“It won't stop me from contacting him again. He needs to hear what I have to say, not his ignorant wife who has no right to be queen,” Paavo said to her back.
Chey gave the door room to open. She caught a glimpse of a guard on the floor, her guard, and a splatter of blood on the far wall. The last thing she saw was the arm of a suited man bringing down the butt of a gun.
Chapter Fourteen
Sander didn't bother to change clothes for his meeting with Konstantine. It didn't matter if he showed up to this private meeting in royal garb or a bath robe. The details would come out the same. He considered all the new information given by Mikel and how he should proceed with Konstantine once they were face to face. It was a delicate balance, treading this line between his responsibility as king and a man bent toward mercenary action when he felt the circumstances warranted it. He wouldn't hesitate to go all out on Konstantine if he had to.
The setting sun hadn't dipped too far into the horizon when Sander stepped out of the limousine and into the hotel's private back entrance. He could have had the helicopter land on the roof of the hotel itself, but that would have drawn the notice of media and citizens on the streets nearby, putting his secretive mission in jeopardy. Three guards flanked his progress, on the lookout for danger.
A long, dim corridor stretched away from the back door, with another, shorter hall branching off to his right. He took the shorter hall to a bank of elevators accessible only by either a key or a passcode that he punched into the keypad. Done in shades of navy blue, silver and gray, the hotel themed itself on the royalty of Latvala, with sweeping architecture reminiscent of the family seat. There were copies of portraits of the Ahtissari lineage in frames in the lobby, as well as photographs of Sander and Chey with the line of princes decorating the walls.
Inside the elevator, half blue and half gray with silver trim, Sander punched the number for the top floor. A floor not just every random citizen could access. He said nothing to his guards on the way up, allowing the men to take the front position in the elevator just in case someone unsavory waited on the other side of the doors when they opened.
The only people in sight when Sander stepped into the foyer were Konstantine's guards. Five of them. They stood on either side of a double set of doors to the suite. More than one man eyed the weaponry Sander wore in the open, on his person, and several started to protest. Sander left the guards to sort out their differences and entered the room. He wasn't about to meet anyone, no matter who, unarmed.
Konstantine paced near a roaring fireplace in a suite built, literally, for a king. A black coat had been tossed over a chair, leaving the king of Imatra in shirtsleeves of white with the tie missing. He had a glass of wine in his hand, a troubled frown on his brow.
Sander closed the door with a thud that snagged Konstantine's attention. The king of Imatra's frown deepened when he saw the weapon belt at Sander's hips.
“Is that really necess--”
“Don't. Just don't,” Sander warned Konstantine. “I'm not going anywhere right now without protection. If I wanted you dead—you would be.”
Konstantine scowled, then set down his glass. “That's a pretty brazen statement--”
“Let's discuss brazen, shall we?” Sander paced slowly across the room, keeping a glut of gilded furniture between him and Konstantine. There were several other rooms off the main living area, a broad balcony, and a full kitchen that Sander ignored for now. He'd been in this suite before, he knew what it had to offer.
“What we need to discuss, Dare, is how to protect our countries from what is clearly a blatant attack. I tried to tell you we shouldn't wait, shouldn't waste time. Now look what's happened.” He made an impatient gesture with one hand that apparently indicated all the attacks on their kingdoms.
“I think we should start with the staged attacks that you arranged near your borders, and how you used corpses to portray your dead soldiers. I'm curious, did you order the bodies blown up, or was that one of your military?” Sander paced, watching Konstantine's expression closely. He was looking for surprise or guilt or some other matching emotion that would give Konstantine away. The flicker of surprise came a moment later, along with a slight widening of Konstantine's eyes. The way the man's posture straightened, as if the king was about to defend himself, told Sander better than words that Mikel hadn't been lying. At least about this. Konstantine tongued his teeth, appearing to consider how to answer.
“Yes, I staged the scene. Yes, I added the Russian flag. I knew I had to, because your reputation precedes you, Dare. I knew you wouldn't take the threats against Imatra—against your own country—seriously unless you had a lot of provocation. As you can see, we were hit anyway thanks to your lack of support to what should have been our cause.”
“What you did was show up on my doorstep with false information and make inane demands that no sane king would have agreed upon. It's for this reason that most sovereigns and leaders of nations don't immediately hop to instant decisions, especially when it involves entire countries and the well being of the people. I've learned that everyone has an agenda, Konstantine, and it behooves me to take a wait and see attitude. Not only that, but I will not now, nor ever, give up sovereignty of Latvala.”
“Instead, you condone our countries being bombed!” Konstantine shouted. “Because that's what you really mean when you sit on your throne of denial and pretend like an attack like this would never happen. You could have prevented this!”
Sander took one threatening step forward. “You're treading a thin line, Konstantine. Accept the fact that this was out of both of our control. We could have merged all three countries together and it wouldn't have stopped the bombing because you were hell bent on making a statement. You're very lucky I don't haul to to prison right now.”
