d need.
“Is Tristan all right?”
Sophia shook her head. “No. I don’t think he is.”
James grabbed her hand, squeezing it with his. She opened the door. Martino looked grim, and he held his sword in hand, the blade glinting in the muted hotel hallway lights.
“Martino?”
He shook his head. “Come with me, Principessa.”
Sophia laced her fingers with James’s and together they followed Martino out of the hotel.
They’d taken control of and locked down an entire floor of the small, private hospital just outside of London. James had been here before. The Masters’ Admiralty maintained controlling ownership of this hospital, which catered to non-HSC procedures, such as plastic surgery. The doctors and nurses had no idea who really owned the hospital, outside of a few doctors who were members themselves. There was a maternity floor, which supposedly specialized in high-risk deliveries, but in reality, was used predominantly by members and staffed by highly paid midwives who knew not to blink when there were two fathers, or a father and second mother, attending the birth.
Though the Masters’ Admiralty essentially owned it, the hospital itself wasn’t totally secure. However, the third floor was now more heavily guarded than Buckingham Palace. Black-clad security operatives were stationed every five feet. Knights, some still wearing ceremonial black robes, stood with their hands on their swords, or in some cases with their swords drawn.
James’s ID was checked seven times—and each time, the person checking took a photo of him and called to consult with an unseen third party before letting him pass. Sophia got the same treatment, but with a deference that James didn’t merit.
By the time they were led into a waiting room, James was ready to start tossing men into walls. If someone didn’t tell him what the hell was going on, he was going to start beating the answers out of people.
The waiting room was unlike those in the few HSC hospitals he’d been to. It was elegant and stocked with food and drink. James stared at the tea kettle. Maybe he should make tea. Tristan liked tea. Didn’t he? Tristan had made tea for them that morning at the hotel. He’d been fussy about the tea bags, and called the front desk, asking for loose-leaf tea and a strainer. James knew there was a way to make tea without a bag, but he hadn’t personally done it. Tristan liked loose-leaf tea. Maybe there was some here. It was a fancy hospital after all. Did Tristan take milk or sugar?
He didn’t even know how Tristan took his tea.
“You will tell us what is going on,” Sophia told the knight who’d escorted them. Martino was his name.
“I don’t know much, Principessa.” Martino’s English was heavily accented, but James was grateful they were speaking English at all.
“What do you know?”
“The conclave was attacked.”
“The conclave itself? But it was secure…” Sophia sucked in a breath. “My father. Where is my father?”
“The admiral is safe, Principessa.”
“Then let me speak with him.”
“I cannot, Principessa. I do not know where he is.”
Sophia’s breath shuddered, as if she was having trouble controlling it.
“No, no. I’m sorry…” Martino sighed and started speaking rapidly in Italian.
Sophia nodded and answered in the same language, then turned to him. James held out his arms, offering a hug, but she only grabbed his hands, squeezing his fingers until her own turned white.
“They were all in the room when they were attacked. Someone shot at the admirals, right through the ceiling of the building. At least four people were shot. The security officers have taken the remaining admirals to a safe place.”
James’s heart sank. “The remaining admirals?”
“Two admirals and two knights were shot.”
James yanked his hands out of Sophia’s, not because he didn’t want to hold her, but because fear and anger were boiling inside him. He wanted to slam his fists through the wall, to vent this hot feeling inside him. He didn’t trust himself to touch Sophia right now.
Sophia raised her hand, as if to touch him, but paused just short of completing the action. “Tristan was shot. He’s in surgery right now.”
“How bad?”
“Martino doesn’t know.”
“We’ll find a doctor. We’ll ask him.” James started for the door of the waiting room, then paused. “The other people who were shot? How are they?”
“Martino thinks they’re all dead. He said they weren’t breathing when they were taken away.”
“Two admirals.” James turned to face her. “And your father is okay? I mean he isn’t hurt?”
“No.” Tears pricked Sophia’s eyes and she let out a sob. He could hear the relief in it.
James enveloped her in his arms. She felt small and slight, her body quaking.
Sophia wiped her eyes against his shirt and leaned back to look up at him. Her lashes were spikes, wet from the tears. She was beautiful as always.
Mine.
Ours.
Tristan, you have to be okay.
“James, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“One of the admirals who…who died. It was your admiral. The admiral of England.”
James’s stomach sank. Winston Hammond, with his little round glasses and nearly bald head, was gone. The man who had ruled England with sharp intelligence and razor wit was dead.
Sophia reached up and stroked his hair with one hand, her gaze on his face.
James swallowed and shook his head. “The fleet admiral and the admiral of England dead?”
“And one more. The Castile admiral.”
“May God preserve us,” James said fervently. “Three admirals dead.” It was…impossible. The admirals were untouchable. For the fleet admiral to be killed was horrific, for three admirals to die within as many days was catastrophic.
“You know the history. Has this ever happened before?”
“Not that I know of.” James sat, bracing his elbows on his knees. He put his head in his hands. Sophia rubbed his back. “What are we going to do?”
“We the Masters’ Admiralty?” Sophia took a breath, and when she spoke there was a note of authority in her voice—it was a clear tone, like a bell. Principessa wasn’t just a nickname. “We will go on. We will defeat our enemies. The…remaining…admirals will gather and choose a new fleet admiral and new territory admirals.”
Normally when an admiral retired or died, the leadership of that territory—the vice admiral, security minister, knights, security officers, and finance ministers, would meet in an informal conclave and compose a list of candidates. The vice admiral would then submit these names to the fleet admiral, who was the one who appointed the territory admiral. In practice, the fleet admiral usually selected someone from the list. If there was not an obvious choice, the fleet admiral could call a conclave of admirals and solicit their opinions and advice before making a final selection for the new admiral.