Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Robbie had greased palms and called in favours, but that only got us so far. Signing in at reception took over twenty minutes whilst our IDs were double-checked and verified.
‘Remove your weapons. Please,’ one of the prison guards ordered. The please was tacked on belatedly after he’d eyed Robbie’s horns, like he’d remembered we weren’t prisoners and manners were required.
Personally, I thought manners were always required no matter who you spoke to, but even I had to admit such etiquette slipped in life-and-death moments.
Hanlon, Maktel and Robbie removed their weapons in short order.
‘Ivan,’ Robbie said. ‘Your turn. All of them.’
Ivan grimaced but didn’t argue. He stepped forward and divested himself of his weapons with the quiet competence of a man who did this as part of his daily routine. He reached inside his jacket, drew out a handgun, and set it on the counter with careful precision.
The guard blinked at the gun, then slid it into a plastic tray.
Ivan produced a second gun.
Then a third.
Then he removed a long knife from the small of his back, followed by another blade strapped to his forearm.
He set them all down carefully, like he was laying out silver service cutlery for a fine-dining experience.
The guard looked taken aback. ‘Christ mate, that’s enough for a small army.’
Ivan lifted his eyebrows, as if offended by the implication that he might be finished.
He leaned to the left and unbuckled a holster I hadn’t noticed, withdrawing another pistol and placing it down.
Robbie exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. His patience was on a timer. He wanted to get me through this as fast as possible, then get me safely back home, where I could fall apart in peace.
Where Robbie was impatient, Hanlon was living his best life. He made a low choking sound beside me, half-heartedly attempting to muffle his laughter with a faux-cough.
‘Ivan,’ I said out of pure curiosity, ‘how many weapons do you have?’
Ivan glanced at me, expression neutral, and said like I’d asked something ridiculous, ‘More.’
He rolled his shoulders, reached under the hem of his shirt and pulled free a blade strapped diagonally across his ribs.
The guard’s eyes widened. ‘Are you kidding me?’
Ignoring him, Ivan crouched, then tugged up his trouser leg and produced a thin, wicked-looking knife strapped against his calf. Then he did the same with the other leg.
The tray looked like the weapons display at an illegal market stall.
The guard stared at it, then stared at Ivan, trying to work out what the ogre was playing at. After a beat, the guard got out a second tray since the first was threatening to create a dangerous weapons-based avalanche.
‘Why does anyone need that many weapons?’ the guard groused.
Ivan shrugged. ‘I like being prepared.’
‘Prepared for what?’ I muttered. ‘The apocalypse?’
Ivan’s mouth twitched. ‘You never know.’
He reached into his sleeve and slid out a narrow metal spike the length of my hand. He placed it into the new tray, then produced another.
The guard leaned forward, irritation sharpening his voice. ‘Those look like—’
‘Shivs,’ Hanlon supplied. ‘Improvised. Homemade. Family tradition.’
Maktel elbowed him.
I found my lips twitching despite myself. I was grateful for some levity before I faced my own personal daemons.
Ivan continued with the same solemn efficiency, pulling a garrotte wire from inside his collar and placing it down as if it were a tie clip he’d decided he didn’t fancy wearing tonight.
The guard recoiled. ‘Jesus—’
‘Definitely not him,’ I said. ‘He was in the forgiveness industry, not the garrotte-them club.’
The guard shot me a look, unimpressed with my sass. I was nervous, and I hated that, so I shot back a full glare.
Ivan reached into his pocket and set down a small cylindrical object.
The guard’s hand snapped out to stop it from rolling.
He lifted it carefully like it might explode. And honestly, it might. ‘What is that?’
‘Flashbang.’
The guard was aghast. ‘You’re absolutely not taking that in!’
‘Obviously. That’s why I’m giving it to you,’ Ivan said, tone mild.
The guard stared at him before placing the flashbang in the second tray with the reverence and care of a man handling a deadly venomous spider.
‘Anything else?’ the guard asked, and you could see he was praying for the answer to be no.
Ivan paused.
For the first time since he’d started, he seemed to consider the question.
He patted his jacket. Then the back of his belt. Then the pockets in his trousers.
I relaxed. Maybe we were done.
Ivan’s eyes narrowed, as if remembering something. He reached under the collar of his shirt and produced a tiny knife no bigger than my index finger. He set it down.
The guard made a sound of pure defeat. ‘Mate.’
Ivan’s gaze remained calm. ‘You asked.’
Robbie’s jaw ticked, and he said, voice low and controlled, ‘Ivan, we need to get through reception before the universe ends. Stop dramatising the disarmament and hurry the fuck up.’
Ivan looked faintly affronted. ‘This is not dramatised, Your Excellence. I need to ensure I don’t miss one. This is efficient.’
‘It’s a fucking circus,’ Hanlon muttered.
Ivan turned his head to glare at Hanlon. ‘Do you want the High King to be less safe?’ The loaded question made it clear that Ivan would consider an affirmative answer treasonous.
Wisely, Hanlon clamped his mouth shut.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. ‘We’re all feeling very safe, Ivan. Very safe. We’re in the highest-security prison possibly in the entire world. We couldn’t be safer if we were wrapped in bubble wrap.’
‘Pocket,’ Maktel grunted to Ivan.
Ivan didn’t respond. He was already pulling open the aforesaid pocket.
A thin throwing blade emerged.
Then another.
And another.
The guard stared at the growing collection and looked about two seconds from calling in a priest or a firing squad. He pointed, trembling with frustration. ‘Right, that’s it, right? It’s going to take all night to log all of these. Then I’ll have to bloody well log them all back out again.’
‘Do you want me unarmed?’ Ivan shot back. ‘Or not?’
‘Unarmed,’ Robbie growled. ‘Those are the terms of our agreement with the warden. You’re holding us up, Ivan.’
Ivan’s chin lifted. ‘I dislike being unarmed in hostile territory.’
‘It’s not hostile territory,’ the guard snapped. ‘It’s reception.’
Ivan stared at him, unimpressed. ‘Of a prison.’
The guard looked to me for support.
I offered him my best sympathetic look, which probably wasn’t much.
Robbie’s lip curled, hinting at something feral beneath the polish. ‘Ivan,’ he said quietly, the word carrying enough warning to tighten the air. ‘Remove the last weapon so we can enter.’
Ivan’s eyes narrowed. Then, with the wounded dignity of a man being forced to part with his favourite child, he reached into his boot, produced something small and sharp, and placed it on the tray.
The guard blinked at it. ‘Is that a…?’
‘A ceramic blade,’ Ivan confirmed with pride. ‘Metal detectors miss it.’
The guard’s face went slack. ‘Of course it is.’
Robbie’s gaze didn’t soften. ‘Done.’
Ivan straightened, his hands finally empty.
The guard pushed the tray away like it might bite him. ‘Right. Thank you. Finally.’
Ivan nodded once, as if he’d done the guard a great personal kindness. He looked at Bastion. ‘Your turn.’
The assassin smiled. ‘I have no weapons on me. I don’t need toys to be deadly.’
Ivan spluttered at that and I hurried between the two men ostensibly so the guard could check me over, but truly my motivation was to stop any pissing contest before it could begin.
I placed my badge and ID down and kept my hands visible, calm and cooperative. We all got patted down, but nothing further was turned up.
Unlike Ivan, I didn’t have seventeen knives and a flashbang hidden in my bra.
Though right now, I kind of wished I did.