Page 62 of Home Free

Ronan tipped his head at the staircase. “Music’s coming from upstairs.”

Finn nodded.

Achilles.

Petro’s face flashed in his mind and all the noise inside him stilled.

He followed Ronan up the stairs.

The staircase opened directly into a wide hall lined with patterned carpets, the walls lit with iron sconces that looked almost as old as the castle. Doors marched down either side of the hall, but only one of them was partially open, light spilling into the hall, the classical music rich and loud from inside the room.

“I’ll keep an eye on these rooms,” Ronan said. “You go.”

Declan’s voice sounded in the comms system. “Uh… we’ve got company outside.”

“What kind of company?” Ronan asked.

“Looks like a ragtag bunch of mercenaries. They’re coming out of the woods at

the front of the house,” Nick said.

Finn looked at Ronan. “The terrorists from the Boxgrove gala.”

Ronan looked torn, then tipped his head at the half open door. “Take care of business. I’ll help Nick and Dec.”

Finn hesitated, then nodded and started for the open door.

The room was some kind of den, the walls paneled in rich mahogany, the floors covered with the same kinds of carpet that lined the hall. Bookshelves lined all four walls, but it wasn’t the books that got Finn’s attention: it was the artifacts scattered throughout the room — animal bones and human skulls and pieces of broken pottery and rudimentary tools and weapons.

Aldrich Cromwell — Achilles — was sitting in a wing chair near a record player, his eyes closed as the strains of music washed over the room. Light from the chandelier caught the crystal tumbler in his hand, making the amber liquid in it look otherworldly, reminding Finn of the sample still in the safe at the mountain house.

The sample Achilles had killed for.

Finn could hardly believe this was the man who’d haunted him for almost a year, the man who had so ruthlessly murdered Petro’s parents. He was just an old man.

Just a small, balding old man.

Finn took a step toward him, then raised his weapon when Achilles opened his eyes.

“Ah, here you are,” he said, looking at Finn. “I’ve been expecting you. Or someone anyway.”

Finn was shocked into silence. He’d expected Achilles to be scared when he saw him with the gun, or defiant at least.

“You don’t even know who I am,” Finn said.

Achilles held his gaze. “No.”

“You murdered people I care about,” Finn said. “Murdered the parents of a little boy right in front of him, in Ukraine.”

“Ah.” Understanding lit his eyes. “A country rich with treasures for a man like me, a man who appreciates history.”

“Appreciates?” Finn shook his head. “You can’t appreciate history without appreciating human life. You’re a murderer, plain and simple. And a greedy one at that.”

“Greed?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Is that what you think this is about? Greed?”

“What else?” Finn asked. “You wanted to dig in Ukraine, wanted more of whatever is in that amber sample you were having analyzed.”

Achilles set his drink down on the end table next to his chair, and Finn took a step closer, his weapon still aimed at the man’s head.

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