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Pimlico
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FOUR AND A half hours was a long time to be trapped in a van’s front seat with the stench of decay in every breath.
I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t relax.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the men all jiggling and discarded behind us.
Elder didn’t sleep either, even though his nose steadily trickled blood and he groaned with every bump or pothole.
Selix had already called the Phantom to ensure the crew were safe, that no more infiltrators lurked on board, and to prepare to sail the moment we arrived.
Elder spoke to Jolfer and planned the departure route but only after he’d advised Michaels of the long shopping lists of maladies he now needed his on board surgeon to repair.
I had no doubt Michaels was cursing him already.
Once calls were made and the Phantom ready to leave the moment we drove into her belly with such terrible gifts, we all settled into companionable silence.
We had no energy to talk and no desire to rehash what we’d seen and done in the past few days.
The only thing we were interested in was bouncing along cobblestone roads and staring at black and white cows as we drove our makeshift hearse through French countryside.
As rural life gave way to town life and we switched lanes for main arterial highways, we merged with evening rush hour—as men and women, hungry and blurry-eyed from working all day, sped home to loved ones.
Unbeknownst to them, they sat in traffic with twenty-one dead Chinmoku, one saved slave, one friend who kept secrets, and one thief who’d stolen enough money to make himself an almost billionaire.
We were an odd bunch with odd morals and compasses, but Elder and Selix were two of the best human beings I knew.
Even if blood stained their hands.
That didn’t matter.
It never would.
Because I was in love with Elder.
And blood stained my hands, too.
