Heir in Exile (Royals Book 3) Page 16
Low and fast, with his weapon at eye level, Sander moved room to room, sweeping each as he entered. He knew Mattias and half the guards had split off back in the foyer as planned, covering more ground in short order.
Several lights were on, most were off. It made for rough going where the drapes had been drawn tight, allowing little illumination in through the windows.
“Anything?” Sander shouted. He had a bad feeling in his gut. A really bad feeling.
“Nothing,” Mattias replied.
Sander turned toward three of the guards on his flank. “Check the basement. Report if you find anything.”
Three guards cut away and disappeared around an archway.
Other guards called down from upstairs a few moments later. “All clear!”
Sander stalked out into the foyer just as Mattias strode out of a library. He met his brother's eyes.
“They're gone,” Mattias said. “The whole house is empty.”
“He got to them before we could.” Sander snarled a curse in his mother tongue. As the guards came down the stairs from the second floor, Sander said, “Any evidence?”
“Your Highness, it looks as if it was a fast evacuation. Clothes are still on hangers and in drawers, beds unmade.”
“They can't be that far. Where would they have taken them, Mattias? What vacant building is close? He wouldn't risk bringing them to the main seat,” Sander said. The uneasy feeling turned into something more sinister. He felt as if he was overlooking something.
“There isn't anything that I know of in the East woods. Nothing sitting empty. There are several buildings to the south he might use,” Mattias said.
He stepped closer to his brother. It pissed Sander off to think his father was one step ahead of them. “I don't like it, Mattias. What if Aksel sent men to your place while evacuating this one?”
“I was thinking the same. We should return there immediately, secure Chey, and then figure our next step.” Mattias was moving as he finished speaking.
Sander left the building at a run. “Someone get on the phone and call the guards at Mattias's holding. Tell them they might have visitors.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the upstairs bathroom, Chey sat on the edge of the jacuzzi tub and tried to get her stomach to calm down. The toilet was close by, just in case she failed to control the churning nausea that had her in its grip. She wasn't sure what to make of this evening sickness—wasn't it supposed to happen in the morning? Thinking back, she remembered several mornings when she had felt nauseous, a fleeting hour of feeling icky before it passed.
Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Cool air would help. Descending to the main floor, she swung toward the kitchen and the back door that would allow her to stick her head out into the chill evening. Passing through the large dining room, she saw headlights from the street glint off the walls and a few metal sculptures.
Mattias had only been gone twenty minutes, if that. He and the other guards shouldn't be returning this fast. Maybe it was Sander, a thought that kicked her heart into an immediate, quicker rhythm. Pivoting on her foot, distracted from the nausea by the idea of seeing Sander, she went to the window to peer through a crack, still too wary of the circumstances to simply assume it was him.
Blinded by headlights, she squinted past the pane though no details of the vehicle, much less the driver, presented themselves.
“Miss Sinclair! Get back from the window.” One of the guards appeared at her side in seconds, curling a gentle but firm grip to guide her deeper into the house.
“That might be Sander...”
“It's not Sander. Nor is it Mattias,” the other guard said. He'd drawn his weapon, the muzzle aimed at the ceiling with his arm cocked against his side.
“What? Then who?” Chey, remembering Mattias's concerns and warnings, didn't appreciate the trickle of fear the unknown brought with it.
“We're not sure yet,” Olev said. “I think you should take her upstairs--”
The crack of the intercom interrupted Olev. Static cut through the voice that rattled into the foyer via the device.
It was the mother tongue, a language Chey didn't understand.
The guard at her elbow began guiding her toward the stairs. “Go up, Miss Sinclair? Please stay in your room until we figure out what's going on.”
“All right.” Chey didn't need to be asked twice. She was halfway up when the voice came through without the static.
Laur's voice. Speaking quick and urgent.
Chey didn't need to understand the language to recognize fear. “That's Laur! Let him in.” She descended to the foyer, wondering who had driven the man here.
“Miss Sinclair, he might not be alone,” Olev said, shooting her a pointed look.
Chey, caught between the desire to stay and find out about Laur or head upstairs, lingered on the bottom step. Indecisive. The other guard, Henri, pushed the button on the intercom to let Laur through the gate.
“Come get me if he's alone, please,” Chey said. It was the only way she felt all right about departing if the man needed help.
“We'll let you know,” Olev said.
Chey hastened upstairs and down the hall to her room. Closing the door, she engaged the lock. Pacing back and forth, she sorted through scenarios in her mind about what might have happened. Regardless, although Laur sounded upset, at least he was alive. Where were Sander and Mattias? Maybe they would arrive right behind Laur.
A flash of light across her windows alerted Chey to another vehicle at the gate. She couldn't see straight on from her bedroom's vantage point. The gleam of black she glimpsed with her cheek pressed against the cold pane sent a thrill through her.
Sander. Bolting for the door, she exited into the hall and made for the stairs. The rollicking pitch of her stomach would just have to wait, she decided. She wanted to get Sander alone if everything was all right and tell him the news.
