A Royal Legacy

by Danielle Bourdon

  What the hell was going on? Someone had attacked the prison and kept her alive for reasons she didn't immediately understand. Unless it was Konstantine's doing. Maybe he'd had her followed. Why kill Paavo, then, and not her? Did Konstantine consider Paavo to be useless since the prince held no emotional weight with Sander any longer? Chey knew she was a better bargaining chip with Sander simply because she was his wife.

  The lack of voices in the hallway was an ominous portent. Her guards were dead, they had to be, or she would have already been released.

  Staring at the streak of blood on the ground, she twisted her hands, pulling upward and outward, biting back noises of pain. Her vision swam with the effort, no doubt exacerbated by the blow to her head.

  She had to get free and find a phone.

  *

  “What?” Sander answered his cell phone with more abruptness than he meant to. It had been a long hour of conversations with advisors and his brothers and he wanted to take another call like he wanted another hole in his head.

  “Your Majesty, the media is growing restless--”

  Sander cut Urmas off. “Yes, I know. They're already here. My men have them set up in a meeting room down the hall. I'll get to the announcement when I'm good and ready.”

  Undaunted by Sander's terse replies, Urmas said, “Leaders from other countries are calling by the dozen. What should I tell them?”

  “It'll have to wait. Tell them I'm in meetings and I'll get back to them when I can.” Sander needed pain medication for the enormous headache blooming behind his eyes. There was one more call he needed to make, however, before he did anything else. He dialed Ahsan from his cell phone rather than the landline.

  “I don't like what I'm hearing coming out of Latvala right now,” Ahsan said by way of hello. The lilt of his mid-eastern accent was mild and easy to understand.

  “Yes, it's been a night over here. To make matters worse, I have serious doubts about the Russian angle, yet after Konstantine's death, they're the most likely suspect.” Sander could tell Ahsan his suspicions without fear of the man saying anything to the media.

  “My offer still stands. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

  “Actually, that's one reason I'm calling. I think I'm going to send Chey and the kids to Afshar. Just to be on the safe side. There is too much about all this I don't understand.”

  “Do you want me to send my jet, so you can have yours at your disposal? You may need to depart the country in a hurry.”

  “Thanks, yes. Let me set it up with Chey and the guards and I'll text you when it's good to send the plane over.” Sander hated separating from his family at at time like this, but he was still smarting from the attack at Ahtissari castle and wouldn't risk their safety again. Not with bombers and shooters on the loose.

  “Just let me know. Are you sure you don't want me to come over? Chey and the kids will be safe here at my home without my presence.”

  Sander seriously considered the offer. Ahsan, in position of absolute power in his country, was one of the best people to ask for advice. He understood what was at stake regarding country and sovereignty—and consequence.

  “I'll tell you what. Give me tonight to see if I can come up with some answers. If there are more attacks or I receive a formal letter of responsibility, I'll call you right away.”

  “Excellent. Hey—watch your back, brother.”

  Sander smiled a grim smile. “Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

  Pocketing the cell phone, Sander stood from the chair and plucked his suit coat off a peg. He'd changed from war gear to formal attire for the announcement he needed to make. Striding into the hall, Sander passed several members of security on his way to the small media room. He hadn't ever intended it to be used for this purpose, but the spare furniture arrangement left room for the three reporters and their three cameramen. Cream colored walls made a decent backdrop.

  “Your Majesty! Can you tell us--”

  Sander held up a hand to stop the deluge before it began. He'd invited only three of the most prominent stations to this destination, not because he wanted to dodge questions from a larger group, but because the more people who knew about this once secret residence, the greater the chance of a strike against him.

  “I'm going to make a statement only. The reason is that I don't have all the answers yet,” he explained, to make it clear to the reporters that they were there to deliver his message and that was it. Tugging the edges of his coat into neater lines, he did up two buttons and took his place in front of the cameras. He was as ready as he would ever be. “Let's get started.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chey winced as the ropes tore at her sensitive skin. Her effort paid off; the bindings fell away from her hands. Surging to her feet, she rubbed feeling back into her forearms and fingers and sought something, anything, to use as a weapon. The chairs were too heavy and bulky, the table too unwieldy. Made of metal, she couldn't even break off a leg to use like a baton. That left the rope.

  Something, she told herself, was better than nothing.

  Grasping the whip-thin binding, she clutched it in her hand with a loop extending from the fist of her fingers. If all else failed, she would use it like a crop to beat against an attacker's face. She spent a moment patting her pockets for her phone, which she did not find. Someone had remembered to strip it from her before leaving her tied to the chair.

  Opening the door, surprised to find the attackers hadn't barricaded her in, she stepped cautiously into the hall. Just as she remembered from her glimpse, there were downed guards scattered on the floor. All four of her own, blood leaking from beneath their bodies, as well as one of the suited guards that had been standing outside when she'd arrived. Chey didn't see the other three and guessed they were dead in another hallway. Making her way around a puddle of blood, hurting inside at the needless death that choked the corridor, she bent near the first body and sought a weapon. She needed a gun. Or a phone. After a brief search, finding nothing, she moved on to the second guard. And the third. Each man had been stripped of all personal belongings. Moving further along the hall, she crouched next to the suited man, listening for sounds of movement in all directions. The only thing she heard besides her own labored breathing was a faint hum that might have been air pushing through the ducts.

