Trained by Sansa Rayne

Chapter 29

Stanislaw and Henrik escort me to Ingram’s old residence on the island, but when we get there everything’s covered in a layer of dust. Even if it wasn’t, I don’t think I could stay. The last time I was here, I’d just killed Edward Lonergan and a couple guards. Ingram and I had only one chance to escape. It didn’t work out. I’d rather not think about that night.

Walking around on the island elicits a truly surreal feeling. While I’m still escorted by guards, now they’re here to protect me — not control me. I’m clothed, and not tied up or gagged. If I want something, I need only ask.

It doesn’t help that parts of the island resemble a battlefield. Burning cars sent plumes of smoke into the air; some of the fires on the beach still burn, so the smell lingers. Thankfully, the bodies have been moved, leaving behind only the bloodstained sand. Patrol boats no longer zip by offshore, and delectable aromas from the pavilion’s kitchen don’t waft on the breeze. Most of the buildings have gone dark — empty now, their residents dead.

“Can you take me to the jet?” I ask Ingram’s men. “I think I’d like to stay there.”

“Of course,” says Henrik.

The only other place on the island where I used to stay is the harem. Right now it’s being used as a makeshift prison, filled with Anton’s surrendered guards. I have no idea what will happen to them, but it’s not my problem to solve. I’m sure Ingram will figure it out.

When the wind dies down I hear a deep scream in the distance. It’s my imagination. There’s no way I can hear Anton from back in the dungeon. Still, I hear it anyway.

I’ve seen torture in movies; I’ve seen it in news footage. It’s not the same as being there in person.

The second we reach the jet I run to Ingram’s room, weave my way to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet.

Am I crazy?

I’ve dreamed about revenge on Anton for so long. He deserves everything that’s happening to him. As much pain as we caused, we haven’t gotten to the really nasty stuff yet: pulled teeth, severed fingers, gouged eyes…

I vomit again. These aren’t just ideas — I can picture them. I know the sounds he’ll make when we do them.

Shouldn’t I want to see him suffer? Shouldn’t those sounds fill me with glee? I felt fine after I shot Victor Sovereign — five times. Killing Lonergan made me feel even better, and he suffered quite a bit before dying. Both of them had tried to kill me, and both were in self-defense. The guards I killed that night — it was in trying to save Ingram. I barely gave them a second thought — I still don’t know their names.

So why am I losing it now? Anton’s worse than all of them. When Courtney, Sam and Paulina took their shots, I saw their satisfaction — I wanted to feel it. I couldn’t, though. I felt relief when it was over.

Except, it’s not really over, is it? We’re just getting started. This will go on for days, at least. Maybe weeks, depending on how long it takes for Anton to confess.

The thought raises another surge of acid in my gorge.

Ingram’s going to have to do this without me. Will he mind? Will he be disappointed? Do I want him to be?

I may not be able to stand watching what we’re doing, but does that mean I think it shouldn’t be happening? Nothing I saw in that dungeon made me angry; everything we did to Anton was justified. Is it possible I’ll get used to it?

Or, maybe today I just saw too much death. The Masters… Colette… so many of Anton’s men… Has it all sunk in? Will I wake up crying over Colette and want to give Anton a taste of my rage? I wouldn’t rule it out.

“Henrik, can you get me a secure connection?” I ask. “I’d like to talk to Brendan.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to ask Ingram,” he says. “But we’ve kept the compound updated on the mission. He knows how it went.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I’d like to talk to him, regardless, but it can wait.

National headlines are about to be made. More than a dozen very famous, very powerful men are dead. Are we going to alert the authorities, or the media, or anyone? Our plans went out the window when Anton triggered the implants. Instead of hours of taped confessions to send to every law enforcement agency in the world, we have cooling corpses.

If we don’t tell anyone, sooner or later most of these men will be missed. Merwin Locke was a prime minister — his staff is probably already concerned. Roderick Picot receives hundreds of e-mails a day about investments and holdings — as well as a few dozen texts per hour from various laundering operations. A lot of shady people are going to figure out, if they haven’t already, that the world’s foremost money man isn’t returning anyone’s calls.

