Chapter 25 Hidden Hand #2
Dom knelt before Marcel's door. Pulled out his picks. “You're a lot like Viktor, you know that? Same paranoid optimism. Same stupid bravery.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn't meant as one.” But he was smiling. “There. We're in.”
The office was exactly what I'd expected. Opulent. Cold. Immaculate. Dark wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk positioned to catch moonlight from tall windows.
Everything designed to project power. Control. Authority.
All of it a lie.
“Safe's behind the bookshelf,” I said, moving to the far wall. “I've seen him use it.”
“Can you crack it?”
I looked at him. “I've been breaking into palace offices since I was sixteen. His safe is a joke.”
“Then crack it. I'll watch the door.”
I pulled the bookshelf away. Found the safe exactly where I remembered. Old model. Combination lock. The kind that trusted metal more than code.
My fingers found the dial. Started turning. Listening. Feeling for the click that meant tumblers aligning.
First number. Second. Third.
Click.
The safe swung open.
Stacks of files. Sealed folders. Memory drives. All the evidence Marcel thought was hidden.
All the proof we needed.
My hands shook as I pulled them out. One by one. Financial records. Communication logs. Contracts signed in blood and sealed with lies.
Then I found it.
An envelope. Older than the rest. Marked with the royal crest.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Personal letters on palace letterhead. Private communications that should never have been filed away where someone could find them.
The first was dated three years ago. Two weeks before my mother died.
The route has been finalized. Windsor road, as discussed. Security reduced per your specifications. The contractors you recommended are in position.
Marcel's signature at the bottom. Addressed to someone whose name had been redacted. Blacked out with careful precision.
But the response was still there. Tucked behind the first letter like damnation waiting to be discovered.
Confirmed. Payment transferred to offshore account per arrangement. Timeline: three days. Make it look like an accident. Brake failure. No witnesses. Clean.
No signature on the second letter. Just initials. M.D.
Marcel Devereux.
My hands shook harder. The paper rattled between my fingers.
I pulled out the next document. Financial authorization. Crown funds released for “vehicle maintenance and security upgrades” on my mother's personal carriage. Dated one week before her death.
Approved by the King.
Countersigned by Marcel.
Except the countersignature came after the work was completed. After my mother was dead. After the “accident” had been ruled mechanical failure and filed away.
He'd signed off on his own murder weapon. Made it official. Buried it in palace records where no one would think to look.
The third document was a maintenance report. Technical specifications about brake line degradation. Stress fractures. Metal fatigue that should've been caught during routine inspection.
But wasn't.
Because the inspector listed on the report didn't work for the palace. Worked for a private contractor. One of Marcel's contractors. The same name that appeared in the communications we'd found at the data center.
The same contractor convicted in France two years later for vehicle sabotage.
The paper crumpled in my fist.
“Sebastian?” Dom's voice came from the door. Warning. “We need to move.”
“Not yet.”
“Sebastian—”
The door opened.
Marcel stood there. Framed by corridor light. Rain dripping from his coat. Expression unreadable.
“Well,” he said softly. “Curiosity really does run in the family.”
Dom's gun was out before Marcel finished speaking. Aimed center mass. Professional. Lethal.
Marcel didn't flinch. Just set his briefcase on the desk with movements that were too controlled. Too practiced.
“You found it, I assume? The Queen's file?”
My voice came out like broken glass. “You ordered her death.”
“'Order' is such a cruel word.” He opened the briefcase. I saw the glint of a pistol inside. “I corrected a weakness in the system. Your mother wanted reform. Open gates. Transparency. Reform breeds revolution.”
“She wanted to help people.”
“She wanted to destroy the monarchy.” His voice stayed soft. Conversational. Like we were discussing weather instead of murder. “I saved the crown. Saved the kingdom. Your father understands this. On some level. That's why he never pushed.”
“You're a monster.”
“I'm a pragmatist.” His hand moved toward the briefcase. “You should thank me. Her death gave you purpose. Gave me a kingdom to stabilize.”
Dom fired.
The shot went wide as Marcel dove behind the desk. His return fire was immediate. Professional. Clean.
Glass exploded. The window behind me shattered, spraying shards across expensive carpet.
Dom's shoulder bloomed red. He staggered, caught himself against the doorframe.
“Go!” he snarled at me. “Sebastian, go!”
I grabbed the files. Shoved them into my satchel. My bow was already in my hands, arrow nocked before thought.
Marcel's voice cut through chaos. “She was right about you, you know. Too much heart. That's what got her killed.”
