Page 112 of Outcast’s Vow

I’ve just stepped out of the shower, my hair glistening wet and my towel wrapped loosely around my waist.

But the call from my wife beyond the door sounds serious. I dash into the living room of the penthouse.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sylvie is sitting on the couch, staring at the TV with her mouth agape. The news is playing. There’s a photo of Alwin Beckett on the screen, smiling. United States Supreme Court Justice. Castaways Elder.

The newsreader is announcing his death.

A blurry photo appears where the Elder’s face was. It’s his office. Washington, D.C. Red streaks up the wall. Even with the censorship, I see there’s a body.

Below the newsreader is text reading that Beckett was stabbed. Multiple times. It reads as a national emergency.

I listen as the reporter says that there’s no motive. No suspect.

But I know who did this. This scene is the calling card of one particular assassin. One that could be smart enough, prepared enough, and ruthless enough to target a Supreme Court Justice.

“Oh God,” Sylvie mutters, a hand hovering over her mouth. “I knew him. Father had him around for dinner. Someone killed him? What happened, Baptiste?”

I remember conversations with the man. He was so powerful, so untouchable. And yet, here he is.

Murdered.

“I’m going to find out,” I reply, already dialing Clement.

“Baptiste?”

My friend’s voice, usually so calm and collected, exposes a flicker of urgency and even panic. My hand grips tight around my phone case.

“You’ve heard about Beckett?” I ask.

“Yes, I did,” Clement says. “I was about to call you. I’ve just spoken to Father.”

Clement’s professional coolness kicks back in after his momentary falter. We are men who solve problems, and that’s how we act. Sure, we can have a moment to process tragedy, but we are men of action who care for the ones we love.

“What do you know, Clement?”

“It’s who you think it is.”

“Fuck.”

“And he left a message. A note. You are led by fools. The rest of you are next.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Beats me,” Clement replies. “The Castaways are not releasing that information to the media, obviously. The narrative being created is that it was a crazy, drugged-up protester who broke into his office. They’ve already found a scapegoat.”

“So, he’s really back?” I ask. “First, it was Mikhail Klein, now it’s Beckett. Two insanely powerful men, both successfully targeted, and we still have no clue who this guy is? The Masked Killer is fucking good.”

From the couch, Sylvie gasps.

“The Masked Killer? Jesus...”

There’s a buzz from my phone. Fabien wants to join the call.

“You’ve heard, boys?”

There is no panic in his voice, just furious outrage.