43. Dante
43
DANTE
“F uck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!!!”
I kick a lampshade which has fallen to the ground during the melee and send it hurtling across the room. It flies with such force that it leaves a gaping hole in the wall, adding to the considerable damage already done to the property.
Five minutes. I would allow myself five minutes in which I would cuss and curse and break things, but then I would have to come back down to earth. I would have to regroup and formulate a plan of action. I would throw every last resource I have into finding Kingsley and bringing her back home.
Home. This is my home. This is my shrine, the sacred temple of my memories of the past. This is my sanctuary, my nirvana. And someone has taken it and trashed it beyond recognition. Someone will pay dearly for this destruction.
I run my hands through my hair, messing up an already imperfect ruffle, wind my arms behind my head, fingers intertwined, and walk around in a circle, surveying the damage.
Helga is dead. A few of my best men are either dead or seriously wounded. And Kingsley is gone. I take comfort in knowing she isn’t dead – if they wanted her dead, they would have left her body behind for me to clean it up. No. This was something more. Someone had realized that she was more useful alive rather than dead, and so they had taken her.
“Tate,” Marco breathes, watching me carefully. “It could only be him. No one else has a reason to take her.” Marco circles back to what Tomas Wojcak told us. I’m not so sure that this is all Tate.
“This has Tate’s name written all over it. But he doesn’t have the kind of manpower it would’ve taken to execute this.”
“He’s got someone’s ear,” my father concludes, coming into the room. He is now officially out of semi-retirement. “These were mercenaries.”
I look at both men pointedly. My five minutes are almost up. It is all I will allow myself before I get back to work. The more time that passes, the further away they get. Although I don’t think Tate would be stupid enough to steal Kingsley back then hole up in her own home, he must know that eventually he’ll have to come out of his hidey hole and show his face. Just how far is he hoping to get after taking Kingsley back from me? We now know that he has tried to have Kingsley killed. The mere fact that she has been with me should have been enough to put the fear of God in him and prevent him from doing anything like this. That he has been brazen enough to take her back tells me the man is desperate. And he is either very foolish or exceedingly ambitious in his plan to take over Murray’s side of the state. In my estimation, the man is on a suicide mission. And for that, he needs Kingsley for some reason.
I continue to walk around the house, taking in the damage, my anger rising. I need it, this anger. I need it to remind me of the monster I have to be in order to claim back what is rightfully mine. I need it to bring out the monster in me and be able to do what needs to be done.
A dark cloud settles over me as I walk into Kingsley’s room and take a last look around the room. Someone has been kind enough to drape a cloth over Helga’s body. A thin braid peeks out from under the cloth and I have the oddest urge to cut the braid and keep it as a reminder of what has happened here and how Helga lost her life obviously trying to protect Kingsley from whatever transpired in this room. We are dealing with cold blooded killers, I have no delusions about that. Killers who have come to retrieve an asset that is meant to stay alive.
“Pull up the cameras and find out who owns that chopper,” I say, turning to Marco. My father, taken aback by my request, but not altogether unhappy, nods his head in satisfaction as Marco turns to leave.
“I’ll keep you updated.”
I turn to look at Marco as he leaves the room, giving him a pointed look.
“I don’t care if you have to burn this whole damn city down, you find that girl.”