by T. K. Toppin
“Shit. Fine. Whatever. So. What is the time anyway?”
“Just after three in the morning—your time. About one here.”
“What? Where the fuck are we?”
James quirked a brow at me and gave me an odd stare. “Iceland.”
Chapter 18
John, numb with worry and exhaustion, had been up for a straight forty-eight hours. Every bone in his body ached, protested, and begged for rest and sleep. The old injury at his hip quaked with pain. It had long since healed, but it still throbbed once in a while. He rubbed at it thoughtfully.
He sat in the conservatory connected to his offices. His favorite time of the day, dawn, had come and gone but he had barely noticed. Earlier, he’d forced himself to drink a nutrition shake because some small part of his brain that still functioned had told him he needed sustenance. It sat chalky and heavy in his stomach.
The raging anger he’d been afflicted with had long since passed, though it still simmered and bubbled below the surface. Icy fear and worry alternated like shock waves through his body. He told himself he needed to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. With force he tried to clear his mind, but all he saw was Josie, imagining her hurt, bloodied, in pain. Helpless.
Moorjani had shown him a recording of someone resembling Josie walking out the main entrances. Her eye color was different, and she wore a garish lip tint and had long blonde hair. Her face was blank with a pliable slackness to it, and she matched no one in the visitor’s databank.
How such an obvious error by security had been overlooked sent John spinning into another fit of fury. He vaguely remembered throwing something; it made a horrendous crash that sent people scattering in all directions. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was he threw.
But it had been Josie’s escort that had caused John to roar. Confirmation with Simon proved it was the infamous James, staring straight up at the overhead surveillance orbs looking cocky and smug with an arm around her shoulders. His hand had also been caressing her jawline.
“He is dead!” John had raged. That much he remembered clearly.
He committed James’ face to memory, his movements, his posture. Despite himself, John laughed. Josie had been right: he was drop-dead gorgeous. And with that thought, John groaned in agony. The image of James touching his wife speared through his heart—disgusted him—and made him blind with fury.
With effort, he shook the image out of his head.
Calm yourself, he ordered. Josie can take care of herself. She will fight tooth and nail to free herself from danger. She will know what to do…or die trying. He shook that thought out as well. Stop it! Calm yourself. Step to one side. Do it, now! Step to one side.
He stood, his legs a little shaky. “Step to one side, John,” he muttered.
Calm did return. He felt it creeping like a soothing balm through his body, his mind, and into his limbs. His breathing leveled, his heart rate evened out. His mind cleared. He re-focused.
Find Josie.
Think…
Why would Ho want her? Josie disliked him, thought him to be a pervert. Did Ho want her so he could do vile and disgusting things to her? Keep her like a trophy?
No. He had looked into Ho’s eyes; whatever he chose to portray was just that, a façade. The man was made of steel. And his objectives were clear and direct even though his methods were abstract. His core was cold and hard, but he was eager in his wants—impatient with them. That was one fault, one weakness.
Did Ho think she knew something? Some secret she’d learned of while living with Wellesley? Maybe a secret of Max’s?
Or even a secret of mine?
He considered this, noted it as a possibility. John knew Josie would never divulge anything about himself or the Citadel, not even to save her own life.
Ho wasn’t stupid. Impatient maybe with wanting something, but he’d planned long and hard for this. A whole year had passed since he last showed his face. It was like an orchestral maneuver, everything slotting into place with such exacting precision and timing.
First it had been the opening with the business of the code, drawing out Adam. Ho had coated it vaguely to ensure there would be uncertainty about what the code was for. Then, Ho struck with the revelation of Josie’s past, the discovery of the old discs and the blackmail threat, linking the first with the second.
Introducing the girl came next, bringing emotions into it, confusing things further. Then declaring exactly what it was he wanted, and tying the first threat into a double threat, linking the first two with the third—leaving them with absolutely no choice but to do his bidding.
Next came the exchange: the code for the girl.
The codes were switched, but still not discovered. And if it had been discovered, apparently ignored. So, assuming everything went as planned, the next logical step would be to go straight to the space station and take control, by force if necessary. If the plan all along had been to take control of the droids, why then had Ho not turned up on the station?
A distraction, then? To lead Simon and his team away, to make them look elsewhere. That made good sense, if the intention all along was to take Josie. So why steal the code in the first place? Did he just pretend to lose it to throw everyone off-track? Or perhaps to make it look convincing…
No. John remembered Ho’s face. He’d lost the code. That was real, the sheer anger he’d seen, and heard in the man’s voice. That was no trick. Ho had been convinced Adam had taken the code.
And the girl? The unexpected Mrs. Patel? John dismissed Patel—innocent bystander and Josie could vouch for her. The girl. What did this girl have to do with it other than the obvious? Why the generous offer of giving the girl to Josie, when the intention was to take Josie herself?
Distractions. A scowl twisted John’s face as the early morning shadows played across the cobbled floor of his conservatory. A fat koi sloshed lazily in the pond nearby, begging for food.
Ho had hired a Rogue, and an extremely skilled one. One who had walked right through the main gates and straight back out with his wife. Josie had to have been drugged and made pliable, since there was no way she’d willingly leave with the man. Especially in the temper she’d been in before she went missing.