Konstantine's face skewed into a mask of surprise and disbelief. “Wait...what are you suggesting?--”
“I'm suggesting you took your staging one step too far. Arranging a few dead bodies wasn't good enough for you, was it? You needed to bomb Latvala and Somero as extra emphasis to 'help' Thane and I get on board with your idea to take everything over. Although I have to say—bombing your own country was really over the top--”
“I did not bomb anyone's country, much less my own! You've lost your mind, Dare.”
“I think my mind is intact. You play a good game of cat and mouse, but I don't believe in coincidences where someone happens to attack me so soon after a blatant warning that I would be groveling to their feet if I didn't do as they demanded. You all but admitted you would retaliate, and lo, here we are.” Sander spread his hands indicatively, encompassing the bombings as a whole. It was all he could do to remain rational and calm.
Konstantine took a step forward, facing off with Sander. “I'm telling you right now. I did not bomb anyone. Not you, not Thane, certainly not myself.”
“And I should believe you...why?”
“Because it makes no sense! I had--”
“It makes perfect sense and I just explained why. What I want you to do now, is tell me why I shouldn't haul you to prison and put you on trial for murder?” Sander's patience was beginning to erode despite his best intentions. Flashes of Chey and the children in the devastation of the family seat played behind his eyes, a constant reminder of Konstantine's lies. He didn't have enough proof—yet—to hold Konstantine. Just as he didn't rush to act before, he wouldn't rush to act now. The international complications were great and many regarding the detention of royalty, and he couldn't afford to smear Latavla's name so soon after Paavo turned against his own blood and attempted to overthrow the throne. Sander had spent years rebuilding the trust of his people. Still. It didn't hurt to let Konstantine know how serious he was about the bombing.
“You wouldn't dare. And it amazes me how you still fail to see the consequences of your inaction. We're all going to be taken over, haven't you figured that out? Russia moves against our kingdoms and here you sit, threatening me. I would almost say that
you want to lose Latvala to a greater power.”
“Do you have anything at all important to say, Konstantine? I've got other, more important things to do than stand here and listen to you whine. What I do with Latvala is my decision and my decision only. You blaming Russia for the bombings strikes me about as truthful as believing they attacked your border after you staged dead people on the ground. I don't have proof—yet. But I'll find it eventually.” Sander forced himself to remain on the other side of the room. He had an irresistible urge to grab Konstantine up by his collar and slam him into the nearest wall.
As if his thoughts alone could manifest into physical action, Konstantine suddenly slumped to the floor. Sander didn't at first understand why the man crumpled in on himself like that. Not until a discrete 'pop' registered a split second after. Diving to the floor, Sander pulled a weapon from the holster to aim at the window, where a neat bullet hole provided proof of what had taken Konstantine down. From his vantage he saw nothing useful; whoever took the shot wasn't inside the suite but across in another building, out of Sander's line of sight. He shouted for the guards, aware in some part of his mind that Konstantine's security might very well take him to be the shooter—and shoot in return. He rolled behind a couch out of sight, unwilling to holster his weapon. For all he knew, there were more shooters, or a guard on the shooter's payroll, just waiting to take him out, too.
“Stay down, stay down! Shooter!” Sander called when he heard the door open. “Konstantine's hit!” He wanted to alert his own detail of the threat, make them aware that he hadn't gotten pissed and taken a shot at the king. As well as Konstantine's guard, who probably wouldn't believe him anyway until they saw the hole in the window. Chaos broke out as Sander heard the guards swarm the suite. Men shouted, working through the confusion. His security found him behind the couch before Konstantine's men and Sander urged the guards to stay low.
“Someone call for backup on the street. Cordon off three city blocks and have teams go into the buildings across from the hotel,” Sander ordered. One of his men, crouched close by, pulled a cell from his pocket. “Call emergency services, too.”
Although from what Sander had glimpsed, no amount of medical aid would save Konstantine. Incredibly, impossibly, an assassination had just occurred on Latvala soil.
*
The delicate extraction of Konstantine and Sander did not happen without an increase in tension and a few barbed words thrown back and forth between guards. Sander set the record straight once everyone had made it into the foyer, a better protected area with only one window facing an entirely different angle than from where the shot came. In precise detail, Sander explained what happened. He did not shy away from the terse conversation leading up to the moment when Konstantine had gone down. Medics arrived within minutes, coming in at a crouch, hunkering below the level of the windows—just in case.
Sander refused to leave the building, which was protocol in cases like this, waiting to see if the medics could perhaps work a miracle and save the king. The official time of death rang through the foyer after every attempt to save Konstantine failed.
Departing the hotel under cover of darkness, Sander sank into the back seat of the limousine and pulled out his phone. He muttered vicious curses while he found Chey's number and hit the Call button. There was only so long he could keep a lid on Konstantine's assassination; sooner than later, he knew, word would leak to the media. Already, Konstantine's guards had placed calls to the first in line to the throne of Imatra to inform him that his brother was dead, and he was now king.
The situation couldn't be any worse. Except if the shooter had taken him out, too. Sander thought the only reason he wasn't in a body bag right now was that, upon a brief examination of the window and the room, the guards had discerned that a section of wall had prevented Sander from being shot. He hadn't been standing directly in front of the window at that particular moment.
