The estate was sprawling. Hayward was astonished there was so much money in . . . chemistry. Not banking, or politics, or tech, or video games, or fashion, or organized crime, but chemistry. It seemed so yesteryear.
But Joao Ferdinand-Xavier had certainly done well for himself, coaxing atoms to rearrange themselves into ever-more improbable and ever-more useful configurations. It struck Hayward as more than a little odd; Joao was a Portuguese man who co-founded a Spanish chemical company, which opened an office in Singapore. There wasn’t much connection between any of the countries, but he supposed that was how life worked. Plenty of randomness. But that randomness—a Portuguese nerd and a middle daughter from a line of fading Spanish aristocracy—had produced a staggeringly beautiful and fiery blonde woman named Katrin.
It was that kind of randomness that had brought a newly sober American access agent into orbit around the burgeoning Ferdinand-Xavier empire, which, for no good reason Hayward could conjure, had meant the end of a perfectly good burgeoning empire.
The estate was well lit, a distant glow emanating from what Maria, Katrin’s mother, referred to with gentle irony as “the garden.” Forest was a much more apt description. It was easily a dozen acres of mature growth, slightly overgrown in spots, but otherwise well-tended.
The gate was closed. There was no one at the guardhouse. On one of his prior visits, Hayward had taken pains to discover the brand of the automatic gate opener, which also told him the universal override code. He attached an infrared converter to the portal on the Android, summoned an app with his forefinger, punched in the code, and waited for a very long second before the gate—“JFX” written in gaudy iron script—rattled and meandered from rest.
Hayward knew that he was featured on numerous security camera feeds inside the guard shack and inside the main estate’s security room, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. There wasn’t a clear avenue of approach from any angle, as far as he knew, and traipsing through the forest in the hopes of achieving some small element of surprise was a non-starter. Too many hours had elapsed already and he couldn’t bear to waste any more time.
He couldn’t bring himself to abandon all hope that Katrin and her family might be inside, but he knew the odds were slim, and he still hadn’t thought of a better starting point. The Ferdinand-Xavier estate was sprawling, isolated, and difficult to penetrate. It was a great place to keep hostages under guard, and perhaps the Agency goons had given in to the temptation to hole up there with their quarry. If so, maybe his grand entrance would prove useful as a distraction. Maybe the Ferdinand-Xavier family could use it to free themselves, or at least to gain some small advantage as he fought his way to them.
And he had no doubt that it would be a fight.
His stomach grew tighter as he steered the car along the narrow drive through the forest, light from the estate growing brighter, diffuse hues becoming discrete sources behind windows and glass doors and alongside balconies and verandas.
Forest gave way to an expanse of well-manicured lawn. Hayward scanned for sentries. He held the pistol in his left hand, the one attached to his broken arm. His right hand worked the steering wheel. A futile gesture, really, holding a gun in a useless arm, and it would probably cost him extra time to switch hands if he suddenly needed to use the gun, but its cold weight and precise lines felt comforting.
It was a calm evening with very little breeze, even atop the highest hill for miles, and no motion caught his eye. No people, no animals, no swaying limbs. Nothing but lights blazing away in what looked to be an otherwise empty house.
He took the roundabout, the private road’s terminus, and stopped at the foot of the imposing concrete staircase. He left the car in drive, pressing his foot on the brake, and waited.
Surely, someone would do something. Someone would emerge from the house, which would be far preferable to him knocking on the door and stepping inside into an unknown situation with an unknown number of assholes pointing an unknown number of weapons at him.
But nothing happened, aside from the expiration of his patience. Operational caution lasted only so long in the face of Hayward’s desperation to find Katrin.
He moved the shifter to park, killed the ignition, extracted himself stiffly from the car, took his gun in his good hand, walked up the stairs, took a steadying breath, and rang the bell.
Three chimes sounded in succession beyond the door. He listened for the sounds of feet on floors or creaking stairs, but only heard the blood pounding through his body, his pulse at jackhammer pace.
