Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 33
I kept my tone level. Professional. “Multiple dead ends. Whoever is funding the cell has palace access. Inside knowledge of security protocols. Movements. Schedules.”
“That narrows it down to about two hundred people.”
“Yes.”
“So you have nothing.”
“I have patterns. I have suspicions. I have—”
“You have dead bodies and no names.” Adrian leaned forward, and I saw the frustration there. The fear underneath. “I sent you there to protect the prince. Not to play detective while someone picks off witnesses.”
“The witnesses are already dead. That is the problem. Someone is cleaning up before we can reach them.”
“Then you already know what I'm going to say.” His jaw tightened. “No more witnesses. I want a name. I want the person behind this. And I want them before they make another move on your prince.”
My prince. Like Sebastian belonged to me. Like I had any claim beyond the contract I'd signed and the lines I'd crossed.
Except I did. And Adrian knew it.
“You should tell him about the informant,” Sebastian's voice came from behind me.
I hadn't heard him enter. Hadn't heard the door open or close. He moved too quietly for someone who wasn't trained.
Or maybe I'd just been too focused on Adrian to notice.
Adrian's eyes shifted past me. Took in Sebastian standing in the shadows, still wearing the formal uniform from tonight's state dinner. Dark jacket. Perfect posture. Looking every inch the prince.
Except for the knife strapped to his thigh under the jacket. Except for the way his eyes tracked movement like a predator. Except for the fact that he was here at all when he should've been in his own quarters, safe behind locked doors.
“Your Highness,” Adrian said. Voice careful. Controlled. “I didn't realize you were present.”
“I'm present a lot these days.” Sebastian stepped into the light. “Viktor and I have been working together. Sharing intelligence. Following leads.”
“I see.” Adrian's expression didn't change, but I saw the calculation happening behind his eyes. “And what lead would that be?”
“Two nights ago, we intercepted a courier in Belmont,” I said. “He was carrying encrypted communications between cells. We... persuaded him to decode them.”
“Persuaded.” Adrian's tone made it clear he knew exactly what that meant.
“He gave us a location before he died,” Sebastian added. “Old rail yard outside London. Black market weapons exchange happening tonight. Members of the cell that attacked the motorcade will be there. Payment drop for completed contracts.”
“And you verified this information how?”
“I had my people watch the location yesterday,” I said. “Confirmed activity. Armed men. Military-grade equipment being moved. This is real, Adrian. This is our best chance to get names.”
Adrian was quiet for a moment. His fingers drummed on the desk. Then, “Finish it, Volkov. Whatever it takes. I want answers.”
The call ended. Static filled the silence, then nothing.
I turned to face Sebastian. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable in my quarters. Like he belonged here. Like this was normal instead of dangerous.
“You should not be here,” I said.
“You keep saying that.” His mouth curved. Small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I keep showing up anyway.”
“If someone sees—”
“Nobody sees. I used the servant passages. The ones only I know about.” He pushed off the wall, moved closer. “Besides, you were going to leave without me. Don't deny it.”
I couldn't. Because he was right.
“This is not your fight,” I tried.
“Everything involving my family is my fight.” He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Could see the faint shadows under his eyes from too many late nights. “And everything involving you is my fight now too. Whether you like it or not.”
“Sebastian—”
“Are we doing this or not?” He gestured to the door. “Because if we're going hunting, we should leave now. Rail yards are busiest between one and three in the morning. After that, they shut down until dawn.”
He was right. And arguing would waste time we didn't have.
I grabbed my coat from the chair. Heavy leather, lined with Kevlar panels. Not enough to stop a rifle round, but better than nothing. “Where is your gear?”
“Already in the garage. I moved it earlier.”
“How did you—” I stopped. Shook my head. “Never mind. I do not want to know.”
“Probably for the best.”
We moved through the palace using routes I'd memorized during my first week. Servant corridors. Back stairs. Places where guards didn't patrol and cameras had convenient blind spots.