My arrow flew.
It caught the lamp above his head. Fire burst across the drapes, spreading fast. Smoke filled the room, thick and choking.
Through the haze, I saw Marcel move. Not toward us. Toward the secondary door. The one that led to his private escape route.
Running.
Always running while other people bled.
I lunged after him. Dom caught my arm.
“Let him go,” he gasped. Blood soaked through his tactical gear. Too much blood. “We got what we came for.”
“He killed her—”
“And he'll pay for it. But not if you're dead.” He pulled me toward the main door. “Move, Your Highness. That's an order.”
Alarms shrieked. Red lights flashed. The palace was waking up.
We ran.
Through corridors filling with smoke. Past guards rushing toward the fire. Down service stairs that led to forgotten passages.
Dom's breathing got worse with every step. Labored. Wet.
“Almost there,” I said. Lying. We were nowhere close to safe.
“You're a terrible liar.”
“Learned from the best.”
Viktor's voice crackled through my comm. “Sebastian, report.”
“We're out. We're— shit.”
Guards rounded the corner ahead. Four of them. Armed. Alert.
Dom raised his gun. I raised my bow.
“Stand down!” one of them shouted. “By order of—”
Viktor appeared behind them like a ghost. Two went down before they knew he was there. The other two turned. Too slow.
Viktor moved through them like water. Brutal. Efficient. Beautiful in the way violence sometimes was when performed by someone who'd perfected it.
Ten seconds. Four bodies. Not dead. Just unconscious.
He looked at us. Eyes found Dom's wound. Then my face.
“You're bleeding,” he said.
I touched my forehead. Came away with blood. Must've caught glass. Hadn't felt it.
“I'm fine. Dom's hit.”
Viktor was already moving. Caught Dom as he started to sag. “How bad?”
“I've had worse,” Dom muttered. “But I've also had better.”
“Can you walk?”
“Can I fly? No. Can I walk? Maybe. Can I run while being shot at? We're about to find out.”
Viktor's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “That's my brother.”
We moved as one. Viktor supporting Dom. Me covering our backs. Arrow nocked. Ready.
The palace was chaos. Alarms. Smoke. Guards everywhere trying to contain a fire that had already spread beyond Marcel's office.
We made it to the hidden passage near the kitchens. The one I'd used for years to sneak out. The one Viktor had discovered and never mentioned.
Inside, darkness swallowed us. The door closed. Silence fell except for our breathing and Dom's occasional grunt of pain.
“We need to get him to Noah,” Viktor said.
“Already called it in,” Dom managed. “Extraction at the east gate. Five minutes.”
“You called for help before you got shot?”
“Seemed prudent.”
Viktor laughed. Actually laughed. Dark and relieved and completely inappropriate. “You beautiful paranoid bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
I watched them. These two men who'd survived god knew what together. Who trusted each other with the kind of certainty that came from shared trauma and countless operations.
Brothers in everything but blood.
“Thank you,” I said to Dom. “For tonight. For helping.”
He looked at me. Blue eyes sharp even through pain. “You are family now. And I don't let family fight alone.”
We emerged at the east gate just as headlights cut through rain.
Adrian's car. Black. Bulletproof. Probably illegal in six countries.
Noah was already out, medical bag in hand. He took one look at Dom and went into professional mode.
“In the car. Now. I need better light.”
We climbed in. Noah worked on Dom's shoulder while Adrian drove. Fast. Controlled. Getting us away from the palace before someone connected the dots.
I sat in the back, satchel clutched to my chest. All the evidence. All the proof. All the truth I'd been hunting for eighteen years.
Viktor's hand found mine. Squeezed.
“You got it?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. Couldn't speak past the tightness in my throat.
We ended up at the Greenwich safehouse. Noah stitched Dom's shoulder while Viktor paced and Adrian made phone calls in three different languages.
I spread the files across the table. All the evidence laid out like autopsy photos.
Financial records showing payments to known militants. Communication logs coordinating attacks. Route plans amended in Marcel's hand.
And the Queen's file. Proof he'd orchestrated her death.
My hands shook as I photographed everything. Uploaded it to encrypted servers. Made sure it couldn't be destroyed or buried.
Viktor appeared beside me. Silent. Solid.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I will be. Once he's dead.”
“Sebastian—”
“Don't.” I looked at him. “Don't tell me revenge won't help. Don't tell me it won't bring her back. I know. I've known for eighteen years. But I need this. I need to see him pay.”