More Dante, More History, More people in masks
Let's check in with Saboteur.....
16- Brothers
“Max,” Sinclair said the name aloud, familiarizing himself, “Max of the mask. Masked Max.”
He sighed, pinched and rubbed the space between his eyes, set the papers down. His tea was stone cold, but he had lost interest in it anyway.
Saboteur had sold out the Communists, or so it appeared, leaving a void of enmity. And in the dictations of Saboteur, one figure sprang forward with the overwhelming life and drama of an epic tale.
Max.
A man with no past, no real name, no face except a mirrored mask. A schemer, a butcher, a coward who hid behind hitmen, a traitor who killed his own to enrich his power.
No more Saboteur? Jolly well, then. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.
Sinclair finished massaging his head and went back to the papers. Knightsbridge was too lonely, without Adele's presence. But she was needed at the Langton's, comforting Ozanne after her ordeal.
If Dante was his alter ego, his shadow, then Saboteur was the shadow of the Shadow. What did that make Max? An enemy, he supposed, something far easier to digest.
A real enemy, a Nicholas Tappitt to his Christopher Syn. A Citizen Chauvelin to his Sir Percival Blakeney. A James Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes.
And then there was the Other Matter, the one he only dared to think about when he was completely alone. Away from the account books and mundane agency paperwork lay another file. It held a newspaper clipping, with the headline: AT LEAST NINETEEN DEAD IN GANG WAR. A gang war where a mysterious woman known as Mala Dominicana picked off rival gang members with a rife.
Mala Dominicana, the bad Dominican woman. The Espinoza girl so long vanished from Smith Hall. Gone from his life without a word or a letter all these years. And hadn't she promised to find him, to come back once she was a lady of fortune and he a dashing gentleman? But year after year, she never appeared.
All other clues seemed threadbare. Was she the same Mala Espinoza Zamora who married a Mr. Dragunov in Venezuela? And would that make her the Russian army sniper named Zamora-Dragunov? And if she were married and in Russia, why had she resurfaced after the war in London, as Espinoza again, in a brief arrest for prostitution? Had she really sided with the communists? Or, if she was still a criminal woman, all that information could be nothing but misdirection, to conceal the more disreputable truth.
None of which he could admit, or even think about, unless he was utterly alone.
He loved Adele, loved her more than his own heart and blood. But the call of the Espinoza girl- her dark eyes, her sudden unashamed smile, her loud laugh- echoed through his memory like a siren's call. He had promised himself to her, and Sinclair Smith was nothing if not a man of his word. A man of honor.
He felt that if he ever tried to sort it out, make sense of the knots inside his mind, he would break apart into shards, tear seam from seam with the effort. The Espinoza girl, now perhaps the cheapest sort of woman. Or married to some Russian, with fat little children toddling around. Or dead, which seemed the most logical. She was the closest thing to a sibling he had ever known, and her absence resonated through him still.
And then there was Adele. And somewhere in the middle, Lihan with her fighting lessons and silk trousers. And the dry, claptrap failure that was Bianca.
All of which was even more complicated that the mysterious Saboteur and the villainous Max.
Oh for a week for a night and a day, he thought, for the rush of the wind and the pistol's bray.
Sinclair rose from the antique desk, which had no doubt seen generations of Smiths in predicaments far worth than this. He stretched each muscular limb, twisted his neck back and forth.
Over his desk hung his sword, and a portrait of William Wickham, the great spy from the days of the French Revolution.
“Well then, Sir Wickham,” he struck a respectful, yet jaunty pose before the painting. “What would you advise? You've seen France overcome with misguided reform, tyranny, bloodthirsty despotism. Is this war? Not between freedom and communism, that battle never ceases. War between Max and Dante. What of Saboteur? I'm incapable of letting it go, letting him vanish into the ephemeral mist of the SIS on-call list. But perhaps the real villain is this Max, this Phantom of the Communist Opera.”
For a moment he stared at the portrait in silence, an if a divine answer might really come forth.
Then a shrill chime rang through the room. It could have been a clock, or a servants' bell, or a door chime.
But it wasn't. It was an alarm.
His mind raced through the corridors and drawings rooms of Knightsbridge, down its great sweeping staircase, through the long galleries overlooking the gardens. No common thief had ever breached the hall. It was too remote, too full of servants. But the threat of assassination kept alarms in place.