Places where princes and their bodyguards could disappear without questions.
The hidden garage was three levels below ground, accessible only through a maintenance tunnel that officially didn't exist.
Sebastian's gear was laid out on the workbench. Tactical clothing. Hood. Bow case. The obsidian-tipped arrows he'd crafted himself.
He changed quickly, efficiently, while I checked weapons. Two pistols. Spare magazines. Knife. Everything I'd need if things went sideways.
When things went sideways.
“Ready?” Sebastian asked.
I looked at him. Really looked. He wore death the way other people wore suits. Natural. Comfortable. Like he'd been born to this instead of crowns and cameras.
“You know what happens if we get caught,” I said. “If anyone finds out what we are doing—”
“Then we don't get caught.” He slung his bow across his back. “Simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“No.” He moved closer. Put his hand on my chest. Over my heart. “But it's necessary. And I trust you to keep us both alive.”
“I will try,” I said.
“That's all I ask.”
We took the bike. Easier to maneuver. Harder to track. I drove while Sebastian held on behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, body pressed against my back.
It should've felt wrong. Should've been distracting. Instead, it felt right. Like this was where he belonged. Like we'd been doing this for years instead of weeks.
London disappeared behind us as we rode east. Streetlights gave way to darkness. Buildings to empty fields. The city's glow ended at the fog line, and beyond it lay nothing but ruin and rain and the kind of darkness that swallowed everything.
Perfect weather for hunting.
Through a broken window, I counted six figures. Maybe seven. Hard to tell with all the crates blocking sightlines. They were armed. Moving with military precision. Loading something into trucks.
Weapons, probably. Or worse.
I found a position behind a stack of crates near the entrance. Drew my weapon. Waited for Sebastian to get into place.
Thirty seconds. Sixty. Then I saw him on the catwalk above, bow drawn, arrow nocked. Moonlight caught the obsidian tip. Made it gleam like a promise. He caught my eye. Nodded once.
I stepped into the light. “Nobody move.”
The first man turned, reaching for his rifle. I put two rounds through his head before his fingers touched metal. He dropped like his strings had been cut. Blood and brain matter spraying across the crates behind him.
Sebastian's arrow took another through the throat. The man went down gurgling, hands scrabbling at the shaft, blood fountaining between his fingers. He hit the ground still trying to scream.
Gunfire erupted. Full automatic. Muzzle flashes like lightning in the dark. Bullets sparked off metal beams and concrete. I dropped behind cover as rounds chewed through the air where I'd been standing, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
“Three on the left!” Sebastian shouted.
I pivoted. Saw them trying to flank. The first one was fast, already raising his weapon. I put him down with a headshot. The second took two rounds to the chest, center mass, dropped like a stone. The third made it to cover behind a forklift.
More gunfire from above. Someone on the opposite catwalk had Sebastian pinned. I watched as Sebastian rolled sideways, arrow already nocked. He came up in a crouch, drew, and released in one fluid motion. The arrow punched through the shooter's eye. The man's head snapped back. He tumbled over the railing, hitting the ground with a wet crunch that echoed through the warehouse.
Movement to my right. A man with a shotgun, coming around the crates. Too close for my pistol. I dropped low as he fired. Buckshot tore through the space where my head had been. I swept his legs. He went down hard. I was on him before he could recover, knee on his chest, knife to his throat. One quick slash. Blood sprayed hot across my hands.
“Viktor, Behind!”
Sebastian's warning came too late. Something slammed into my back. A boot. I went down, weapon skittering across concrete. A man twice my size loomed over me, crowbar raised.
Sebastian dropped from the catwalk.
No rope. No ladder. Just dropped fifteen feet, landed on the man's shoulders, used the momentum to drive him face-first into the ground. I heard vertebrae crack. The man went limp.