At the top of the staircase, she saw Laur with Olev and Henri. The men were speaking in their own tongue, rapid words that fell over one another. They were so intent, none of them saw her. She hurried down to the foyer.
“What's going on? Is that Sander and Mattias coming in behind yo--” Chey's words faded as the doorknob turned and the top lock snapped over. There was something sinister about the methodical precision with which the person on the other side used to gain entry. Her subconscious understood the danger before Chey had time to process what it meant. She crouched even as Olev herded her and Laur out of the foyer, gesturing to Henri with his gun hand.
Henri snapped off the lights and took up a shooter's stance right there in the archway between the foyer and dining room.
What frightened Chey more than anything was the silence of it all. One moment the men had been talking in hectic sentences, the next, darkness enveloped the house and everything went still and quiet.
Behind her, she heard the deadly thwip thwip of a silencer. Heart in her throat, Chey ducked into the kitchen, Laur at her side. For a big man, he moved with more stealth than Chey would have given him credit for. Olev guided them toward a long, skinny hallway on the other side of a row of cabinets. It ran the length of the house, with windows on one side, and a wall on the other.
Olev pushed them into a shallow, recessed area and twisted back toward the way they came, gun up. He fired within seconds, two successive pulls of the trigger. The silencer on the end of his weapon muted the sound.
She heard two thumps down the hall and guessed he'd just taken out two of the intruders. Did that mean Henri was dead? What about the other employees? She didn't know where they were or what they were doing.
Cautioning herself against all out panic, Chey waited with Laur hovering at her back. Shoulder pressed against the recessed wall, she glanced along it to see if there was a door leading either up or down. Nothing. No door, just a hutch with collectibles and a few potted plants.
From somewhere deeper in the immense house, Chey heard a gun that didn't have a silencer on i
t pop off two rounds. Intuition told her it was one of the household staff. There probably hadn't been time to fit everyone's piece with more hardware.
Laur set a hand on her shoulder, as if he wanted to reassure or calm her. Chey touched his fingers with her own. Hers trembled while his were steady. Olev continued to glance both ways down the hall, features stone-like and intent. Finally, after what felt like an eternity to Chey, he gestured them into the corridor.
She was afraid to expose herself. Olev could only cover one direction at a time, leaving another shooter several seconds to get a shot off. The hallway was narrow, too, without many places to hide. A potted plant or a decorative half table wasn't going to save them.
Darting out anyway at Olev's insistent gesture, she hugged the wall and went as quick as she could the way he motioned. Ten steps later, she saw what he was aiming for; a set of back stairs, for use by house staff, wound upward to the second floor. If she could reach her room, she could duck into the hidden passageway and at least get out of sight of anymore shooters.
Making a dash for it, she was three feet from the entrance when a shadow at the other end of the hallway snapped her gaze there. A shooter, bringing his weapon up.
Three feet suddenly seemed like a mile. A mile where every step felt as if she was wading through a vat of honey, slowing down her momentum. Laur brushed past her shoulder, putting himself between her and the shooter. The contact sent her into the safety of the stairwell.
A moment later, Laur slumped to a knee.
“No!” Chey, on her way up, paused to look back. Laur fell forward, landing face down in an ungainly heap. “No!”
Olev appeared like an angel of mercy, shooting down the hallway over Laur's body.
Choking on a sob, torn between the desire to rush down and help Laur or dash upstairs to her bedroom and possible safety, she expended several precious seconds, indecisive. Leaving Laur to die in the narrow hall made her sick—but how would she feel if the shooter caught up to her and took her out as well?
She had a child to think about. An innocent baby who couldn't protect itself. She needed to be that person, to prioritize in a critical moment when her mind told her one thing and her heart told her another.
Turning, she ran up the stairs, tears streaming down her cheeks. At the small landing she encountered a door and opened it without thinking to go slow, check for danger on the other side. Swinging the door wide, she found herself at the very end of the hallway her bedroom sat off of.
Around the corner at the other end, coming from the direction of the main stairs leading to the foyer, another shadow emerged. Moving low and fast.
Chey had no time to go forward. Not another step. A scream ripped from her throat, deafening in the silence, as she backtracked to the smaller stairway. Olev bolted upward from the bottom, ready to defend her. Something knocked the door aside behind her, closing in quicker than she could escape. Then a strong arm clamped over her shoulder and across the front of her body, tugging her back against the solid bulwark of his.
Before she could scream, she heard Sander's voice near her ear.
“Stand down, Olev. It's me. Mattias and the others are behind me and also below.”
“Prince Dare,” Olev said, lowering his weapon. Tension all but crackled from the security guard. It eased as recognition set in.
Chey wilted with relief. Bringing her hands up, she clutched Sander's trapping arm and sank into the warm strength of his chest. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might pop from the pressure.
“Shhh,” Sander whispered. Then, to Olev, “I've got her. Go down and meet the others. Warn any employees that we're here so we don't have any accidental shootings.”
“Yes Prince Dare.” Olev retreated, pausing at the bottom of the stairway to kneel next to the fallen Laur. He felt for a pulse.
“Oh no, no,” Chey said when she saw Laur. She heard Sander pull in a surprised breath. “He was trying to save me. Push me out of the way,” she whispered.