Adele was safe, and for that Sinclair could breathe a little easier. The servants were all long asleep across the house.
And they knew which windows not to open, which hallways held tripwires.
Sinclair grabbed his Walther off the desk and approached the doors of the study, footsteps indiscernible against the Turkish carpet. Inside the study, the thick books which covered every wall also absorbed sound. Outside, in the hall, an intruder would be audible.
But only the rush of his own blood hit his eardrums. Gun ready, he approached the door to the hallway, dropping his weight lightly, without straining his knees. Once his eye was level with the keyhole, he peered out into the dim hallway. Only a few sconce lights illuminated the paneled hall. The effect was quite medieval, fitting the tone of adventures and secrets betrayed in the dark.
And there, in the near-dark, a man dressed all in black came creeping like a cat.
Saboteur.
As if summoned by a djinn, Sinclair thought, and smiled. There was no mistaking Saboteur's particular frame, with broad shoulders and a slight body. He wore the same mask, too, with reinforced stitching around the eyes and mouth. It had a look of mummification, befitting suck a skulking and catlike creature, no stranger to filth and circumscription.
Sinclair backed away from the door as Saboteur approached it. In these moments, he felt the calm of the Himalayas, the peace and purpose of training replacing the baser instincts of flight and panic.
The handle turned, and the door swung open.
Instantly, Sinclair was there, gun at Saboteur's head. But the masked man was too quick, and swept the gun out of Sinclair's hand with the speed of a viper.
The Walther landed on the carpet, dull and useless.
And Sinclair stood before his dark icon of a man, no longer hidden behind Dante's long coat, fedora, dapper mustache and slick dark hair. He was simply Lord Sinclair Smith, blonde and rumpled, clean-shaven, with his sleeves rolled up. His face felt bare against the stuffy air of the room.
Then Saboteur was on him, lashing out with a punch that landed square on Sinclair's throat. Sinclair fell back, breath wheezing with a noxious sound.
“I'm here for Adele Roueche, your wife,” Saboteur growled.
His voice sounded like barnacles drenched in liquor.
Sinclair sprang forward, hands up, stance solid, ready.
“You won't find her here,” Sinclair replied, “What brings you to England? I was under the mistaken impression you bore us no ill will.”
Saboteur cocked his head to the side,
“This is personal business. Stand down, your fuckin Lordship, or I'll break your fuckin bones. I've been killin Nazis since before you learned that ballet dance you call fightin.”
“You've said that before,” said Sinclair.
And Saboteur had, in the Paris archives. Now, in better light, he could see Saboteur's eyes twitching back and forth. Eyes the color of deep seawater, full of green.
Saboteur lashed out again, with a straight boxer's punch which Sinclair easily deflected. The brush of Saboteur's arm felt cold, inhuman. He hit the masked man with a side-sweeping knee strike, and Saboteur was forced to leap out of the way.
“Who are you?” asked Sinclair, advancing.
Saboteur retreated, fists up, crouching low.
“None of your fucking business, brother” Saboteur's eyes continued to dart around the room as if Adele might pop out of a book, “Tell me where your wife is, and I'll let ya live.”
“Spare me your mercies.”
For a moment, Sinclair pulled away from the fight, from the calm of his training and his own energy. Saboteur's voice, his cursing, his witticisms were all false. He was pretending to be a rough derelict when his skill spoke to a very different background. Who was this man, and what did he want with Adele?
Sinclair couldn't think, not when this black-clad interloper was busy lunging at him. Saboteur's first bunch his Sinclair high in the chest, but Sinclair caught the cross-punch and stepped forward, blocking Sabtoeur's left leg.
The move was called Mountain and Water. With a small application of force, he sent Saboteur flying across the study, his own momentum turned against him.
Saboteur hit the desk on his back, but recovered instantly, using the higher vantage point to launch himself feet-first at Sinclair. Sinclair felt the hard edge of Saboteur's foot, then the bookcase slammed against his back.
The masked man was too damn fast.
He came at Sinclair again, with a low kick, then rushed in with his shoulder. Sinclair's elbow flew out to meet him, connecting dead-center on the black mask. Saboteur cried out, his voice now noticeably different from the foul and gravelly tone.
“I have no wish to fight with you. Didn't even know this was your house. Can't we talk peaceably, Dante?” Saboteur's tone was a perfect replica of Sinclair's own.
Dante. He knew.
