“Sebastian … ,” he said, and the tears started again.
Eventually they stopped. Everything stops eventually.
When he could breathe again he pulled the American’s phone from his pocket. He had recovered it during the ten thousand years it took him to crawl across the floor. The casing was cracked and it was sticky with blood. His.
He shivered and he knew that shock was setting in. With all the alcohol already in his system and now the bullet wound and the shattered femur, he figured that his system did not stand a chance against shock.
Toys opened the phone and punched in Hugo Vox’s number.
“Toys!”
In his delirium Toys thought he heard the phone ringing and Vox answering at the same time. Then there was the sound of footsteps and Toys turned to see Vox lumber into the room. The big man had a big gun in his hand and he fanned the barrel around the room with a professional competence that Toys admired. Toys tried to say so, but his voice was a slur.
The American holstered the gun and knelt beside him, his face grave with concern.
“Jeez, you’re a goddamn mess. Who did this to you?”
“Sebastian.”
“Yeah,” he said. “What I figured. Shit.”
Toys touched Vox’s face with the tip of his finger. “Are you … real?”
“You better hope so, kiddo.” Vox fetched the wheeled leather chair of War’s Conscience and gingerly placed Toys’ shattered leg on it. Toys screamed.
“Sorry, kiddo.” Vox adjusted the tourniquet, which was itself a moment of exquisite agony. He got water and a cloth and mopped Toys’s face and then brought over a glass of brandy. “This will help until we can get you to a doctor.”
Toys sipped the brandy greedily. It burned through him with a calm fire, pushing back the pain, restoring a measure of control.
“Now,” said Vox, “tell me what happened?”
“Sebastian shot me. And I … I guess I shot him.”
Vox looked around. The room was empty except for them. “The fuck is he?”
“I shot him in the heart. But … I think he was wearing Kevlar. Pity.”
“Clever bastard.”
Toys coughed and winced. “Shame he got away.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, kiddo. But … if you had the gun, how did he get away?”
“I … let him go,” said Toys. He drank half of the brandy, coughed again, and drank some more. It seemed to burn more of the pain away.
“Why? Why not put a couple of rounds through that face-lift of his?”
Toys shrugged. “Why bother?” His face was white with pain and trauma, but the brandy seemed to help him focus his thoughts.
The American sighed. “You got a good heart, kiddo. You’re lucky it’s still beating.”
“Sorry.”
“Screw it. It’s all gone to shit anyway. The DMS know who I am now, so I’m going to have to go way off the radar.”
“So where does that leave us?” asked Toys.
“In the wind.” He went and fetched the bottle of brandy and another glass. He refilled Toys’ glass and poured himself a generous shot. “Ah … maybe I’ve been playing this game too long. My blood pressure could blow bolts out of plate steel and I haven’t taken a comfortable shit in five years.”
“Well, thanks for sharing.”
“It’s all stress. I … don’t think I want to deal with it anymore.”
“So … what? You’re going to retire to Florida and raise flamingoes?”
“Oh, fuck no. I didn’t say I was tired of the Seven Kings. I like that shit. I have stuff I haven’t tried yet.”
“And your secret identity was holding you back?”
Vox chuckled. “No—or not entirely. Mom was the biggest cockblocker in the world. Now she might not be.”
“She might escape this.”
“Yeah, she might. She’s got a lot of clever up her sleeve, too. But you have to think that you’re vulnerable before you believe that you should run from danger. She thinks she really is a frigging goddess.”
“I know. I got the speech from Apollo.”
“Who? Oh … got it.”
A wave of pain hit Toys and he bared his teeth, then in a very conversational voice said, “Ow.”
Vox reached over and pushed a button on one of the computer consoles built into the big table.
“Chang and Kuo will get you to a doctor I own in Toronto. You’ll be right as rain.”
Toys looked down at the ruin of his leg. “Sebastian enjoyed it.”
“Sebastian’s a prick,” said Vox. “He may have been a great man once, but let me tell you a secret, kiddo: I think that without you he wouldn’t have amounted to shit.”
Toys said nothing.
“Which makes me wonder what you could have accomplished given the right support and freedom of action. Gault never saw you as anything but an employee.” He shook his head. “Small thinking.”
Toys studied him for a long time. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”
Vox sipped his brandy. “I told you before, I haven’t been able to trust Santoro for years, and I need someone I can trust.”
“An ‘employee’?” Toys said with a wry smile.
Vox’s face was serious. “No. I can always buy more people. But you … I think you may have outgrown the point where you can be bought.”
Toys nodded and they sipped their brandy.
“I never thought I’d say this,” said Toys eventually, “but I hope Joe Ledger lives through all of this. He still has work to do.”
“For the Seven Kings,” said the American.
“For us,” said Toys.
“Sure,” said the King of Fear with a laugh. “Why not? For us.”
Interlude Forty-seven
Aboard the Delta of Venus
December 21, 6:59 P.M. EST
Eris and Gault had a dozen laptops open so they could watch all of the major network feeds. They were naked, both of them covered in welts and scratches.