A moment later they were both rushing down, Sander with an arm still around her, keeping her close.
Olev glanced up, apology in his eyes. “I'm sorry, Sir. He's gone.”
. . .
Chey rocked on her knees, hands over her mouth, while Sander turned Laur over. Moonlight from the windows in the corridor spilled across Laur's face, making a deeper shadow along the deformed side. Sander sought a pulse despite that Olev already checked. His movements were gentle but concise, fingertips pressing against Laur's throat.
Elsewhere in the house, she heard 'clear' ring out several times. It was a distant reassurance that whatever hitmen had intruded were subdued—or dead.
Mattias rushed down the corridor, holstering his weapon. Coming to a knee, he touched either side of Laur's head as if the man were precious and glanced at Sander, something desperate in his dark eyes.
Sander sat back on his haunches, fists on his thighs. He shook his head. Laur was, as Olev said, gone.
Broken-hearted, Chey covered her face and cried for the loss. At the same time, fury boiled her blood that Aksel and Helina could be this cruel. To sacrifice their child in the name of the throne.
Mattias cursed under his breath.
Sander, still and silent, stared first down at Laur, then up at the ceiling.
Chey didn't know if he would shout or punch things or what he might do in the thrall of grief. She'd never seen him out of his element in this way before. That he was hurting couldn't be missed. Pain glinted in his eyes, sagged his shoulders.
In the end, he didn't shout or punch holes in the wall. He reached out with a hand and smoothed it over Laur's temple and into his hair. A kind, tender gesture that indicated just how torn up he was inside, even if he collected himself and refused to show it outside. He took a deep breath, glanced at Mattias for a lingering, telling moment, then rose to his feet and stepped over Laur's legs to ease Chey up off the ground.
“Come on. Let's get you upstairs. Are you hurt?” he asked.
She leaned on him, letting Sander bear the brunt of her weight. “I'm furious,” she replied through her misery. “Not hurt, no.”
“I know. Here...” Sander paused to scoop her into his arms, groom-style. “Mattias, have someone take Laur to a trusted mortuary and put no less than five guards on him.”
“I will,” Mattias said, pushing to his feet, expression grim.
“Let me know as soon as the others are located.” Sander ascended the small staircase, carrying Chey as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“When is it going to end? When will all the danger and the attempts on people's lives stop? He didn't deserve to die,” Chey said, teeth chattering over the words. She had hit her limit with death and threats.
“As soon as I can make it,” Sander said. “And no, he didn't deserve to die.”
He carried her into her bedroom and used his boot to knock the door shut. Ferrying her to the bed, he laid her down and hovered over her, searching her eyes.
Chey smeared tears off her cheeks, unable to quell her shaking or her upset over Laur. While Sander searched her eyes, she searched his, chest hitching with a small hiccup. “What will happen now? Will Aksel and Helina just be allowed to get away with this atrocity? They can't. You have to do something, Sander.”
“I plan to. Trust me when I say they won't get away unscathed.” He sat on the edge of the bed, weapons tucked into the holsters on his shoulders and around one thigh.
Chey had never seen him quite that armed, nor dressed in what appeared to be fatigues. Her fingers trailed over the arm he braced on the other side of her body, effectively trapping her in place.
“Why aren't you angry? How can you not be fed up with it all? I don't understand,” she said, letting her thoughts spill into the open. When she'd had enough, she really had enough. The lingering effects of fear made her temper shorter than usual.
“I am angry. Don't mistake my control for indifference. Flipping out in front of the men will do n
o one any good, least of all me. But trust that vengeance will be mine.” He spoke with solemn assurance, never breaking eye contact.
“I wish it made me feel better. I mean, it does, but it doesn't. You know?” Chey smeared another tear angrily off her cheek. “I'm tired of them. Both of them. Tired of worrying about whether I need to look over my shoulder because they've decided to get rid of me, or whether they'll finally back off and leave me—leave us—alone.”
“You'll never stop having to look over your shoulder, not completely. That's an unfortunate fact that comes with this life. But we can reduce the threat considerably now that we know where it's coming from, and because I think Mattias and I have collected enough evidence to force his hand.” He gathered her fingers into his, smearing the remnants of her tear off her skin with his thumb.
“Is that what you're going to do? What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, needing it spelled out for her.
“It means, if I ever want to be King, I'm going to have to go public with it all. He made an announcement earlier this evening about my exile, so now I'm forced to act on my own behalf. He's afraid I'll do exactly what I've set out to: remove him from power. This was a preemptive strike on his part.”
“Removing him from power is great, but will that make him stop trying to get rid of me? He can still hire people, can't he?”
“He can, yes. I will make it much harder on him to be able to get at you, though. Or any of us for that matter.”
There was something about the look on Sander's face and in his voice that triggered concern in Chey. It wasn't quite calculating or cunning, yet she knew there was more to it he wasn't saying. Would he and Mattias take permanent action? Was Sander set to become just like his father out of necessity? Killing people because it suited him, or made his life easier? The questions ran rampant through her mind. What was more, would she care?