  The last guard had no weapons, no identification, no phone.

  “Dammit,” Chey whispered. Whoever had attacked the prison made sure to leave nothing of use behind. Not even keys, which she needed to get past the gate at the end. Chey tested the bars on the iron door, cringing inwardly when the gate clacked against itself, sending a sharp echo through the next corridor.

  Backtracking, she went to the other end where another door blocked her escape. This door was a regular door, with a knob and a lock. A door that didn't budge when she banged against it with her shoulder. Of course. The doors in the prison were no doubt extra fortified in case of an inmate breakout. One by one, she entered each room along the hall—those that were open, with doors unlocked—and searched for a phone. The lack of anything except plain desks and chairs suggested these were meeting and conference rooms used for other inmate visitations.

  In the fourth room, Chey found several tables, vending machines, a small counter top with a coffee maker and a microwave. No landlines, not even a small refrigerator where she might find water. She needed a drink to wet her dry throat.

  “You were always good at getting away,” Paavo said from the doorway.

  Startled, Chey flipped around, one hand over her heart, the other gripping the rope. Paavo, whom she thought to be dead, was very much alive. And, she noted with shock, looked nothing like he had when she'd seen him last. His skin was still on the pale side but not sallow, his hair styled neatly away from his face. A fine suit of navy pinstripes replaced the utilitarian white jump suit, though his body was as gaunt as it had been earlier. That part was not an illusion. He almost resembled the prince she remembered meeting all those years
ago on her initial visit to Latvala. This Paavo was not as vibrant, as if prison life had sucked out his charisma, his soul. Those were dead eyes staring back at her.

  “Nothing to say?” he said with an arched brow. “That will change soon enough. Why don't you have a seat?”

  Chey tried to make the right connections. Paavo had somehow organized this. He was responsible for the dead guards, both her own and one guarding his door. The hows and whys escaped her.

  “Or you can stand. You'll answer my questions either way.” Paavo casually leaned a shoulder into the doorframe and pocketed his hands, as if he had nothing better to do, or nowhere to go.

  “What questions are those?” she asked, keeping a small table and one chair between her and the prince.

  Paavo's lips quirked. “I want to know where Sander is.”

  Chey's cheek twitched. “I don't know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I don't know where he is, Paavo. I left to come here and he went somewhere else. You know how this game is played. Sander doesn't tell me sensitive information—especially when there has been a bombing—so that I can't tell should someone take me captive.” That wasn't always true, and certainly not true today, but her internal warning system demanded she not to give Paavo any more information than she had to.

  “But you were somewhere with him before you left to come here,” he pointed out. Then, he added, “You can make this easy or hard, Chey. I don't recommend the hard way, myself.”

  Chey knew he was trying to scare her into confession. And he might not be bluffing, she reminded herself. Paavo might very well torture her to get the information he wanted. Rather than give him an answer, she asked, “You're responsible for the bombings, aren't you?”

  “Where is he? His holding away from the city? The little cabin in the woods that used to belong to father? The safe house in Kalev, with the bunkers he always thinks will save him?”

  It took all Chey's control not to twitch or flinch when Paavo mentioned the bunkers. Of course he would know they existed. He knew the more intimate hiding places for royalty, considering he was one of them. “How did you do it? You've been in a special cell here, I know, with limited interaction. How did you plan an attack from inside prison?”

  He wanted information from her, and Chey wanted information in return. She overcame the shock that wanted to linger at Paavo's deception, forcing herself to think about possible ways to escape. As he'd said—she had a knack for getting out of tight situations. Sometimes on her own, other times with a little help.

  Paavo straightened and stepped back into the corridor. He murmured to someone Chey couldn't see. Sweat popped out on her forehead from a sudden surge of fear. He wouldn't be so easily drawn into answering her questions and, she discovered, was quite serious about her answering his own. Three men rounded into the room, attired in uniforms that Chey knew were not of the Latvala military. Navy jackets with red swatches on the front, matching pants and white gloves were a stark change from Latvala's color schemes of navy, silver, dove gray and white.

  Russians. These men were Russian. Yet it was a Latvala accent that fell from one man's tongue when he said, “It's better if you don't fight.”

  Russia wasn't invading Latvala at all. Nor Imatra. Paavo was using his own men, dressed as someone else, to throw the scent off his trail. To point blame at another, probably innocent country. As far as she could tell, his plan was working to perfection. Sander had his doubts about the Russians, however, and she found herself endlessly glad that her husband was so cautious. He might have started a war that ended with half of Latvala blown off the map.

  Maybe that was Paavo's plan all along. Use someone else's military by proxy to do most of his dirty work. Maybe, too, he'd sold himself out to the Russians. She couldn't be sure.

  The rope in her fingers slithered to the floor.

