Chapter 53
Lincoln
After spending the day in a suit and tie meeting with dozens of CEOs from start-ups that are looking for funding, and then
dodging paparazzi getting to and from the office building to my car, it’s a relief to remove all the vestiges of Lincoln Knight
and put my usual uniform back on.
When I slip out of the hotel again, dressed all in black, with a surgical mask and the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up over
my head, nobody notices me. One of the things I love about London is that nobody notices anybody. People are too busy in their
own lives to even look up from their cell phones.
I take the Tube to the train that will take me to Surrey, the small part of the English countryside where Fraser Lane, or
Francis Davies as he’s currently known, lives. Here in the pretty village of Shere, I’m much more conspicuous, so I don a
regular face mask you can buy in any drugstore, and swap out my black hoodie for a Barbour coat, stuffing the former into
my backpack.
As luck would have it, a few minutes after I situate myself in a prime position hidden amongst some trees opposite Francis’s
house, he ventures out for an evening stroll.
He’s changed a lot since I last knew him.
Gone are the camo gear and shaved head, and in their place are some slacks and a cashmere jumper, along with a thick perfectly styled head of sandy-colored hair.
The arrogant fuck heads straight toward me, stopping a few meters ahead, where he walks in circles while chatting on his cell phone.
From the creepy laugh and the low timbre of his voice, not to mention the use of the words naughty little sugar muffin, I’ll wager he’s not on the phone to his wife, Agnes, and is instead speaking to one of his mistresses. Even the most calculating
and intelligent of men can make mistakes when blinded by the promise of some good pussy. The irony of that is also not lost
on me, even though Imogen is much more to me than that.
I take the syringe from my backpack and wait for him to end the call before I step out of the trees and into his path. He
regards me with suspicion upon seeing me, but continues walking, turning back in the direction of his house.
“Fraser, that you?”
He stops in his tracks and spins around, teeth bared like a rabid dog now. The country gent act has been dropped, revealing
the Fraser I remember. “Who the fuck are you?”
“An old friend.” I take a few steps toward him.
He pulls a knife, like the good soldier he is deep down inside. Never go anywhere unprepared.
“Who sent you?” he growls.
“The King himself.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, or who you’re referring to. But back the fuck off,
or I’ll slit your throat and bury you so deep nobody will ever find you.”
“You can try, but the King wouldn’t be very happy about that, now would he? Not after he asked me to give you a message.”
He jerks his chin in an arrogant challenge. “What message?”
“He wants to know about the traitor’s daughter. You know where she is?”
He frowns, still assessing me. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Oh, come on, Fraser. You don’t remember Imogen DeMotta? Luca’s kid? He was a Rook too, you know?”
I keep inching closer and closer.
I see the flicker of surprise, but he’s too shrewd to give anything up willingly. It’s why he got to where he is, and why
I have the syringe discreetly tucked behind my palm.
He shakes his head. “You’re batshit, fella. And I will give you one last warning.” He holds the knife aloft and I take my
moment to strike. Back when we were Knights together, he took a bullet to his left knee, it tore the ligaments to shreds,
and nobody ever fully recovers from an injury like that. I crouch low and barrel into it, hearing the satisfying crunch of
bone as he drops to the ground. He swipes the knife through the air at me, but I dodge it easily and snap his arm in half,
causing the blade to fall to the ground.
Before he can take a swing at me with his good arm, I stick the needle into his neck and inject the entire contents into him.
He grabs at the fresh entry wound. “What the fuck did you just give me?”
I stamp on his good kneecap, crushing that one too. “Snake venom.”
That’s a lie. I just injected him with what’s colloquially known as truth serum. My Japanese chemists have been working on
this one for a while, and it’s better than any other on the market, but it still takes an annoying two to three minutes to
take effect. If Fraser realizes what it is, he’ll pop that little cyanide capsule all Bishops and Rooks have hidden in one
of their upper molars, and I won’t get anything from him.
I crouch down and pick up his knife, turning it over in my hand, buying some time. “Who the fuck are you?” he growls.
“I already told you. I’m a messenger for the King. Now tell me what you know about the girl?” I need to save my questions about who the King is for when the serum takes hold. For now, I’ll keep up my pretense that we’re on the same side, even if he isn’t entirely buying it.
He grunts, a sound full of pain and frustration, but he can handle a lot more pain than a couple of busted knees. “Same as
everyone knows. She was bought by some weird billionaire recluse.”
I grind my jaw. So they don’t know who I am? Of course, Fraser could be lying.
It’s been two minutes and the serum should be working now. He’ll bite on his capsule as soon as I ask him who the King is,
and then I only have one to two minutes before he dies. I hope that’s enough.
I remove my mask. “Who is the King?”
He blinks rapidly and his eyes blow wide as he recognizes me. It’s always the scars that do it. They never saw my face after,
but they all heard the horror stories of the road tearing through the skin on my right side. The Brotherhood sent one of their
fiercest Knights, Diego Madden, after me when I left. He failed, but he did scar me for life.
As I suspected, Fraser dislodges his capsule and bites into it. I grab his jaw, but’s he’s already swallowed the lethal dose
of cyanide.
“Killian Wolfe?” he snarls.
“That’s me.”
“You’re dead.”
“You know people keep telling me that, but I don’t feel dead. Who is the King?”
He clamps his lips together, fighting the serum.
Then his body starts convulsing. Fucker!
I bet he hasn’t eaten dinner yet, and cyanide works faster on an empty stomach.
I knew this was always going to be the problem when dealing with a Rook and it burns my insides up with frustration that I might have waited eighteen long years to find one of these bastards and still walk away with nothing. I can’t let that happen.
I kick him in the face, shattering his jaw and splitting open his lips and gums. “Who is the King, Fraser?”
He grins at me, the blood pouring from his mouth. Smeared around his lips, it gives him the appearance of some kind of Halloween
clown. Then his eyes roll back in his head. Piece of shit is going to die before I get any truth out of him. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I straddle him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him so hard his teeth rattle. “Who is he? Where do I find the King?”
He laughs until blood bubbles up in his throat. “You’re looking in the wrong place, Killian.” He chokes.
“What the fuck do you mean?”
His grin widens, psychotic and unhinged. “The Queen is the most powerful piece in the game.” His words are stuttered and broken,
but I hear him perfectly, and they hit me right in the chest. I’ve heard those words before.
She said the exact same thing to me.
Fraser convulses again and then his head lolls to the side. He’s already gone, but his words are still here with us. Was he
speaking the truth, and I should be looking for a Queen instead of a King? Or were they the ramblings of a man who was about
to take his last breath in service to the Brotherhood, designed to throw me off?
Regardless, the similarity to what Imogen said to me only a week or so ago is too startling to ignore. And there’s a cold
heavy feeling of dread already settling in the pit of my stomach. Have I been totally blinded by her all this time? Has she
been playing me, or are they using her to get to me? Either way, I need to get home as fast as possible.