He was keenly aware of his recklessness. Showing up alone and debilitated, taking no time to reconnoiter or plan, ringing the front doorbell—it was all madness. But survival wasn’t his aim. Katrin’s survival was, and the odds grew uglier with each passing minute.
He rang the bell again. Could it be that they didn’t hear the chimes the first time? Doubtful. They were making him come to them. They were controlling variables. It was what they did. It was what he did.
He held his breath and tried the door. Locked. He took a few paces to the left toward a large picture window that presided over the forest and the lights of the city below. He listened again for signs of movement beyond. Still nothing.
Time to make a move. He reared back, swung his cast like a club, felt the glass give and shatter, and shielded his face from flying shards. He widened the hole by sticking his booted foot through and planted it firmly on the hardwood inside. Glass crunched beneath his weight as he stepped through the opening and darted to the far wall, gun raised, heart pounding, awaiting the inevitable onslaught.
Silence. Hayward heard only the sounds of emptiness inside the house. It was well lit, well appointed, full of expensive and tasteful things, but empty of people.
Hayward carefully searched the estate. Dozens of rooms. How many buckets of chemicals did it take to finance this joint? It wasn’t the first time Hayward had wondered. It wasn’t the first time he’d marveled at what Joao and Maria Ferdinand-Xavier had built together.
He expected to find Katrin’s body at any moment, to stumble upon her, twisted and bloody and defiled and lifeless, and he opened each door with palpable dread.
But he found nothing. There were no signs of struggle. Nothing missing, as far as he could tell, not that he kept an accurate inventory of the Ferdinand-Xaviers’ many possessions.
Then it dawned on him that all of this made sense, on a certain level. They weren’t after Joao’s tchotchkes or any of his prized collectibles. Or even his bank account. They were after something much less tangible but much more valuable.
Memories of stolen kisses and brief, affectionate touches assaulted him as he searched the mansion. Katrin was from a conservative family, and the pair kept their physical contact to a minimum under her parents’ roof, but she made her feelings for him quite clear during brief, furtive, private moments.
Hayward had no idea how long it took him to search the mansion, but it was a long time, and he grew impatient as he rushed to finish the job.
Almost finished the job. How could he have forgotten the wine cellar? Full of forbidden fruit, expensive vintages he’d never tasted or even sniffed, so tenuous was his hold on the straight-and-narrow.
Hayward turned the handle to the cellar door. Like everywhere else in the house, the lights were on. He descended the curved staircase slowly, grateful for the silence of the solid stone steps beneath his feet.
Then he froze. Crimson on the floor in the corner against the far wall. He could taste the metallic tang on his tongue as he drew nearer. Motherfuckers. Murderous rage threatened to erupt. His eyes darted, his grip tightened on the gun, his mind scratched and clawed for another explanation, any explanation other than the obvious reality: blood. It was still wet in spots.
Hers? He struggled to keep his thoughts from going there, from imagining the dark and despicable things that might have drawn Katrin’s blood from her body and spilled it on the cellar floor. Did that mean he hoped it was her father’s blood? Or her mother’s?
Of course. Without a doubt, that was his hope, and he held onto it as he searched the rest of the cellar. Then he spotted it. Just a glint, out of place among the orderly rows of floor-to-ceiling bottles coated with a trace of dust, a shiny gold-and-silver gleam winking out from beneath a rack full of a particularly pricey vintage.
He kneeled down and recognized the object before his hand closed around it. It belonged to her. It came from her. It had been on her body, maybe even in her hands, maybe just minutes earlier.
A brooch. Understated, tasteful, exquisite, just like Katrin. Gold filigree formed flower petals and diamonds sparkled in the flower’s center. He held it to his lips. It smelled like metal and something else, something that stirred the ancient places of his brain. It smelled like warmth and softness and seduction and just a hint of wild, reckless abandon. It smelled like her.
And suddenly, he knew where he had to go.