  Grasping the back of the nearest chair, she picked it up and launched it at the closest guard. The chair bounced to the floor after the man blocked it with a hand. Chey upturned the table, next, scrambling away from the three uniformed guards as they darted forward, coming from all sides. Reaching down, she snatched up the rope again and wielded it like a whip, lashing out at the men's faces. Landing a few shots, which drew snarls and growls from the guards, she stumbled forward when one caught the loop and pulled her off balance.

  “No, no!” She fought against their trapping hands, using a foot to kick at one man's shin. Arms wrenched behind her back, two guards pushed her toward the door, toward Paavo who watched impassively from the hall.

  Scowling, Chey said, “You won't get away with it. Just like the last time. Sander will figure it out.”

  Paavo looked unintimidated.“Probably. But not in time to stop me—or to save you.”

  *

  Sander exited the conference room after delivering his speech, ignoring the incessant questions the reporters asked even though he'd already told them he would be making a statement only. Leaving the reporters behind, he stalked through the foyer, pausing once to ask one of his guards to escort the reporters from the property.

  This particular safe house wasn't safe any longer. Or wouldn't be, once the reporters hit the streets. It hadn't mattered that he'd specifically requested the media say nothing to anyone—he knew he couldn't trust their word or trust, too, that the enemy wouldn't find the reporters and extract the information in unpleasant ways.

  As he loosened his tie, he withdrew his phone and tried Chey's cell again. When he remembered that she probably wasn't getting service underground, he called the landline at the bunker instead.

  “Yes?” someone answered on the other end.

  “Find Chey and put her on the phone, please.” He hadn't had contact with her for hours and he needed to update her about the trip to Afshar. The sooner he got his family to Ahsan's stronghold, the better.

  “She's not here, your Majesty.”

  Sander frowned. “What do you mean she's not there?”

  “She left earlier today.”

  “What?” Sander came to a stop in the foyer. Mattias and Leander, standing with a group of guards near the door, glanced his way.

  “She left earlier, your Majesty. Paavo had been leaving messages for you and she ordered the helicopter to take her to the prison. She's not back yet.”

  “How long has she been gone?” he bellowed. He met Mattias's eyes, then Leander's, and stalked out of the foyer. Mattias and Leander fell into step at his side.

  “Four hours or so. Maybe a little longer.”

  Seething, Sander ripped off the tie and tossed it aside. He gestured to the side door, indicating he wanted Mattias to have someone get a car ready. To Leander, he said, “Find the five best fighters and bring them with us.”

  “You got it.” Leander pivoted back toward the foyer. Mattias parted off to instruct the guards they would be leaving shortly.

  While Sander began coming out of his suit, he said, “Didn't anyone think to call me before now? Why was she allowed to go to the prison in the first place?”

  “Sorry, your Majesty. She decided at the last second, and we thought she'd be back long before now.”

  “Yes, why isn't she back? I want you to leave me on the line and have someone else call the prison.” In his borrowed room, Sander shucked his formal clothing for the preferred gear of black. Pants, shirt, vest, weapon belt and shoulder holster.

  “We don't know why she's not back. Someone's on the line to the prison. No answer so far.”

  Of course not, Sander fumed to himself. Tucking the phone against his ear and shoulder, he sat on the end of the bed to pull his combat boots on and yank the laces tight. “Keep trying. Someone has to answer.”

  The news that no one was answering the main line at the prison worried him. Someone should be manning the desk at all times. Checking his weapons and stash of ammunition, Sander exited the room.

  “Still no answer, your Majesty.”

  Sander didn't bother with goodbyes. He ended t
he call and marched toward the side exit just as Leander approached with five guards following in his wake.

  “Check your weapons, make sure you have extra back up,” Sander said. “We're going to the prison and I don't know what to expect when we get there.”

  “The prison?” Mattias said, leading the procession out to a pair of Hummers. “Why the prison?”

  “Chey's there,” he said, splitting off to the lead Hummer. Mattias and Leander followed him, along with one guard. The other four diverted to the secondary vehicle.

  “Why is she at the prison?” Mattias asked as he settled into the back seat.

  “Apparently Paavo's been asking for me again. You know how he does. He demands my presence, I ignore him. I couldn't tell you why she went, but no one is answering at the front desk. Which just makes no sense.” Sander stared out at the darkness beyond the windows. The temperature was dropping again, forcing citizens on the street to bundle up. Large manor houses sat behind wrought iron fencing, some of the structures resembling sentinels with their windows lit from within.

  “I agree. I don't understand why she went,” Mattias said.

  Sander called Gunnar next. His brother answered on the second ring.

  “What's going on, Sander?” Gunnar said, foregoing hello.

  “I need you to go to the bunker in Kalev. Get there as fast as you can. Take my kids and the three guards you trust the most and get them out of there.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Just do it, Gunnar. Take an SUV and drive around the back roads close to the airport in Kalev, but don't go there until someone texts you that the plane is ready and waiting. Stay on the move, and try not to scare the crap out of my kids. They've been through a lot.”

  “All right. I'm on my way.”

  “If Chey calls you or Krislin for any reason, please tell her to call me or one of you call me, okay?” Krislin, Gunnar's wife, was a good friend of Chey's. Sander wanted to cover all his bases in case Chey got word out to someone other than himself.