Royal Blood The Complete Collection

by Amity Cross

  I smiled widely, imagining blowing off his cock in an entirely new kind of way. “Even better.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. “Care to test me on that?”

  His jaw stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare shoot me in a public place.”

  “Let’s run through the scenario,” I said, twisting the gun against his filthy dick. “You try to run, and I shoot your cock off. The gunshot makes people scream and run in all directions. I slip away in the confusion while you sit here and bleed all over this nice patio chair. I disappear without breaking a sweat because I don’t even exist…and I’ll eventually get what I want by other means while you sit in a hospital someplace, crying into your milk because you’ll never have a filthy little worm to stick into an unwilling vagina again. Nothing will ever make you happy because all the money in the world will never replace the satisfaction of a good, old-fashioned orgasm. I’m pretty sure that’s your best-case scenario. At this range, I’m certain I’ll blow out your asshole as well, so there’s shitting into a bag for the rest of your life to look forward to on top of that. Sounds like a real meaningful existence, huh? Or…” I said, my lips curling into a smile. “You could just give me the fucking bomb.”

  Gruber stared at me open mouthed, and I felt completely satisfied that I had a biological terrorist lost for words in under one minute flat.

  “Shall we?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

  The facility where Gruber had the bomb stored was a plain, boring concrete warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin.

  Like a lot of the buildings in the capital, it was Russian-made during the Cold War. That meant it was made entirely from concrete slabs because it was cheap and easy to construct.

  It didn’t look like anyone was at home, but that was kinda the point. Assholes like Gruber hid in plain sight, covering their tracks with legitimate business projects. They could bury the paper trail of their bomb-making scheme in among lawful chemical testing. One of the more tasty tidbits I’d learned while training with Section Seven.

  The car came to an abrupt halt, gravel sliding underneath the wheels.

  “Steady,” I said, shoving my gun harder against Gruber’s ribs. “You don’t want my finger to slip.”

  “That would be a shame,” he drawled.

  “Get out of the car, Gruber,” I snapped.

  Sliding out, I never once lowered my gun, ready to shoot the fucker if he tried to run. He led me inside without complaint, and I was extra vigilant for anything out of the ordinary. This was way too easy, and the air was ripe for a double-cross.

  “Tell me about the facility,” I ordered as we moved through the building.

  Gruber eyed me but didn’t try any funny business. “It’s a first-class chemical testing and development facility,” he said. “State-of-the-art clean rooms, biohazard containment, and laboratories.”

  “What else is stored here?”

  When we reached a locked door, he slid his keycard through a reader and opened the mechanism with his thumbprint. “Viruses, pesticides, pathogens, industrial solvents… All kinds of chemicals for all kinds of applications.” All kinds of applications, including chemical bombs designed for maximum carnage.

  The door opened with a click that echoed through the empty hallway.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked, nudging him forward with the muzzle of my gun.

  “It’s Sunday,” Gruber retorted. “Even I don’t make my staff work on God’s day.”

  I snorted at the irony that a man like him would even think about going to church.

  He led me through the dark corridors until we reached a high-security clearance checkpoint. He let us through with his thumbprints and then again through a set of fortified double doors. Stepping inside the room behind Gruber, I realized we were in a laboratory. At one end was a containment chamber that was separated from the rest of the space with floor to ceiling glass and a metal door that most likely sealed airtight once engaged. Within the space was a clear table and on top was a strange looking device.

  “There,” Gruber said, nodding at the device on the other side of the glass. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “That’s the bomb?” I glanced over it again, and it didn’t look anything like I’d been expecting. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure what a chemical bomb was meant to look like.

  It was the shape of a football with a flat bottom, a clear container filled with what looked like a clear gel or liquid. The top section was metallic silver in color, a computerized screen set into the side, a few exposed wires traveling from the screen into the device itself.

  “What does Moltke want with it?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” Gruber shot back. “I make them. I get paid. I don’t ask questions. Once the weapon is out of my hands, it’s none of my business.”

  “You don’t care something you make kills innocent people?”

  He narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sly smirk. “Like I said, pretty girl. It’s none of my business.”

  I’d dealt with a lot of cold bastards in the short amount of time I’d been with X, Sykes was one I especially remembered, but it never failed to disgust me how little they cared for human life.

  I shook my head, and it was the tiny break in my concentration that he’d been waiting for.

  His hand shot up at lightning speed, and his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He slammed me against the wall, dislodging my grip on the gun, and it fell to the floor, clattering across the concrete. Instead of lunging for it, I brought up my left fist and hit Gruber in the face. I favored my right, so the punch had little force behind it, and all it did was make him stumble.

  Pushing off the wall, I shoved him off me, and we fell to the floor. Rolling, he landed on top of me and brought his fist down on my temple. It slammed into me hard, causing stars to burst through my vision, and the fight bled from my limbs for a split second. It was enough time for Gruber to make a break for it.