Sinclair closed the distance between them, swatting aside Saboteur's defensive blow. He delivered an uppercut, stepping around his opponent and sweeping his legs from under him.
The man went down like a tree and lay still for a moment. Sinclair stepped back, light on his feet, ready. Saboteur rolled his body and sprang onto his feet with a pained grunt.
“If you see the need for violence, your Lordship, I am happy to provide,” Saboteur said, again in that aristocratic tone.
He sprang, like an animal, his leg hitting Sinclair's chest. Sinclair's hands leapt up to his defense, but too late. Another kick his him in the shoulder, and his body whipped around, so fast a shot of pain bolted from his shoulder to his chin.
A blow hit the base of his neck, bringing him to his knees. He kept the momentum, rolling forward, leaping to his feat as Saboteur charged him again. This time, Sinclair knew what to expect. Saboteur would try the same move again, the dextrous high kicks gave him the most success.
When the kick came, Sinclair caught his opponent's leg, guiding it high over his head.
Saboteur yelled, like a harsh bark before he smacked the floor. Sinclair dove on top of him, seizing control of Saboteur's lower body with his knees and lowering his elbow onto the other man's sternum.
A quiet, metallic flick sounded across the study.
Sinclair rolled away, Saboteur's knife slashing the edge of his shirtsleeve.
“Very bad form, Saboteur. Savateur, I should say, for you are quite a fighter.”
“I'm not here for a fuckin duel. I'm here for your wife,” the knife flitted between Saboteur's fingers.
Sinclair was many things, but he was not an especially dextrous knife fighter. He sprang on top of the desk, snatching his sword from its place on the wall. Saboteur, moving painfully, twirled the knife and glared up at him.
“Not exactly a fair fight,” said Saboteur.
“You aren't exactly a sportsman,” Sinclair told him.
He leveled the sword at Saboteur. The sword Lihan had given him, that he carried through mountain passes, over the desolate hills of Bihar, into the den of assassins. The length of its curved blade shone like a mirror. Its carved handle fit his hand like a glove. With one leap, he could cut Sabotuer in two. If he so wished.
“Tell Adele to meet me, noon tomorrow, outside the castle from her postcard.”
“What postcard?” Sinclair felt a chill on the small of his back. Like the whisper of secrets not his to know.
“She knows,” Sabotuer paused to brandish the knife, “And don't come after me.”
Sinclair laughed,
“Was that a threat?”
“Is this the eighteenth-fuckin-century? You're holding a sword,” Saboteur snorted.
He stared up at Sinclair like a defiant child.
Sinclair- or was he Dante now?- smiled down at Saboteur,
“With this sword, I struck off the head of my first true comrade at arms. The only man I've ever called my brother.”
He leapt, the sword arcing toward Saboteur. The black-masked man moved too late, and the flat of the sword struck his forearm. The knife fell to the ground, and Sinclair closed in with the blade. Saboteur ducked under the attack, seizing Sinclair's arm, shoving him backward.
Sword and all, Sinclair slammed against the desk, scattering papers in his wake. The desktop caressed his skin, anchoring his senses. He rolled to the side, keeping the sword away from his body. His other arm smacked the desk top, bruising his fingers against a paperweight but distributing the force of his fall.
Landing beside the desk, sword ready, Sinclair advanced again toward Saboteur. For the first time, the dart of Saboteur's green eyes betrayed fear.
“I aint come here for a fuckin fight,” Saboteur's voice slid from one tone to the other, “Would you strike off my head? I, who would also call you my brother?”
The sincerity of those words cut past the mask, through sweat and adrenaline, through rivalry.
Sinclair brought the sword back to a close guard.
“We're allies, Dante. Or Sinclair. Whichever,” Saboteur continued, “I hold no grudge against you. We are stuck with each other, fucked if I coulda chosen a better man to fight beside.”
“Please explain yourself. I don't wish to kill an unarmed man. If you mean me no harm-”
But Saboteur was halfway to the door, sprinting in a pained, off-kilter gait.
And the gun still lay in the hallway. Sinclair charged after him, sword rigid, riding the crest of a fury that longed to pierce the lying, masked villain through the heart. He flew through the doorway-
The hall was deserted, the Walther still lying in wait on the carpet.
Also, I did not fall on the runway. Also, I will miss the irresponsible mayhem and constant laughter at the Seafood Restaurant. I will not miss the seagull poo. And life is taking me in a more constructive direction. Oh, summer! You will be missed!
