Page 69 of One Shattered Crown
Leo and I emerge onto the busy street, and I run around the corner, studying my location. Perfect. Like in most places in Silicon Valley, I have a car hidden just several blocks to the north. “Come on, Leo. We need to run.” We have three hours until they discover we’re missing.
Well, unless Justice gets home first.
I shiver, duck my head, and run faster.
TWENTY-THREE
Justice
The warehouse district smells of diesel and old metal. The building we use doesn’t look like much from the street—gray siding, flat roof, bulletproof glass dulled by dust. Nobody passing by would guess what waits inside.
The moment I step through the door, the lie peels back. Marble floors catch the low light, polished smooth from decades of use. Maple panels line the walls, warm and rich, beautiful. At the center sits a heavy round table, handcut, scarred by time. Four thick leather chairs circle it. No more than four. The old families knew better than to put power at one end and weakness at the other. Round means equal. At least on the surface.
I’m early, but so is everyone else. Not a surprise.
Alexei sits in black, shoulders loose but ready. His seat faces the door. I walk in and take the chair across from him. His eyes meet mine, steady, and he dips his chin in a small nod. I answer in kind.
To my left sits Mathias Beaumont, broad chest stretching the seams of his vest until the buttons look ready to give up. On Alexei’s other side, Sylveria Rendale sparkles in diamonds. She wears a blue ball gown that belongs under chandeliers, not in a steel warehouse.
Her daughters are behind her. That’s new. Usually it’s guards only.
Alexei clears his throat. His voice slides calmly, the one sound in this room that doesn’t hurt me. “I didn’t much appreciate the attack, Beathach.”
“I don’t blame you.” My reply is even. “I’d guess it took you ten minutes to clean up.”
His mouth ticks up at one corner. “I figured it was a shot over the bow and assume it’s a one-time deal.” He keeps it casual, but I notice the open jacket. Easy reach for his weapon if the air shifts wrong.
“Yes,” I agree. Unless he attacks first. I don’t need to say that. He knows.
Mathias leans forward, and his voice grates when he speaks. “We didn’t send that missile into your building, and we managed your attack on our servers easy enough. Which is what I assume you intended.” The sound drives pain into my knees, sharp enough that I grind my teeth until it passes.
Yeah, I need them all to know I can get to them if I want. Message received.
“The missile wasn’t mine, either,” Alexei says. His voice leaves me steady. No pain. No heat.
“Or mine,” Sylveria drawls.
I believe them. Which means someone else is moving against us. A fifth player, still in the shadows.
Mathias clears his throat again, and my knees flare white-hot. “We found a breach in our servers.”
The ache lingers this time. I keep my face blank, fists pressed hard against my thighs until the pain dulls.
“As have we,” Sylveria says quietly. Her voice grinds into me, rough, pressing deep in my kidneys until the ache blooms. I shift my shoulders, but I don’t let the pain show on my face.
Alexei shrugs. His tone is smooth, merciful, giving me a moment of relief. “I haven’t found anything, but I’ll take a better look later.”
Sylveria arches one eyebrow. “Good. My guess is that one of the baby social media companies has a decent hacker who’s trying to get noticed.”
“I know,” I agree. “We’re actively searching. If I find any information, I’ll let you know. If we need to gather forces, which I doubt, we’ll do so.”
Alexei nods to a rough-looking Russian at the door. The man steps forward and places a folder on the table. Paper slides across polished wood, and the guards ringed around the room tense, hands close to weapons.
“Here’s all the information we’ve gathered on a possible fifth company,” Alexei says. “We’ve chased the trail around the world. It bounces everywhere, but the last trace goes back to Beijing.” His mouth tightens. “I think it’s here.”
My man moves next, stepping forward to hand out folders.
Mathias reaches into his briefcase, his thick, gnarly fingers curling around a stack of his own. “This is what we have,” he says. His voice grates, the scrape stabbingthrough my knees until I have to press them into the chair to keep from wincing.