  Dazed, I rolled onto my side, but it was too late. Gruber had disappeared into the containment chamber, the door closing slowly behind him with a hiss as the hydraulic mechanism engaged. Pushing to my feet, I lunged, but it slammed home just as I reached it, and my shoulder collided painfully with the solid metal.

  Through the glass window, Gruber flipped me the bird before turning to the device to begin working on it. To what end, I didn’t know, but I had to get him and the bomb out of there before something awful happened.

  Turning to the control pad by the door, I thumped it, but it wasn’t worth the effort. It was activated with a code and biometrics. There was no way I was getting around it. Useless.

  “Jackson?” I said, activating the coms stuck in my ear.

  “Here,” he declared, presenting himself.

  “I’m at the facility. Gruber’s locked himself inside a containment chamber with the bomb,” I said. “Can you get it open?”

  “Have you got the remote router?” he asked. “Stick it onto the system controlling the locking mechanism, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Sliding the tiny disk—which was no bigger than a ten pence coin—out of my pocket, I slapped it onto the tiny computer operating the containment chamber’s security protocol.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Okay, give me a second.”

  “I don’t have a second,” I shot back, watching helplessly as Gruber fiddled with the bomb.

  “I can’t deactivate the door remotely,” Jackson replied.

  Thumping my hands on the glass, I cursed loudly as Gruber disengaged the chemical from the device.

  “He’s going to get away with the bomb,” I exclaimed. Glancing around, I tried to find something that could short the panel beside the door but came up empty handed. I clawed at the plastic covering, trying to pry it off. When I got my hands on that son of a bitch…

  Klaxons began to wail and orange lights flashed as I glanced around, my heart
pounding. “Jackson…”

  “A biohazard protocol has been activated in the chamber,” he explained, the sound of him tapping furiously on his keyboard filtering over the coms.

  Biohazard? That could only mean that the chemical had been deployed, right? Turning back to the chamber where Gruber had closed himself inside, my mouth fell open as I realized his hands hadn’t been as steady as he’d hoped.

  The chemical that had been released was invisible, and to the naked eye, nothing looked out of place…except for what was happening to the sole human trapped in the enclosed space with no way out.

  Gruber had spilled a tiny amount of the clear liquid residing inside the bomb, and the results were disastrous to say the least.

  The skin on his hands was turning red and blistering…then those blisters popped, blood oozing from the wounds. The container slipped in his grasp and dropped to the floor, shattering on the hard surface. The chemical went everywhere, coating his exposed skin and clothing, and began to eat through anything it touched.

  Gruber stumbled forward and slammed his fists against the glass before me, leaving bloody handprints behind. He screamed as the chemical began to blister his skin, but that was only the beginning of his problems…and the beginning of what this unknown chemical was capable of.

  Gruber’s face began to redden as his mouth opened in an agonized wail. Then his flesh began to melt—it literally began to sag and pull away from his bones like wax dripping from a burning candle.

  Stumbling away from the glass, I slapped my hands over my ears, but it wasn’t enough to stop the sound of his agonizing wails.

  The sounds that came from him were the most horrific thing I’d ever heard in my entire life. The pain and agony of slow death. The pain that innocent people would have endured if this bomb had found its way into Moltke’s hands. Falling to my knees, I just willed Gruber to die so I didn’t have to hear his pain. It echoed through every nerve ending in my body, lodging itself into my soul.

  Human suffering… Why, why, why?

  “Mercy?”

  I heard Jackson’s voice over the coms, and I shook myself off.

  I took a deep breath before replying, “I’m here.”

  “Are you okay? The chemical should have been contained in the chamber…”

  Like I had a death wish, I turned and laid eyes on what was left of Ulrich Gruber. He was nothing but a puddle of blood, bones, and gore. Casting my gaze away, I fought the urge to throw up.

  “I’m fine. It’s just…” I swallowed hard. “Gruber… It wasn’t pretty.”

  “You better get out of there,” Jackson said, prompting me into action. “I’ve managed to hack into their server and download a ton of their files. Enough to be able to find a lot of useful stuff. Don’t forget to grab the transmitter.”

  I swallowed hard. “So I just leave him here?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Jackson replied, “I’m not sure what we can do, Mercy. There really isn’t anything you can do but come back to the apartment.”

  “X?” I asked, reaching out for the transmitter.

  “Mr. Blood hasn’t checked in yet, but I’ll reach out to him.”

  “Okay,” I said, backing away from the containment chamber. “I’m on my way. I’m going radio silent from here on out.”

  “Be safe.”

  Chapter 9

  X

  I couldn’t remember the last time I crossed out a face.

  The compulsion that drove me to scratch Xs on everything had subsided over time as my conditioning deteriorated, but I did remember the last photograph I’d been given.

  Alison Crawford, aka Mercy Reid.

  I wondered how she was faring with Gruber and his bomb. Knowing Mercy, she’d have made it a colorful affair.

  Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I tailed Bateman through the market, making three men who had been his eyes while he’d met with Gruber. They were stock standard heavies. Tall, broad shouldered, and wearing casual clothing to blend in with the crowd. It hadn’t been until their boss had given the signal that they’d revealed themselves.