16- Brothers
“Max,” Sinclair said the name aloud, familiarizing himself, “Max of the mask. Masked Max.”
He sighed, pinched and rubbed the space between his eyes, set the papers down. His tea was stone cold, but he had lost interest in it anyway.
Saboteur had sold out the Communists, or so it appeared, leaving a void of enmity. And in the dictations of Saboteur, one figure sprang forward with the overwhelming life and drama of an epic tale.
Max.
A man with no past, no real name, no face except a mirrored mask. A schemer, a butcher, a coward who hid behind hitmen, a traitor who killed his own to enrich his power.
No more Saboteur? Jolly well, then. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.
Sinclair finished massaging his head and went back to the papers. Knightsbridge was too lonely, without Adele's presence. But she was needed at the Langton's, comforting Ozanne after her ordeal.
If Dante was his alter ego, his shadow, then Saboteur was the shadow of the Shadow. What did that make Max? An enemy, he supposed, something far easier to digest.
A real enemy, a Nicholas Tappitt to his Christopher Syn. A Citizen Chauvelin to his Sir Percival Blakeney. A James Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes.
And then there was the Other Matter, the one he only dared to think about when he was completely alone. Away from the account books and mundane agency paperwork lay another file. It held a newspaper clipping, with the headline: AT LEAST NINETEEN DEAD IN GANG WAR. A gang war where a mysterious woman known as Mala Dominicana picked off rival gang members with a rife.
Mala Dominicana, the bad Dominican woman. The Espinoza girl so long vanished from Smith Hall. Gone from his life without a word or a letter all these years. And hadn't she promised to find him, to come back once she was a lady of fortune and he a dashing gentleman? But year after year, she never appeared.
All other clues seemed threadbare. Was she the same Mala Espinoza Zamora who married a Mr. Dragunov in Venezuela? And would that make her the Russian army sniper named Zamora-Dragunov? And if she were married and in Russia, why had she resurfaced after the war in London, as Espinoza again, in a brief arrest for prostitution? Had she really sided with the communists? Or, if she was still a criminal woman, all that information could be nothing but misdirection, to conceal the more disreputable truth.
None of which he could admit, or even think about, unless he was utterly alone.
He loved Adele, loved her more than his own heart and blood. But the call of the Espinoza girl- her dark eyes, her sudden unashamed smile, her loud laugh- echoed through his memory like a siren's call. He had promised himself to her, and Sinclair Smith was nothing if not a man of his word. A man of honor.
He felt that if he ever tried to sort it out, make sense of the knots inside his mind, he would break apart into shards, tear seam from seam with the effort. The Espinoza girl, now perhaps the cheapest sort of woman. Or married to some Russian, with fat little children toddling around. Or dead, which seemed the most logical. She was the closest thing to a sibling he had ever known, and her absence resonated through him still.
And then there was Adele. And somewhere in the middle, Lihan with her fighting lessons and silk trousers. And the dry, claptrap failure that was Bianca.
All of which was even more complicated that the mysterious Saboteur and the villainous Max.
Oh for a week for a night and a day, he thought, for the rush of the wind and the pistol's bray.
Sinclair rose from the antique desk, which had no doubt seen generations of Smiths in predicaments far worth than this. He stretched each muscular limb, twisted his neck back and forth.
Over his desk hung his sword, and a portrait of William Wickham, the great spy from the days of the French Revolution.
“Well then, Sir Wickham,” he struck a respectful, yet jaunty pose before the painting. “What would you advise? You've seen France overcome with misguided reform, tyranny, bloodthirsty despotism. Is this war? Not between freedom and communism, that battle never ceases. War between Max and Dante. What of Saboteur? I'm incapable of letting it go, letting him vanish into the ephemeral mist of the SIS on-call list. But perhaps the real villain is this Max, this Phantom of the Communist Opera.”
For a moment he stared at the portrait in silence, an if a divine answer might really come forth.
Then a shrill chime rang through the room. It could have been a clock, or a servants' bell, or a door chime.
But it wasn't. It was an alarm.
His mind raced through the corridors and drawings rooms of Knightsbridge, down its great sweeping staircase, through the long galleries overlooking the gardens. No common thief had ever breached the hall. It was too remote, too full of servants. But the threat of assassination kept alarms in place.
Adele was safe, and for that Sinclair could breathe a little easier. The servants were all long asleep across the house.