“This is what I’ve been working toward since I took control of the Kings from my son.”
“You do know with Hugo on the run from the DMS you’ll eventually come under scrutiny.”
“Eris will,” she said. “But that poor woman is going to die tonight.”
Gault nuzzled her neck. “So, who is it that I just shagged cross-eyed?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to think up a new name. Maybe Isis. Or Hera.”
“Will you shed a tear if Hugo is caught?”
Eris laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Would he shed a tear if you were caught?”
“Silly questions, lovely boy. Pay attention.”
They snuggled together and watched the screen.
The show was beginning.
Chapter Seventy-five
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:19 P.M. EST
The bandstand was a gorgeous confection of glittering lights, thousands of honey-sweet flowers, mirrored surfaces, and tall vertical posters that showed the faces of smiling children of all races. Healthy children, not the starving and wasted faces used in some charity advertisements. This event was all about rising above sickness and poverty. This was about the coordinated work of tens of thousands of people on six continents who shared a common belief that no child should suffer from a disease that existed only because that child’s family lived in abject poverty.
No one associated with the event, except the low-wage staff aboard the ship, was getting paid to be here. The performers even bought their own plane tickets. Many of the celebrities paid to bring friends and guests; others donated money to the charity, recorded songs or public-service announcements, and arranged to have portions of CD and DVD sales allotted to Generation Hope.
The goodwill mega-event was being broadcast all over the world. Thousands of concert venues and tens of thousands of movie theaters were simulcasti
ng the concert. Phone banks in seventy countries were staffed to take what forecasters predicted would be a record number of donation calls. The President of the United States would speak from the tour’s end point, Rio de Janiero, as would Prince Charles and the heads of twenty other countries. Even China, a late holdout, had agreed to broadcast the concert, albeit with a ten-second delay to allow “bad messaging” to be censored.
Anderson Cooper probably put it best when he said, “This is what humanity does when we all realize we are one family.”
Rafael Santoro found it all … so vulgar.
He stood amid the thousands aboard the Sea of Hope, a PRESS badge hung around his neck, and watched as the emcee—the actor Hugh Laurie—walked onto the stage amid applause that shook the heavens.
Santoro stood with his hands in his pockets. His left hand caressed a small hypodermic with a plastic cap. The other stroked the beautifully curved handle of his knife.
Chapter Seventy-six
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:55 P.M. EST
Ghost and I had to fight our way through the crowd. You’d think people would be more considerate of the blind.
I wore heavy sunglasses and Ghost wore a guide dog harness.
We were buffeted and pushed and jostled to the point where Ghost was about to blow his cover as a docile guide by biting someone’s throat out and I was almost to the point where I was going to let him.
Like my other pair of DMS specs, this pair had a display on one lens. I had it set to send random crowd images from the minicams. I was looking for someone with a trigger device or a bomb vest. Or a convenient gun butt sticking out of his pocket. Nothing.
And then that changed.
I pulled Ghost to one side and shoved my hand into my pocket to play with the camera control.
Holy shit, I thought.
I tapped my commlink. “Cowboy to team. Check the feed from camera thirty-three. Guess who came to the party?”
Chapter Seventy-seven
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:39 P.M. EST
Rafael Santoro moved through the shadows, avoiding the party lights, trying to stay invisible. He knew that after tonight his face would have to change. More plastic surgery. Everyone aboard the ship seemed to have a digital camera or a camera option on their cell phone. And all the media. Over three hundred members of the world press were here. His face, even as a noncelebrity in the back of a crowd, would be all over cable TV and the Net. Such a pity. He’d come to like this face.
Ah well, the Goddess would buy him whatever face she wanted him to have.
On the bandstand, Taylor Swift had just finished her set and the audience was cheering and applauding as if the girl had walked on water. Santoro sniffed. He was not a fan of rock or country music, preferring operas or silence. He did, however, enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd. They were loud and excited and thoroughly caught up in the moment. The daughters of the President were dancing right in front of the stage now as the Jonas Brothers launched into their brand of pop confection. Santoro eyed the children, fingering the handle of the knife in his pocket. Would they become angels, too?
Probably not. There would not be time for that.
Pity.
“Crab puff?” asked a waitress, a beaky-nosed blonde with ice blue eyes who held a tray of hors d’ourves. Santoro smiled at her but shook his head. Now was not the time to nibble on fried muck.
Waiters kept trying to offer him snacks and drinks, and he waved them away, first with grace and then with mounting irritation as the evening wore on. Performer after performer took the stage. Fireworks painted the sky with carnival colors, and the laughter and conversation were almost loud enough to drown out the music.
“Spinach quiche?”
Santoro waved the waiter away without even bothering to look at him. He wished he could hang a sign around his neck: leave me alone!
He looked at his watch. Nearly time.