John thought of something else. The exchange. Ho had wanted to take Josie from then, which was why he had asked for her specifically. The code was never the main objective, just a distraction to draw them out. That was it! And the Rogue had been hired specifically to get Josie, nothing more. It explained why, instead of continuing to fight, and thus risk injury to Josie, the Rogue had disappeared.
The plan to take Josie at the exchange foiled, the next move was to remove Simon—it had been Ho’s backup plan all along. With Simon away, the Rogue could be assured of getting in and out of the Citadel, knowing that if Simon were around, he would’ve pursued the Rogue to the very end. That much was true. Now Simon was off-planet and his hands tied. It didn’t matter if Simon’s Elites were on hand; the Rogue would consider them inferior. Rogues, if anything, were notorious for thinking themselves superior than everyone else, which was why they worked alone. Simon was the best at what he did, and the Rogue would know that.
And it also explained why no one had turned up at the space station.
But why not take back the girl? John rubbed his chin. She’d served her purpose.
This thought led John to believe Margeaux wasn’t quite who she appeared to be. Unless the intention was to plant her inside the Citadel. Why? Surely Ho would expect the girl’s background to be checked and double-checked. Ho had even gone to the exacting trouble of tracing her ancestors, a most generous gesture.
Thorough.
It could also mean the girl was the real deal and by wasting time checking, they’d missed the whole point.
Margeaux. He needed to see her again. Without realizing it, he’d already walked to the elevators. Blinking with distraction, he ordered it to take him to the detainees’ quarters.
By leavi
ng the girl here, he thought again, she would be safe. Out of harm’s way. Protected.
Why would it matter to Ho if the girl was or was not protected? Clearly, her purpose had been served; she could be discarded without a second thought.
But, if she mattered, then…
Yes. The girl matters. She still has more to do. Her function here is not done.
This would explain why she’d been handed over so easily?
And what exactly was her function here?
With Josie gone, that left him. It was a logical conclusion. People had wanted him dead since before he was even born. This threat was nothing new to him. Did Ho have intentions of becoming world president? Why would he, if the intention was to take the Scrap Yard? He could be king of the world after that. Why waste time being a mere president?
John found Margeaux meditating on the terrace. She sat crossed-legged on the tiny patch of artificial grass, her body thin, pale, and small. A year ago, he’d come across another thin, pale girl in this very room. Josie. With her, it had been a completely different matter. The only similarity the two shared was the mystery of their identities.
For Josie, it had been affection and curiosity that drew him to her like a magnet. In Margeaux’s case, it was danger and threat, and it repelled him. John’s chest constricted with the sudden urge to lash out and hit her. He took a discreet breath to seek calm.
She sat in a serene pose, the early morning light glancing off her milky skin. The long black of her hair fell well below her waist, an abrupt contrast to the white of her clothing. Margeaux appeared to be the embodiment of innocence and youth, but all John saw were lies and deceptions. The sight turned his already raw stomach.
As if sensing his presence, she turned and locked those glassy, pale green eyes with his.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“I am not your uncle,” he replied without emotion. He tried to unnerve her with his calculating stare by never once taking his eyes off hers.
She stared back with a small squint, then stood in one fluid motion. “You look tired. Are you unwell?” Her voice dripped with concern.
He continued to watch her. She seemed outwardly oblivious to the attention. But for the briefest moment, something passed across her eyes. A flicker. A shift, so minute, that she made a half-blink to hide it. It was a calculating and cunning glimmer. The corners of her mouth twitched in a small smile, amused by some secret only she knew.
With inspiration, John felt bold enough to try something. “Ho has been captured.”
She made a slight jerk—a tiny movement in her shoulders. Her eyes widened in surprise, followed by a small uncertain frown, a quick knit of the brows and a wavering of her eyes. Then it was gone.
It made John’s heart soar with glee. Yes, they are connected. That was not a grateful look.
“Oh.” Lowering her lashes, she linked her hands before her like an obedient child. “That is good news, then.”
“He is dead.”
Her eyes flew up in shock. Her lips parted into an O.
“I—oh. I am sorry to hear this.” She shifted a little, a small inward movement. Then, in a matter of seconds, she was in control again. “It saddens me to hear of a life being taken.”
“Even if he was cold and heartless? He inflicted great pain on you without a second thought?”
“Yes. We must show compassion to all. Good and evil alike.”
“Tell me, how is your hand?”
She glanced down; the first sign of discomfort—agitation—crinkled her smooth forehead. “It is healing well. I have to get the bandage changed today.” Margeaux returned her attention back up to John, her eyes glittery with concealed anger. “How did he die?” Her voice had been pitched to sound brave, but it came out sharp and accusatory.
“I killed him,” he replied, affecting boredom.
Her neck muscles twitched. “Oh…you… How? When?”
“Earlier this morning. You understand that he had to suffer a bit before he died.” John delivered it as casually as if it were an afterthought.
“Oh…Why?” Margeaux’s brow creased, not with horror, but hatred. The high pitch of her normal voice dropped, almost guttural with anger.