When Chey's phone went to voicemail, Sander left a message. “Hey, it's me. I wanted to tell you before it hits the news that Konstantine was assassinated while we were having our conversation. I'm all right, I wasn't hit, but he's dead. There isn't any more information to pass along but as soon as I have it, I'll call. Love you.”
The next call he made was to Mattias. He explained the entire situation and asked Mattias to pass along the information to Gunnar and Natalia so there wouldn't be any confusion. After, he ordered the driver to take him to a specific address on the outskirts of the city and had another guard call to have someone trustworthy meet them with a change of clothes. Sander couldn't address the media about Konstantine's death armed to the teeth with weapons. Less than twenty minutes later, the limousine pulled up to a house surrounded by wrought iron fencing. After Sander punched in a code on a keypad, the gate rolled back to admit the vehicle. A short driveway led to the front of the imposing Grecian Revival style home, and another drive circled around to the side, delivering the men to an entrance not easily seen from the street. Sander disembarked and, with his guards surrounding on every side, made the brief journey to a door he opened by entering more numbers into a second keypad. Three guards went in first to secure the elegantly furnished home. Sander had purchased it, along with several others, after the last situation with Paavo. He'd needed secure places to go on a moment's notice other than destinations like the bunker, which was about as safe as safe could get—unless someone on the inside sold Sander out. So he'd invested in myriad residences only he knew about, places he would use once or twice before selling to buy something else.
The extra caution had paid off.
Dressed in white marble with baby blue and beige accents, the interior of the home sprawled three floors. Tall columns dotted the lower level and cathedral windows allowed maximum sun glow during daylight hours. At night, like now, the windows were shuttered against the blackness where anyone might hide and take shots from the yard.
While his guards secured the house and took up defensive positions, Sander went into a downstairs office and nudged the door halfway closed with his foot. Snapping on a light, he scrubbed his hands over his face and exhaled a long breath.
Everything he thought he knew about Konstantine and Imatra had just been dealt a lethal blow. Positive that Konstantine had ordered the bombings, Sander couldn't figure out why Konstantine himself had been assassinated. If he'd orchestrated the attacks and the explosions, why was Konstantine a target? Second guessing every thought he'd had since day one, Sander sank into a leather chair behind a somewhat plain but sturdy desk. Sparsely filled bookcases lined the walls, flanking a cold fireplace with a mirror above the mantel.
Forced to rethink the Russian angle, Sander considered all his options. Perhaps there was a contingent who had been threatening Konstantine from the beginning. Konstantine might have had poor judgement when he staged the attacks, but maybe, just maybe, his paranoia had gotten the better of him and in his mind, there was no other way than to up-play the danger to himself and his country. Just because he wouldn't have done it that way, and didn't agree with Konstantine's tactics, didn't mean the threat itself from Russia wasn't real.
Cursing under his breath, he stared at a far wall, going over all the events leading to this moment in time. He needed to be preparing a statement to the media but he couldn't stop the influx of conflicting ideas once they'd started.
One thing he did know, was that attacks were happening in tandem, methodically, with pre-thought out precision. Someone had taken the time to do this in a certain order, though what the end game was, Sander didn't know. Perhaps the Russians wanted all three countries, as Konstantine had thought, and were making a collective move for a take-over.
That meant the entire country of Latvala needed to prepare for war. He loathed the thought of making the announcement to the people on the heels of discussing Konstantine's assassination. It was the responsible thing to do, however, in light of the recent developments.
His problem was that he still had no solid proof that the Rus
sian's had even crossed the border. There were attacks—staged initially by Konstantine—and bombings in three different countries, along with Konstantine's death. Yet, thus far, there had been no word from the Russians. No new demands, no news to his kingdom or Thane's. Sander imagined the Russians would be doing more now than sending letters in the wake of such blatant attacks.
That was the one thing that stayed Sander's hand. As he had told Konstantine, hadn't acted earlier for the same reason—a lack of hard proof. Sander had learned bitter lessons in his life about reacting to things that seemed to be, rather than what was. If he came out on live television and blamed the Russians, he might be precipitating a confrontation he wouldn't win.
While he waited for the new guards to arrive, Sander picked up the phone on the desk. He needed second, third and fourth opinions about how to proceed before making any kind of public statement.
The last thing he needed was an all out panic.
Chapter Fifteen
An ache in her neck brought Chey up from the dregs of sleep. She lifted her head, groaning when another, sharper stab of pain lanced through her skull. Disoriented, she pried her lashes open to see a room bare of furniture except a desk she sat in front of and an empty chair across from her own. A smear of blood on the chair discolored the silver metal. Chey wondered whose it was.
She recalled then that she had been on the way out of the room—she was at the prison—when someone hit her over the head. Blinking several times to help clear her vision, she looked side to side, half expecting to see Paavo dead on the floor. A bright streak of blood, as if a body had been dragged toward the hallway, marred the pristine linoleum.
No body. At least not in this room.
She recalled downed guards in the hall, with blood spattered on the wall, just before she'd blacked out. Tugging on the rope that bound her wrists, chafing her skin in the process, she struggled to get free.
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