Page 164 of Fallen Princess: Shadow Stalker

“Go to war, get our woman back!” Callum's words join the urgency. He and the other two head into the kitchen pantry room. Reluctantly, I follow.

Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea? The unease settles like a heavyweight in the pit of my stomach.

“None of you are fully trained in using guns. Only myself and Eden hold licenses.”

“Fuck you, Jagger. If I see that asshole, I’m gunning the bastard down,” Callum retorts angrily, but we remain silent. Perhaps it’s because we all feel much the same way as him.

Haze opens the staff door with stairs that lead to the basement, and the light sensors automatically turn on. We descend the creaky wooden stairs with a sense of purpose. The room at the bottom is cluttered with old furniture draped in dusty sheets, and the distant hum of a dehumidifier fills the air.

We scan the room before approaching a section of the basement hidden by a heavy curtain. Haze pulls it aside, revealing a locked door. The atmosphere grows tense as we exchange glances, aware that the contents behind the door are not everyday belongings.

“It’s time,” Haze says in a serious tone.

We nod in agreement as he types in the code on the keypad. Haze doesn’t believe in using keys. Almost everything he owns that needs to be locked has a keypad instead of a keyhole.

The door buzzes and swings open, revealing a hidden room filled with an array of old instruments and a massive gun safe at the far end.

“What’s all this?” I ask, eying the instruments with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Our old shit. I had the studio out back emptied years ago when I rented this house out. Almost everything down here is from our old Sonic days.”

“Bloody ’ell!” Callum opens a case and pulls out his electric guitar. “How are you, old mate?” He says, caressing it gently.

My old tour drums peak out from under a dust sheet, and I have to admit that this is a really wrong time to be nostalgic.

“Did you bring Eden down here?” I ask, curious.

“Yup,” Haze grins at us. “I had to show her since quite a few of the guns in the safe are hers. She also had the same lost eyes as the three of you.”

“I wouldn’t say lost, just going down memory lane,” I say, picking up my old drumsticks, which I had the band sign. Usually, at the end of a concert tour, I’d throw the signed sticks into the crowd to whichever lucky bastards caught them. Usually, we’d all have a right good chuckle watching our fans scramble and punch each other out to claim it. Even our female fans were vicious with each other, trying to claim a part of us.

Jagger approaches the gun safe, noticing the keypad on the front.

“Why the secrecy?” he asks confused.

“Staff have access to the basement. If the cleaning crew ever took one and then created a crime, we’d be implicated because the guns are registered in mine and Eden’s names.”

“You bought yourself guns?” I stare at him, a little astonished.

“Well, I’d never thought I’d need one, but times have changed. We have some psychotic stalker on the loose who’s a Houdini with tripping security cameras and alarms, lacing Callum’s tobacco; it seems necessary. And anyway, the secret room and closet were Eden’s idea. She has one hidden in her closet at Terra Sands.”

I saw it the last time we were there, and I was a little surprised to learn she’s prepared herself with all these weapons. It also gives me a little peace of mind that she’ll know how to fight back if she gets the chance.

“She didn’t trust Catalina?”

“I think after the ordeal Eden suffered, she lost faith in humans in general.”

I’m trying to keep calm and not have my mind wander to what that bastard might be doing to her. Looking at the other three lads, I wouldn’t be surprised if they also struggle with their wandering thoughts.

Haze steps forward and enters a code on the keypad. With a reassuring beep, the safe unlocks. He swings the heavy door open, and an inner light turns on, revealing an arsenal of weapons.

“Holy fuck, bruv. Were you and Eden preparing for war?”

We all gaze at the handguns, rifles, and a shotgun.

“Haze, mate,” I say with concern. “We ain’tTom HardyinLegend.”

“Nah,” Jagger says, stepping forward, his eyes tingling with excitement. “We’re better than them,Kraybruvs.”

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