And they knew which windows not to open, which hallways held tripwires.
Sinclair grabbed his Walther off the desk and approached the doors of the study, footsteps indiscernible against the Turkish carpet. Inside the study, the thick books which covered every wall also absorbed sound. Outside, in the hall, an intruder would be audible.
But only the rush of his own blood hit his eardrums. Gun ready, he approached the door to the hallway, dropping his weight lightly, without straining his knees. Once his eye was level with the keyhole, he peered out into the dim hallway. Only a few sconce lights illuminated the paneled hall. The effect was quite medieval, fitting the tone of adventures and secrets betrayed in the dark.
And there, in the near-dark, a man dressed all in black came creeping like a cat.
Saboteur.
As if summoned by a djinn, Sinclair thought, and smiled. There was no mistaking Saboteur's particular frame, with broad shoulders and a slight body. He wore the same mask, too, with reinforced stitching around the eyes and mouth. It had a look of mummification, befitting suck a skulking and catlike creature, no stranger to filth and circumscription.
Sinclair backed away from the door as Saboteur approached it. In these moments, he felt the calm of the Himalayas, the peace and purpose of training replacing the baser instincts of flight and panic.
The handle turned, and the door swung open.
Instantly, Sinclair was there, gun at Saboteur's head. But the masked man was too quick, and swept the gun out of Sinclair's hand with the speed of a viper.
The Walther landed on the carpet, dull and useless.
And Sinclair stood before his dark icon of a man, no longer hidden behind Dante's long coat, fedora, dapper mustache and slick dark hair. He was simply Lord Sinclair Smith, blonde and rumpled, clean-shaven, with his sleeves rolled up. His face felt bare against the stuffy air of the room.
Then Saboteur was on him, lashing out with a punch that landed square on Sinclair's throat. Sinclair fell back, breath wheezing with a noxious sound.
“I'm here for Adele Roueche, your wife,” Saboteur growled.
His voice sounded like barnacles drenched in liquor.
Sinclair sprang forward, hands up, stance solid, ready.
“You won't find her here,” Sinclair replied, “What brings you to England? I was under the mistaken impression you bore us no ill will.”
Saboteur cocked his head to the side,
“This is personal business. Stand down, your fuckin Lordship, or I'll break your fuckin bones. I've been killin Nazis since before you learned that ballet dance you call fightin.”
“You've said that before,” said Sinclair.
And Saboteur had, in the Paris archives. Now, in better light, he could see Saboteur's eyes twitching back and forth. Eyes the color of deep seawater, full of green.
Saboteur lashed out again, with a straight boxer's punch which Sinclair easily deflected. The brush of Saboteur's arm felt cold, inhuman. He hit the masked man with a side-sweeping knee strike, and Saboteur was forced to leap out of the way.
“Who are you?” asked Sinclair, advancing.
Saboteur retreated, fists up, crouching low.
“None of your fucking business, brother” Saboteur's eyes continued to dart around the room as if Adele might pop out of a book, “Tell me where your wife is, and I'll let ya live.”
“Spare me your mercies.”
For a moment, Sinclair pulled away from the fight, from the calm of his training and his own energy. Saboteur's voice, his cursing, his witticisms were all false. He was pretending to be a rough derelict when his skill spoke to a very different background. Who was this man, and what did he want with Adele?
Sinclair couldn't think, not when this black-clad interloper was busy lunging at him. Saboteur's first bunch his Sinclair high in the chest, but Sinclair caught the cross-punch and stepped forward, blocking Sabtoeur's left leg.
The move was called Mountain and Water. With a small application of force, he sent Saboteur flying across the study, his own momentum turned against him.
Saboteur hit the desk on his back, but recovered instantly, using the higher vantage point to launch himself feet-first at Sinclair. Sinclair felt the hard edge of Saboteur's foot, then the bookcase slammed against his back.
The masked man was too damn fast.
He came at Sinclair again, with a low kick, then rushed in with his shoulder. Sinclair's elbow flew out to meet him, connecting dead-center on the black mask. Saboteur cried out, his voice now noticeably different from the foul and gravelly tone.
“I have no wish to fight with you. Didn't even know this was your house. Can't we talk peaceably, Dante?” Saboteur's tone was a perfect replica of Sinclair's own.
Dante. He knew.