Sebastian rolled off, came up firing. His arrow caught another attacker in the chest. The man staggered back, clawing at the shaft, but Sebastian was already nocking another. Put it through his skull before he hit the ground.
I grabbed my weapon. Two more targets behind the trucks. They were coordinating. Professional. One laid down suppressing fire while the other moved to flank.
“Pincer movement!” I shouted.
“I see them!”
Sebastian ran three steps up the wall, pushed off, flipped backward over their covering fire. He landed behind a crate, already drawing. His first arrow caught the flanker in the throat. The man dropped, drowning in his own blood.
The other one panicked. Started spraying bullets wildly. Sebastian vaulted over his cover, closing the distance impossibly fast. The man swung his rifle like a club. Sebastian ducked under it, swept his legs, and put an arrow through his chest before he hit the ground.
Movement everywhere now. More men pouring in from the back. Four. Five. Where the hell had they been hiding?
“Too many!” Sebastian called out.
He was right. We were outnumbered. Outgunned. This was about to get very bad.
One of them threw something. Small. Metal. Grenade.
“Down!”
We both dove. The explosion was deafening. Shrapnel tore through crates and metal. Something hot grazed my leg. Didn't matter. Had to keep moving.
Sebastian was already up, moving like water through the chaos. A man came at him with a knife. Sebastian caught his wrist, twisted, broke it with an audible snap. Used the man's own momentum to slam him into a support beam. Grabbed the knife from his broken hand and opened his throat in one smooth motion.
Two more came at him together. Smart. Coordinating. One high, one low.
Sebastian dropped into a slide, went under the low attacker's swing. Came up behind them both, arrow already nocked. Put it through the first man's spine. He dropped. The second one turned, rifle raising.
I shot him. Three rounds. He went down.
Sebastian and I were back-to-back now. Circling. Covering each other. Moving like we'd been doing this for years instead of weeks.
A man charged me with a machete. I sidestepped, caught his arm, used his momentum to drive him into the wall. Heard his face crunch against concrete. He slid down, leaving a blood smear.
Behind me, I heard Sebastian's bow sing. Heard someone scream. Heard bodies hitting the ground.
“Last two!” he called out.
They'd taken cover behind the trucks. Smart. Using the vehicles as shields. We couldn't see them. Couldn't get a clean shot.
I grabbed a metal pipe from the ground. Threw it to the right of the trucks. It clattered against concrete. Both men turned toward the sound, weapons tracking.
Sebastian was already moving. He ran up a pile of crates like stairs, launched himself into the air, drew mid-flight. His arrow caught one through the temple. The man dropped.
I came around the left side. The last man turned, saw me too late. I put two rounds in his chest. He staggered back against the truck. I put a third through his forehead.
Silence.
Just rain on the metal roof and our breathing and the sound of blood dripping onto concrete.
Bodies everywhere. Ten. Maybe twelve. Hard to count through all the blood and gore.
Sebastian stood on top of the crates, chest heaving, bow still raised. Blood streaked his face. His hood had fallen back, revealing hair plastered to his skull with sweat and rain that leaked through the broken roof.
He looked like death incarnate. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
“Clear!” he called down.
I scanned the space. Checking. Always checking. “Not yet.”
Movement from behind the trucks. Someone crawling. Trying to escape. Leaving a blood trail across the floor like breadcrumbs.
I reached him in three strides. Grabbed him by the collar. Hauled him up. Young. Mid-twenties. Scared shitless. Gut wound. Fatal. Just a matter of time.
Good. He should be scared.
“Who are you working for?” I demanded.
He tried to spit at me. Blood instead of saliva. I slammed him against the truck. Hard enough to rattle his teeth. Hard enough that his eyes rolled back for a second.
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
“Fuck you.”
Sebastian dropped from the crates. Landed in a crouch beside us. Arrow still nocked. Pointed at the man's chest. Close enough that he could see the obsidian tip. Close enough to see his own death reflected in it.
