Page 2 of When Kings Fall

Thunder rolls overhead, the sound vibrating through the old barn, making the walls shudder. I close my eyes, shutting out the sight of Wolfe and his erratic movements. I try to focus, to center myself, but prayer doesn’t come easy in a place like this. Still, I pray, though not to God. God feels distant, silent.

Instead, I pray to Diarmuid. To the man I know is out there, somewhere in the storm, searching for me. I can feel it in mybones, the same way I can feel the cold, dampness of the ground beneath me. Diarmuid is coming. He has to be.

“Please,” I whisper, my lips barely moving, “find me.”

Wolfe’s mumbling grows louder, more agitated, but I don’t open my eyes. I hold on to that small, flickering hope that Diarmuid is on his way, that he’ll burst through that door any second and put an end to this nightmare.

I just have to hold on. Just a little longer.

CHAPTER TWO

Diarmuid

THE ENGINE HUMS softly as I sit in the driver's seat, staring at the old barn. The headlights are off, blending me into the darkness. I should be able to move, to get out of the car, but I’m frozen, eyes locked on that decaying structure. Niamh wanted to come with me; she said she could help me track down Selene, but there was no tracking to do this time. Wolfe left a note, clear as day: “I took her where I lost her.”

Where he lost her. There's only one place that could mean. I glance around at the newer houses, all lined up in neat rows on land that used to be paddocks. This was once a grand estate, Andrew O’Sullivan’s pride and joy. Now, it’s just this single barn, a stubborn remnant clinging to less than an acre, still owned by the O’Sullivans. Everything else was sold off, developed into these soulless suburban homes.

I close my eyes, remembering the stories. Andrew’s wife, Aine, spent almost all her time here. She was one of those girls who had a way with horses, could calm even the wildest stallion with just a touch. And Andrew, he doted on her, spared no expense. Some of the horses they kept here probably cost more than this beat-up car I’m sitting in.

But then, that day. A feral dog spooked her horse, and everything changed. Aine didn’t survive the fall. Neither did the stables, in a way. Andrew lost his mind in his grief, slaughtered every horse, sold off all the land to developers. All except for this barn. He just couldn’t let it go. Grief has a way of sinking its claws into you, and no matter how hard you try to escape, itholds tight, drags you back. This barn was Andrew’s prison;now it’s become Wolfe’s.

Andrew never could have imagined that the barn he clung to in his grief would become an obsession for his son. Yet, here I am, once again, knowing exactly where to find Wolfe. Over the years, I’ve found him in that barn more times than I can count—passed out cold from too many beers, women, or whatever drugs he could get his hands on. It’s like this place calls to him whenever his life spirals out of control, a sanctuary for his chaos.

I didn’t need to track Wolfe down this time. I didn’t even need confirmation that he was the one who took Selene. The second I saw that note with that phrase, I knew. Knew he was alive, knew exactly where he’d be heading. It was like a sick code between us, a shared understanding forged from too many years of this twisted dance.

The rain streaks down the windshield, heavy and relentless, as I sit here, checking my gun. My fingers are steady, but my mind is racing. Wolfe isn’t just some desperate man; he’s a wild animal backed into a corner, and I’ve seen what animals do when they’re desperate. Sometimes, they even sacrifice their own young just to survive. That thought sticks in my gut like a knife. I could walk into that barn, and Wolfe might want to talk, to negotiate. Or I could walk in just in time to watch him put a bullet in Selene’s head right in front of me.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to storm in there, to crush skulls and end this. But I’ve been trained to kill, and training means control. I can’t let the animal in me take over. I have to be smarter than that, colder. If I lose my head now, we’re all dead.

I ease the car door open and slip out, careful not to shut it all the way. The last thing I need is for Wolfe to hear me coming. The rain is cold, seeping through my clothes in seconds, but I don’t let it bother me. I move silently, rolling my foot with eachstep, like a predator stalking its prey. I’ve done this a thousand times, but this time is different. This time, it’s personal.

Shards of light slice through the damaged walls of the barn, casting faint beams into the darkness. Each one is a window, a chance to assess the situation before I go in. I approach the first hole, pressing my face close, straining to see and hear anything that might give me an advantage. Wolfe’s voice is a low mumble, but all I can see is an empty, bare room—no sign of Selene.

I move to the next hole, hoping for more, but it’s the same story—nothing. My pulse is pounding in my ears, the rain dripping off my hair into my eyes, but I force myself to stay calm. There’s still another chance.

On my third try, I catch a glimpse of Selene. She’s sitting against the far wall, her eyes closed, head slumped. For a split second, a cold dread grips me. Am I too late? Did my caution cost her life? But then her head lifts, and she opens her eyes. Relief floods through me as we lock eyes through the tiny hole. She’s alive.

But before I can do anything, Wolfe’s face suddenly fills my view, his wild eyes staring directly into mine. There’s a moment of frozen time, a split second where we both know what’s coming next. I jerk back just as a knife slashes through the hole, narrowly missing my face. My foot slips in the mud, but I catch myself, adrenaline surging through my veins.

There’s no more time for caution. I sprint to the side door and burst into the barn, my gun ready, but Wolfe is already there, standing in the middle of the room with a pistol raised. His face is a twisted mask of fury and desperation.

“Let’s talk,” Wolfe says, his voice laced with a dangerous calm.

Wolfe’s hand waves the pistol in my direction, and I freeze, my fingers barely grazing the handle of my own gun. His eyes are locked onto mine, wild and unhinged, the madness swirlingbehind them almost tangible. With slow, deliberate movements, I pull my gun from its holster and place it on the ground, the cold metal clinking against the dirt floor.

“Step away from it,” Wolfe commands, his voice a low, venomous hiss. I do as I’m told, stepping back, never breaking eye contact. The Wolfe I used to know is gone. What stands before me now is a creature of pure chaos, a man twisted and broken by his own demons. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out, darting from me to Selene and back again as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle only he can see. The skin around his eyes is pale, stretched too thin, and there’s a gauntness to his face that speaks of sleepless nights and the gnawing of insanity.

I can see it in the way he moves, the erratic jerks of his head, the way his lips twitch as if struggling to hold back a scream. This isn’t just madness; this is something far darker. Poe would have written about men like Wolfe—souls devoured by the abyss, lost in the labyrinth of their own minds. His hair is matted, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and his clothes hang off his body as if he’s been shrinking inside them, withering away under the weight of his own delusions.

“You are Him, aren’t you?” Wolfe’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and accusing. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in his tone—just a grim certainty that chills me to the bone.

“How could I be Him?” I respond, keeping my voice steady, trying to pull him back from the edge. “That hitman has been active for decades. I’m not old enough.”

But Wolfe’s eyes narrow, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “No, but you had training. Secret training. My father and Victor used to take you on your own. You replaced the old one, didn’t you?”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. There’s no use lying. Not anymore. “Yes.”

His grip on the gun tightens, and I can see the tremor in his hands, the way his whole body seems to be vibrating with theeffort of holding himself together. Tears well up in his eyes, but they don’t soften his gaze. If anything, they make him look more monstrous, as if the pain has twisted him beyond recognition.

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