Page 112 of Dark Night of the Soul

“RPG. C4. Whatever.”

I stared at her. “And where do we get any of those?”

She shrugged, clearly not thinking this through yet.

“Also,” she added, as if the thought occurred to her, “it will destroy all his research. Right?”

I shifted in the chair, thinking about what Silas told me about Munich. Not all his research would be in this small lab. She noticed and sat straighter.

“You know something you’re not telling me,” she said.

I was going to have to tell her sooner or later. “The Knights have a new state-of-the-art headquarters they’re about to open in Munich.”

She stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. Then, “Son of a bitch! This is like trying to cut the head off a hydra.”

“I suspect that headquarters building will house research and development,” I said.

I wasn’t prepared to tell her Vormund was planning to launch more experiments. At least, not yet.

Her mind was working. Her face impassive. And she was angry. “So, what I destroyed in Iskenderun had no effect.”

“Well,” I said, “it did get his attention.”

She had a satisfied smile. “All right, so we keep an eye on him and figure out when to strike. And then…?”

I sighed. “I’ll see what weapons of mass destruction I can get my hands on.”

“You’re so good to me.”

I gave her a pointed look. “And you’ll owe me.”

She rose from the table. “You can take it out in flesh.”

And then she laughed as she walked away.

For fuck’s sake. She was going to be the death of me.

Chapter 34 | Anna

I didn’t sleep on the private charter flight to Istanbul. Couldn’t make myself.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother. Saw what Vormund had done to her. What he’d done to me.

Two hours by road. Ninety minutes in the air. Then the city swallowed us whole. Ancient and sprawling and indifferent to what I was about to do.

By the time we reached the safe house, I was wired. Sharp. Ready.

Kincade could tell. He didn’t say anything.

We unpacked in minutes—maps, schematics, floor plans laid out where they needed to be—then he went quiet, already working by spreading out the floor plans on the kitchen table.

Inside, the apartment was muted colors—no, drab—its furniture well worn and strictly functional. A battered sofa hugged one wall, a single chair beside it, and a scarred coffee table between them. Low-pile carpet covered the small living area. The kitchen tiles were peeling. One bedroom. One bath. Enough.

Vormund was in this city. And soon, I was going to kill him.

The safe house was a fourth-floor apartment in Kartal, wedged between the old city sprawl and the industrial zones stretching south. Below, narrow streets tangled with vendors, traffic, and cats prowling the alleys. The real Istanbul—the one that didn’t care about tourists or our plans.

From the balcony, two cushioned chairs faced the city placed to catch the salty breeze, the Marmara Sea glittering beyond them, ferries cutting white lines through dark water. Farther south toward Tuzla, the industrial district waited—where Vormund’s facility sat.