Page 18 of When Kings Fall

Then, through the haze of pain and fatigue, I see it—a glimmer of hope. The docks are getting closer. We’re almost back to shore. Ben doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on trying to end me right here, right now.

He lunges at me again, the rope in his hands, his eyes filled with lethal intent. But I see my chance, the only chance I have left. As he commits to the attack, I pivot, using his momentum against him, and leap from the boat.

The cold air rushes past me as I hit the water, the shock of the icy sea nearly taking my breath away. I surface, gasping for air, my limbs heavy with exhaustion but alive.

The fight isn’t over, but I’ve bought myself time. Time to regroup, to figure out who the hell Ben Fleming really is, and why he was sent after me. And most importantly, time to get the hell out of these freezing waters and back onto solid ground.

The water is ice cold, slicing through me like a thousand knives as I plunge into the sea. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, my limbs going numb almost instantly. When I finally break the surface, I gasp for air, my lungs burning as they suck in the frigid, salty air.

I force myself to look back, just in time to see the schooner crash into the docks with a deafening crack. The boat flips over itself, the masts snapping like twigs under the weight of the hull. It careens into the other boats moored there, smashing them to pieces as it skips across the water. The destruction is total, a chaotic end to what was supposed to be a simple job. Not the ending I would have preferred, but an ending nonetheless.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the shore, but the cold has done its work. My limbs feel like lead, stiff and uncooperative as I drag myself out of the water. My joints scream with every movement, my body a mess of aches and numbness. All I can think about is getting home, sinking into the warmth of Niamh’s dinner, and forgetting this nightmare of a day.

Staggering to my car, I can barely keep my thoughts straight. Victor sent me after another hitman—that much is obvious now. I’ve fought trained men before, but this was different. There’s something about facing someone whose entire purpose in life is to extinguish others, someone who’s been molded into a weapon just like I have. The real question gnawing at my mind is: Did Victor know? Did he send me after Ben Fleming knowing exactly who and what he was?

Why would Victor pit me against someone like that? Was this a mistake, or was it some kind of sick test, a way to measure whether I’m still sharp, still dangerous enough to keep in his employ? And if it was a test, did I pass, or was this a warning that I’m not the only killer in Victor’s stable?

My thoughts are cut short by the sudden crack of gunfire. My windshield explodes in a spiderweb of cracks, and instinct takes over. I slam the car into gear and tear out of the lot, gravel spitting out from under the tires.

As I speed toward the main road, I see him—Ben, soaked and bedraggled but alive and well. He must have bailed from the schooner just like I did. He’s holding a gun, leveling it at my car again.

I duck just in time as another bullet shatters the passenger window, glass raining down onto the seat. My heart pounds as I press the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

Ben Fleming was prepared for this. He had a gun stashed on shore, ready for a fight, and he wasn’t going down easily. This wasn’t just a botched hit—it was something else, something bigger. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my heart won’t stop racing even as I get farther from the docks.

As I drive away, I force myself to focus, to regroup. This was no ordinary job, and I need to figure out what the hell justhappened. I have no idea whether this was a mistake on Victor’s part or a deliberate test. And the uncertainty gnaws at me.

Did I pass? Or did Victor just remind me that no matter how deadly I am, there’s always someone else out there, just as lethal, waiting for their shot?

The only thing I know for sure is that this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER TEN

Amira

IT'S SOMETHING I'VE been looking forward to since the moment Diarmuid made me the offer, since that night when I sent Wolfe to Hell. I still remember the way his face twisted in that final moment, the shock that someone like me could be his end. I don’t relish the memory, but it’s there, lodged in my mind, impossible to forget. Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to leave this place behind.

The tents are packed now. The makeshift camp that had been our temporary home is almost empty. Over the past few days, a few women drifted away, their faces tight with desperation as they clung to the hope that maybe, somewhere out there, someone from their old lives might still be waiting for them. I pity them. Wolfe never targeted anyone who would be missed. That was his way. Ruthless, calculated, always covering his tracks.

I turn my attention back to the yacht waiting for us. Diarmuid had arranged it—an elegant transport vessel that looks completely out of place in this grim setting. It’s supposed to take us across the Irish Sea and down to Saint-Brieuc in France. From there, we’ll be shuffled onto a series of trucks and trains until we reach the estate in the south of the country.

How someone like Diarmuid could arrange something like this, I have no idea. But I suspect his elevated position has something to do with it. Funny, the same organization that caused me so much pain is now handing me my freedom on a silver platter. The thought makes my stomach churn. I don’t want to owe them anything—least of all my freedom.

But what choice do I have? I swallow the bitterness that rises in my throat. I’ll take what’s being offered, for now. But I won’t forget what they’ve done. And I sure as hell won’t let them think I’m in their debt. Not now, not ever.

Sabre bumps into my elbow as I make my way toward the yacht, and I can feel the tension in her like a coiled spring. I glance down at her and see the uncertainty in her wide eyes. She’s been like this ever since that night—the night I turned Wolfe’s kingdom into ashes. Darkness has descended upon the docks, and this part of Dublin is unnervingly silent. Just a few blocks away, I know the city is alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses, but here, the quiet settles over everything like a cold dew, chilling me to the bone.

Sabre stays close to me, closer than she should, really, but I don’t push her away. I know her story or at least the parts she’s been able to tell. She was taken from her family when she was just a little girl. I’m not sure where she came from—somewhere far away, that much is clear—but I do know she’s the last of her family still alive. Her childhood was a nightmare of violence and fear, and when Wolfe bought her from that black-market ring, she was supposed to be one of his “exotic beauties.

Except Sabre was always too timid, too quiet, too broken to do what Wolfe wanted. No matter how much he beat her, she wouldn’t perform. To him, it was a weakness. To me, it was a sign of strength, a strength I never had. When I was in her position, I caved. I did what I was told, and I hated myself for it every day.

Maybe that’s why I’m patient with Sabre, even when she walks so close that I can feel her breath on my arm as we board the yacht. Ever since that night, she’s been my shadow, following me everywhere, clinging to me like I’m her lifeline. I don’t know what to do with her most of the time. I don’t know how to be her friend. Hell, I don’t even know how friendship works, not really.But I do care for her. She’s all I have left from that place, and maybe, in some twisted way, that makes her important to me.

Almost two dozen women and young girls follow us onto the yacht, carrying whatever little belongings they have. I know this vessel wasn’t made for passenger travel; it’s a luxury item meant for rich families on leisurely cruises, not for survivors of hellish lives. The space is going to be tight, uncomfortable even. But none of them will complain. Compared to the long days and nights under Wolfe’s control, this is paradise.

As we step onto the deck, Sabre finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are we to steer this?"

"No," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Diarmuid’s message said there’s supposed to be a pilot to take us across the channel."

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