“He asked you a question,” Sebastian said. Voice cold. Empty. The voice of someone who'd stopped counting bodies. “Answer it.”
The man's bravado crumbled. “I don't know names! We don't get names!”
“Then what do you get?”
“Codes! Instructions! Money!” He was gasping. Bleeding from the gut wound. Knowing he was dying. “They call him Ghost Zero. That's all I know! I swear!”
Ghost Zero. Another code name. Another dead end.
“What are you being paid to do?” Sebastian asked.
“Surveillance. Information gathering. We watch the palace. Report movement patterns. Schedule changes.” The man's eyes were going unfocused. Shock setting in. “And we wait. For the signal. For Ghost Zero to tell us when to strike.”
“Strike how?”
“I don't know. Above my pay grade. I just. I just watch and report. That's all.”
I didn't believe him. But he was fading fast. We were running out of time.
“One more question,” I said. “Where is Ghost Zero?”
“I told you. I don't know. Nobody knows. That's the point.” He laughed. Wet. Hollow. Blood bubbling on his lips. “You're chasing a ghost. You'll never find him.”
“We'll see about that.”
I hit him once. Hard. His head snapped back. He went limp. Unconscious or dead, I couldn't tell. Didn't care.
“We need to move,” Sebastian said. “Someone heard the gunfire.”
He was right. Sirens wailed in the distance. Getting closer. London's finest responding to reports of automatic weapons fire.
“Help me with him.” I grabbed the unconscious man under the arms. Sebastian took his legs. We dragged him out to the bike, threw him across the back, secured him with zip ties.
Then we rode. Fast. Away from the sirens and the bodies and the evidence of what we'd done.
Away from the warehouse full of corpses we'd left behind like breadcrumbs for whoever came looking.
The farmhouse was thirty miles out. Derelict. Abandoned. The kind of place that had been forgotten by everyone except people who needed places to disappear.
Adrian owned it through a shell company. Used it for exactly this. For interrogations. For things that needed to happen far from witnesses.
We dragged the man inside. The generator hummed to life when I flipped the switch. Lights flickered on. Bare bulbs hanging from wires. Cracked walls. Holes in the roof where moonlight bled through.
Perfect.
I cuffed the man to a pipe in what used to be a kitchen. Sebastian stood by the window, watching the road. Making sure nobody had followed.
“He won't talk yet,” Sebastian said without turning around.
“He will.”
“Will he? Or will he just tell us what we want to hear?”
“There is difference?”
“Yeah. Truth versus survival.” He finally looked at me. “People say anything when they're afraid. Doesn't mean it's real.”
“Then we make him fear the truth more than the lies.”
Sebastian's expression didn't change. But something shifted in his eyes. Something that looked like recognition. Like he knew exactly what I meant.
Like he'd done this before.
The interrogation started slow. Clinical. I zip-tied the man's hands to the pipe above his head. Checked the bindings. Made sure he couldn't escape.
Sebastian stood by the window, watching. Silent. His bow leaned against the wall beside him. Blood still on his hands from the warehouse.
“Last chance to talk without pain,” I said to the man. “Tell us about Ghost Zero.”
“I already told you. I don't know anything.”
“Wrong answer.”
I broke his right index finger. Quick. Clean. The snap echoed in the empty room.
He screamed. High and sharp. The sound bounced off cracked walls.
“Ghost Zero,” I repeated. “Who is he?”
“I don't know! I swear I don't know!”
I broke another finger. Middle finger this time. He screamed louder.
Sebastian shifted by the window. Didn't look away. Just watched. Learning. Or remembering.
“Let me try something,” Sebastian said quietly.
He crossed the room. Crouched in front of the man. Looked him in the eyes.
“You know what the worst part about dying is?” Sebastian asked. Voice soft. Conversational. “It's not the pain. It's the knowing. Knowing that you're going to die and there's nothing you can do to stop it.”