Alarm bells are about to go off in a lot of government offices. Several of the world’s biggest tech companies are about to see their stock prices plummet. Would that be enough to trigger a larger disruption to the market?

What happened here is like an earthquake; only the island felt it, but a tsunami is about to hit shores hundreds of miles away.

Not that I particularly give a fuck about the stock prices of Innovative AF or Hardt Farms, but how much damage has been done? Is there a way to prevent it, or cushion it? I’d like to start going over it with Brendan as soon as possible, so when Ingram gets back I’ll have to have him set it up.

I pause a moment, holding myself over the bathroom sink.

What if Anarchy, Inc. claimed responsibility for the killings? Would that help? Perhaps. Doesn’t the world deserve the truth? Isn’t that my job?

This is all too much for one person to decide.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I turn around to find Ingram, concern written in his features.

“Not exactly.”

He feels my forehead with the back of his hand.

“You don’t have a fever.”

“No, it’s not that. What I saw today…”

Ingram nods.

“Too much?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to watch, Kate. It’s not important.”

I take his hand and lead him to the bed.

“I don’t mean the torture. It’s everything. We have to stop all this. We have to go to the authorities and let them all sort it out.”

Ingram’s mouth hangs open, brows scrutinizing me.

“We can’t do that. They won’t touch Anton. He’ll buy his way out.”

“No,” I say. “Not this time. The Masters are dead — they can’t help him. We have testimony that he tried to buy weapons in Saudi Arabia! He kidnapped women and brought them here! He threatened to kill Brendan and John if I didn’t do as he said. He imprisoned me in my own home! We can put him away for life.”

“Are you sure of that?” Ingram asks, getting up to pace around. “You won’t necessarily be a reliable witness. People might not believe you — or the other women, or Nasir.”

“They’d believe you,” I say. “If you were willing to testify.”

He’d have to admit his own culpability. That could go badly — for him.

“Not without a deal,” he replies. “I’m not sacrificing my freedom for a chance at sending Anton to jail. We’re going to put him down and be done with it.”

“It’s wrong. The whole world will be affected by what we’ve done. There’s too much riding on this. We can’t be the sole arbiters of what happens. That’s what the Masters did. If we do this, we’re no better than them.”

“The Masters did what they wanted for their own benefit. We’re doing this for your benefit, Kate — you and all the others who were wronged by the Masters.”

“We don’t have to do it this way,” I argue. “We can do the right thing!”

“No. Playing by the rules allowed the Masters to reign for decades” says Ingram. “Look at what we built! Look at what we could do! We worked the system so that none of us would ever suffer the consequences of our actions, even if we did get caught. We can’t count on it working with Anton. We have to assume it won’t. The only justice he’ll ever face will be what we do to him.”

I groan as my head starts to throb.

What if Ingram’s right?

When I took down Victor Sovereign, it was the first time in ages that a Master fell by the actions of an outsider — and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. They protected each other too well — but now they can’t.

“Hardt,” I say. “If Hardt confesses to everything, the world will believe him. He’s got no reason to lie — and he can get revenge on Anton for killing Colette. We’d be doing the right thing, the right way — and we’d get what we want.”

Ingram looks up and rubs his chin.

“You’re right,” he says. “That would work.”

The door to our room opens and an operative walks in, his rifle in hand, aimed at the ground. A stirring tension tightens my spine. Though he’s wearing his helmet, covering his face, he’s clearly staring at us. Something’s going on. Something isn’t right. I turn to Ingram, who watches the man, his expression suddenly intense.

“Is there a problem?” he says. With one hand he makes a fist. With the other, he reaches for his phone.

This isn’t right.

“Your plan won’t work,” says the man.

His voice…

“Excuse me?” says Ingram.

The man raises his rifle and points it at Ingram as he takes off his helmet.

My vision centers on the gun’s barrel, but I don’t have to see his face. I’d know the voice anywhere.

“Jamison Hardt is dead,” says Anton. “And you two are next.”