  Following them, I wondered if they’d lead me to Moltke…if he was here at all. There was a high possibility he wasn’t in Germany, and he had employed Bateman to do his bidding so he wouldn’t have to cross international borders. If that was the case, it might be pertinent to snatch the go-between in his fancy suit and shoes and wring it out of him.

  Bateman paused, retrieving his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket. He answered and listened, hanging up the call without responding further. Then he gestured to his heavies, and they moved off, their pace increasing.

  Shit, had they made me? I lingered, letting the distance between us increase before moving off again.

  They turned down the next street, Wilhelmstrasse, where a black town car was waiting, its driver poised to open the rear door as Bateman approached. The guards turned and scanned the street before piling into a back SUV that sat behind the town car.

  Glancing around for something I could hot-wire before I lost them, I spied a motorcycle propped on the footpath. It’d been a long time since I’d ridden. Last I’d seen of my bike was where I’d left it in the parking garage underneath my old apartment. The apartment Royal Blood had given me for services rendered. I wondered what had become of it.

  Glancing up and down the street, I was in the clear from prying eyes, so I sidled up to the machine and pried off the casing around the starter motor. As I was about to strip the wire to get the engine going, I was pulled back into the blind alleyway behind me.

  Thrust against the brick, I came face-to-face with a woman. Of all the likely scenarios this tail could’ve ended in, this was not what I was expecting.

  Her hair was an unnatural shade of black—much like Mercy’s—her eyes cool and calculating, her skin flawless and pale…almost translucent. Everything about her said she was skilled, but how skilled remained to be seen. She’d avoided being seen by me up until now, so she had that going for her.

  For the moment, I had a little more to worry about than her skill set. She pressed a knife against my throat, the steel pricking my skin, her green eyes blazing into mine.

  “Who are you?” she snarled.

  “I should be asking you the same thing,” I drawled, not fazed by the fact six inches of sharpened steel was pressed against my jugular.

  Thrusting my right arm up, I slammed my palm against her throat and grasped her wrist with my left hand, forcing the knife away. Her eyes widened in shock as she doubled over, her breath wheezing. The knife clattered to the ground before I could twist it out of her grasp, and I shoved her back against the opposite wall.

  Her head cracked against the brick as she snarled in frustration. She’d obviously met her match.

  “Let’s try this again,” I snapped, forcing my forearm against her throat and applying just enough pressure to make it uncomfortable to breathe. “Who are you, and what do you want with Bateman?”

  She struggled against my grasp. “You know, I could pull that same trick on you.”

  Lunging, she attempted to turn my technique back on me, but I was too quick. I dodged her blow, but she wriggled her way free and twisted. I was fast but not as light on my feet as she was, and her fist clipped me on the corner of my mouth.

  “He’s not here,” she said, backing out of reach. “If he was, I would’ve found him by now.”

  “Who? Bateman?”

  “Bateman is just the messenger.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know who else you’re referring to.”

  “Don’t play stupid with me,” she hissed, her accent slipping. So, she was maintaining an alias. Was she Intelligence? Certainly not British. Folsom would have mentioned if another agent was in the field.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked, wiping my bloody mouth with the back of my hand.

  “You cost me,” she snapped, ignoring my question.

  Moltke wasn’t here at all. Not t
hat it fucking mattered since I’d already lost Bateman’s tail because of this harlot. I hoped Mercy’s endeavor had been more successful.

  Quicker than I thought possible, she drew a gun she had hidden at her back and fired. Twisting to the side, I dodged the shot, and it sailed harmlessly past me. Not breaking form, I brought up my right hand and slammed it into her wrist, knocking her off balance. Bringing up my left, I wrapped my palm around the barrel and forced it out of her grip.

  Flipping it around, I aimed it at her head, but she ducked low, ramming her shoulder into my stomach. The air rushed out of my lungs, and my body instinctively bent over at the waist. The woman kept pushing, knocking me on my ass.

  Rolling, I shoved to my feet and jammed the gun against her head as she was about to strike again.

  Her lips curved into a smirk, and she pressed harder into the barrel. “Boom.”

  Her hand shot up so fast I missed my chance to counter. Her left curled around the muzzle of the gun, and her right slammed against my wrist, disarming me…then her fist came back and landed a blow to my face with surprising force.

  I stumbled once and pulled myself back, but the split second it took to realign myself was more than enough for her to slip away. There was only one way out of the alley, so I rushed forward and glanced around the corner, trying to spot her retreating form, but the street was empty.

  Fuck! It was a cold day in hell when I was bested, and right now, I was fucking freezing.

  Deciding I had nothing to lose by canvassing the streets for a sign of the mystery woman, I began walking, conscious of the city at my back. There was no doubt a lot of people would be out hunting the same man we were, but the look in the woman’s eyes suggested her stake had a personal flair to it. Either that or she was so ingrained in the job she took everything to heart.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been searching and not finding a fucking thing when I finally heard from Jackson.

  “Mr. Blood?” His voice came over the com, breaking through my brewing rage at having lost Bateman and the woman.