The concert had dragged on. Beyoncé, Pink, Jennifer Hudson, Lady Gaga. None of whom Santoro even knew.
Santoro walked the decks, occasionally slipping downstairs to check on the teams of Kingsmen who were waiting for this moment. As he returned to the deck another waiter accosted him, and another. Santoro had to dig his hands into his pockets and grip his knife in order to calm himself.
Jay-Z finished his set to raucous applause. Santoro consulted his watch again as U2 took the stage. Time was moving along. Nearly eight now. Santoro saw Prince William and Prince Harry go out onstage to shake the hand of each band member. One of the Bush girls was there, too. And so many others.
It was a nice blend of victims and witnesses. Pity that so few would be elevated to angels, but it was not that kind of event.
Santoro wondered what the Seven Kings would be like after tonight. First thing tomorrow morning a team of workers would arrive at McCullough to remove all of the valuables, including the thrones, tapestries, computer systems, and contents of the wine cellars. They would also set the charges. The first subbasement was packed with enough C4 to hurl the stones of the castle for a mile in every direction. There would be nothing left but a crater, and the St. Lawrence River would fill that in within seconds.
Starting over in a new place would be a chore. The kind of fussy busywork that Santoro did not enjoy. He wanted to get out into the field. They would lose a lot of Kingsmen tonight. Many more of the Chosen. The escape craft Santoro held in readiness was designed for one. The rest would die along with the naïve fools who were running this event.
After tonight, after waiting some months for the immediate outcry to die down, Santoro would begin scouting for new recruits, both Chosen and Kingsmen. The thought of that pleased him.
He drifted to the farthest corner of the deck, where it was a little quieter and where he could see everything as the drama unfolded. His active role was done. All he had to do now was enjoy the performance that had taken so many months and so much effort and money to craft. And, of course, to make sure that nothing went wrong. No interference of any kind would be allowed to spoil the Goddess’s triumph.
Ahh … it would be so delicious. He put his hands in his pockets and caressed the handle of the knife.
Then someone bumped into him and Santoro turned with a snarl, but that changed immediately to an apology.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The blind man looked in the wrong direction, apparently confused by all the noise. The dog, a gorgeous white shepherd, looked straight at Santoro.
“Ah, jeez, mister,” said the blind man. “Did I bump into you?”
“It is of no matter. My own clumsiness. Here, let me guide you to the rail. It’s less crowded there.”
“Wow, thanks … that’s very kind.”
Santoro took the blind man’s arm and steered him through the crowd. The guide dog snarled.
“Quiet,” snapped the blind man.
“Your dog is probably unnerved by all the noise.”
“Nah,” said the blind man. “He just doesn’t like scum-sucking assholes.”
Santoro blinked. “Sorry?”
The blind man turned and tugged down his glasses and gave Santoro a comical wink.
Santoro sighed. “Hello, Mr. Ledger. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:01 P.M. EST
“Hello, asshole,” I said.
“Are you always this crude? It’s unbecoming for a person of rank.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’d really enjoy showing you how crude I can be.”
“Do you expect to do something right here and now? With all of these important people around?”
“Only if I have to.”
“I could kill you where you stand,” murmured Santoro, smiling faintly. His hands were in his pockets; the handle of the knife was hard against his right palm.
“Really? Would be fun to test that theory.”
??
?Are you always this foolish?”
“Do you always wear a dancing red light on your tie?”
Santoro looked down and saw the pinpoint of a laser sight hovering over his heart. He looked up to find the shooter but could not see him.
“Don’t bother looking,” I said. “He’ll find you if you twitch the wrong way. Now—let’s go.”
Santoro spread his hands. He looked amused. “Very well.”
Over the PA system the emcee announced Prince William. The applause was absolutely thunderous. It was probably going to be a great speech; it would probably make me want to grab for my checkbook. But I had other things I wanted to hear more.
A waitress stepped up beside Santoro. Beaky nose, blue eyes, short-barreled Ruger held under her tray. “Sure you don’t want a crab puff?”
Santoro smiled with genuine appreciation.
I let Santoro lead the way belowdecks. We passed another waiter and at least fifty passengers hurrying up to hear the Prince. Santoro did not try to escape, didn’t grab anyone to use as a hostage, not even when he saw that the laser sight was gone. That worried me a little, because it showed a level of confidence consistent with a belief that he was going to slip this punch.
At the bottom of the stairs I told Santoro to turn right. He did and we entered another corridor, and this one was also packed with people.
I tapped my earbud. “Find me a clear route.”
All I got was a crackle of white noise.
“Cowboy to command.”
“It won’t work,” said Santoro calmly.
DeeDee stepped up and put the barrel of her pistol against Santoro’s spine and we steered him into an alcove. She patted him down. Not a thorough job with everyone watching, but she found his pistol and took it, and took the knife from his pocket. She also removed a small syringe and handed it to me, then shifted the pistol from his back to his temple.
“You have one second to tell us how you’re jamming this before I blow your shit up right here right now.”