“He’d been very tricky. Kidnapping my wife, for one.” No reaction. John continued to study the girl. “She was hurt, quite badly, trying to escape.”
Still no reaction.
“I don’t believe you could kill him. He’s very strong and skilled,” she persisted. “How did you kill him?”
He waited a beat, watching her. “With my hands. It was personal, you see.”
Her eyes flicked to his hands. He’d mimicked her by clasping them before him. She began to squirm under his close inspection, unclasping her own hands, placing them at her sides, one fist balled tightly.
“That is quite…barbaric.” She sounded out of breath but kept her tone controlled. Turning away, Margeaux fixed her face to portray someone deeply offended. “You…you, disgust me. You are the world president, you should…know better than to do…such a thing.”
John shrugged. “You seem quite concerned with how Ho met his end than how my wife is—your aunt. Ho was quite violent with her. He met an appropriate death.” He knew he sounded convincing, since he kept an image of a helpless Josie in his head. Right next to one of how Ho would look when John did, eventually, get his hands on the man.
“Did you have to kill him?”
Was that a snarl twisting her face? “Would you rather he lived and gloated over his evils?” John countered quickly. “Don’t insult my judgment in this matter. He has been dealt with. Why should you care? I do not. And your aunt certainly does not.”
“He is…” she fought to control her voice. “He was still a person.”
“An evil one,” John replied.
With a quick intake of air Margeaux tossed her hair, lowered her head, and brushed away at something on her sleeve.
“How is my aunt?” Her voice, under control, was pitched now to sound saddened and concerned.
For an answer, John grabbed her arm, yanking her up to her toes. He leaned his face close to her, murder on his mind. She let out a shrill, childish squeak. Real panic washed over her face, her eyes wide and almost bulging.
“Who is your father? Don’t lie to me.”
“What are you do… Let go of me!”
He shook her once, quick, fast, and rough.
“He is…he is, dead! I told you that already.” She started to struggle, caught the icy look on John’s face and stopped immediately. “I told you, he’s dead. What’re you doing? Let me go, please. You’re hurting—”
“I know he is,” he hissed low. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I said he’s dead! He was a drug addict—he died,” she screamed out, abrupt, like a spasm. Her banshee-like screech was high and wild, with child-like rage and emotion. “He’s dead-dead-dead! Can’t you hear me? He’s dead! Let go of me!”
Still gripping her skinny arm, John watched as she flailed about, shaking her head, kicking, thrashing, and having an almighty tantrum. She even grunted, a nasal sound.
“How did he die?” John snarled, baring his teeth in a nasty smile. “Tell me, I want to know.” He shook her again, causing her head to jerk back and forth sharply. It pleased him to see her agitated further. A wicked part of him wanted her to snap in two, like a doll. “Tell me, girl! How?”
“I already told you how! He’s dead. Stop shaking me—please!”
“How?”
“Drugs…overdose…” Her teeth clacked together, her voice shook and vibrated in her throat. She made a noise—nnnn—in an effort to speak. “I…told…you!”
“How?”
She screeched high and grunted like a wild animal in unabashed fury. Any control she had, left her.
“Because you killed him! You bastard! You killed him—you killed him. You killed him!” She shrieked wildly, hitting him with her free arm and jerking violently in his grip. Her head
flung from side to side in rage, she vented more screeches and incoherent howls. Her hair whipped about such that it lashed John’s furious face.
“That’s right,” he hissed, and with disgust, flung Margeaux to the ground.
She made a high squeal as her small rump hit the artificial grass with a satisfying thud. And then, absolute silence as she glared up at him in stupefied fury.
They regarded one another for a moment, both with hatred and disgust contorting their faces.
“She is still my aunt,” Margeaux spat out in a growl. “And she believes me!”
“So you keep saying. But my wife’s niece died a long time ago. You are no one but a girl who shares a trace element of her DNA. That alone does not make you family. You,” he paused for effect, “are nothing.”
He turned, and without fear of exposing his back to her, left.
It was the casual flicking of lint that screamed out to him. How her hand, those long graceful fingers, poised elegantly like a ballerina’s as they lightly brushed her arm, smoothing the sleeve with such intricate care.
Why had he not noticed it before? She was forever doing that! Just like someone else…just like him! The same manner, the same expression, the same way it was used to compose themselves. Everything started to make sense. Perfect sense. And it made him sick.
Horror punched him.
It meant that Michael Ho was her father.
And Josie’s nephew!
* * *
“You have got to be joking?” Simon goggled at John.
Behind his friend, John saw a tiny square of unfathomable black space. For privacy, Simon had ventured to a quiet corner in one of the Scrap Yard’s observation bubbles.
“I wish I were.” John rubbed a hand over his mouth, agitated. His horror and anger were managed now to the point it gave him a mild, nauseating headache. “It didn’t take her long to admit. She’s good, but still a child who allows her emotions control her.”
“I wish I was there to have seen it. Did you make her pee like that terrorist back in Rio?”
“I wanted to wring her skinny little neck and pull it off and—” John compressed his mouth in disgust. It had come very close. This girl had almost forced him to sink so low that torture and murder spoke out to him like a seduction. “You need to come back.”
