Page 98 of Dangerous King
Still holding my phone, I punch the bastard in the gut with it. Hard enough that he goes down on his knees, coughing and wheezing. Stephano and Marcello come closer, listening curiously.
I lower myself down to my haunches. "Let's try that again." I grab Kingsley's hair and pull his head up, once again shoving the photo into his face, "Who is this?"
Kingsley is still wheezing, but his eyes narrow on the image. He blinks a few times, like he's having a hard time recalling the man. "I don't know. I've never seen him before… stop…" he holds up his hand before I can punch him again, "before that night. He only approached me to shake my hand, he said. He said he likedmy stance on international trade and was proud to have voted for me. That's it. I swear."
Stephano takes Kingsley's hand, frowning as he tilts it under the overhead light. "Hold still," he mutters, running his thumb along the webbing between the thumb and forefinger.
Kingsley winces. "What the hell are you?—?"
"There," Stephano says, more to himself than anyone else. He snatches a small penlight from his inner pocket and clicks it on. UV blue floods the space. A shape flickers into view just beneath the skin.
Marcello leans in. "What is that?"
Stephano's expression sharpens. "A micro-patterned RFID lattice. Subdermal. Damn near impossible to spot unless you know where to look, and even then, you need the right light." He glances up at us. "It's a tracker."
Kingsley stares at his hand, pale. "He tagged me?"
Stephano nods grimly. "He sure as hell did."
"Can you remove it?" I want to know.
Stephano straightens. "I can. But it'll take a micro-scalpel, a clean room, and someone steady as hell." He looks back at Kingsley. "And once we do, he'll know because this thing's got a feedback signal. The moment it's removed? He gets a ping."
Marcello swears under his breath. "So if we dig it out, we tip him off."
Stephano nods once. "Exactly."
My jaw clenches. "And if we leave it in?"
"He keeps watching, maybe listening. Some of these newer implants have thermal sensors and ambient audio. Not enough to record full conversations, but enough to tell him Kingsley's not alone."
Kingsley's breathing turns shallow. "You're telling me I've been walking around… tagged like a fucking lab rat?"
Stephano's voice is calm. Cold. "No. You're walking around like a target that hasn't been activated yet."
Marcello rubs a hand down his face. "We need a new safehouse."
"No," I cut in. "We need bait."
They both look at me.
I stare at the faint glowing outline under Kingsley's skin.
"If he's watching, we feed him what wewanthim to see."
Stephano exhales through his nose. "Classic predator-prey reversal. Dangerous, but it could work. If we control the narrative."
Marcello shifts his weight. "That still doesn't explain why he didn't take the shot."
Stephano doesn't answer right away. Instead, he stares down at the hand like it's a puzzle he hasn't quite solved yet.
"This is how he works," he finally says, sounding analytical. "He tags. Observes. Plans. His movements are precise and methodical. He doesn't miss unless he chooses to." Then he adds, "I don't like making assumptions. I'm going back through the security footage from the casino."
I nod. "Do it. Anything he touched, stood near, looked at—pull it."
"I'll scrub the raw feeds manually," Stephano says, already pulling out a portable drive and plugging it into the laptop on the crate beside him. "Algorithms won't catch what he does. But I might."
Kingsley slumps against the wall, holding his glowing hand like it might bite him. "So what am I supposed to do now?"