Sinclair closed the distance between them, swatting aside Saboteur's defensive blow. He delivered an uppercut, stepping around his opponent and sweeping his legs from under him.
The man went down like a tree and lay still for a moment. Sinclair stepped back, light on his feet, ready. Saboteur rolled his body and sprang onto his feet with a pained grunt.
“If you see the need for violence, your Lordship, I am happy to provide,” Saboteur said, again in that aristocratic tone.
He sprang, like an animal, his leg hitting Sinclair's chest. Sinclair's hands leapt up to his defense, but too late. Another kick his him in the shoulder, and his body whipped around, so fast a shot of pain bolted from his shoulder to his chin.
A blow hit the base of his neck, bringing him to his knees. He kept the momentum, rolling forward, leaping to his feat as Saboteur charged him again. This time, Sinclair knew what to expect. Saboteur would try the same move again, the dextrous high kicks gave him the most success.
When the kick came, Sinclair caught his opponent's leg, guiding it high over his head.
Saboteur yelled, like a harsh bark before he smacked the floor. Sinclair dove on top of him, seizing control of Saboteur's lower body with his knees and lowering his elbow onto the other man's sternum.
A quiet, metallic flick sounded across the study.
Sinclair rolled away, Saboteur's knife slashing the edge of his shirtsleeve.
“Very bad form, Saboteur. Savateur, I should say, for you are quite a fighter.”
“I'm not here for a fuckin duel. I'm here for your wife,” the knife flitted between Saboteur's fingers.
Sinclair was many things, but he was not an especially dextrous knife fighter. He sprang on top of the desk, snatching his sword from its place on the wall. Saboteur, moving painfully, twirled the knife and glared up at him.
“Not exactly a fair fight,” said Saboteur.
“You aren't exactly a sportsman,” Sinclair told him.
He leveled the sword at Saboteur. The sword Lihan had given him, that he carried through mountain passes, over the desolate hills of Bihar, into the den of assassins. The length of its curved blade shone like a mirror. Its carved handle fit his hand like a glove. With one leap, he could cut Sabotuer in two. If he so wished.
“Tell Adele to meet me, noon tomorrow, outside the castle from her postcard.”
“What postcard?” Sinclair felt a chill on the small of his back. Like the whisper of secrets not his to know.
“She knows,” Sabotuer paused to brandish the knife, “And don't come after me.”
Sinclair laughed,
“Was that a threat?”
“Is this the eighteenth-fuckin-century? You're holding a sword,” Saboteur snorted.
He stared up at Sinclair like a defiant child.
Sinclair- or was he Dante now?- smiled down at Saboteur,
“With this sword, I struck off the head of my first true comrade at arms. The only man I've ever called my brother.”
He leapt, the sword arcing toward Saboteur. The black-masked man moved too late, and the flat of the sword struck his forearm. The knife fell to the ground, and Sinclair closed in with the blade. Saboteur ducked under the attack, seizing Sinclair's arm, shoving him backward.
Sword and all, Sinclair slammed against the desk, scattering papers in his wake. The desktop caressed his skin, anchoring his senses. He rolled to the side, keeping the sword away from his body. His other arm smacked the desk top, bruising his fingers against a paperweight but distributing the force of his fall.
Landing beside the desk, sword ready, Sinclair advanced again toward Saboteur. For the first time, the dart of Saboteur's green eyes betrayed fear.
“I aint come here for a fuckin fight,” Saboteur's voice slid from one tone to the other, “Would you strike off my head? I, who would also call you my brother?”
The sincerity of those words cut past the mask, through sweat and adrenaline, through rivalry.
Sinclair brought the sword back to a close guard.
“We're allies, Dante. Or Sinclair. Whichever,” Saboteur continued, “I hold no grudge against you. We are stuck with each other, fucked if I coulda chosen a better man to fight beside.”
“Please explain yourself. I don't wish to kill an unarmed man. If you mean me no harm-”
But Saboteur was halfway to the door, sprinting in a pained, off-kilter gait.
And the gun still lay in the hallway. Sinclair charged after him, sword rigid, riding the crest of a fury that longed to pierce the lying, masked villain through the heart. He flew through the doorway-
The hall was deserted, the Walther still lying in wait on the carpet.
Also, I did not fall on the runway. Also, I will miss the irresponsible mayhem and constant laughter at the Seafood Restaurant. I will not miss the seagull poo. And life is taking me in a more constructive direction. Oh, summer! You will be missed!