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He gaped at me. “You’ve been waterboarded?”
“Of course.”
“Of course?” he screeched.
“Part of training,” I tried to appease, seeing his distress was real.
“We did that to you?”
“Prepares you for the worst.”
“Yeah, sounds like it if agents are still carrying cyanide pills around with them.” He rolled his eyes. “I swear you’re going to give me a heart attack before we’re done.”
“When will that be?” I half-teased, but a wariness had filtered into the words which was a direct result of today’s interactions with Minerva.
Everyone left me, after all.
Why should he be any different?
“‘Til death do us part,” he murmured, the saying purposeful. Meaningful.
I swallowed. “I think I can handle that.”
“Good.”
And that was the end of that conversation.
24
CONOR
GETTING NOWHERE - JOHN LEGEND
A quick investigation into Tryn Bowen let me know his poison of choice—guns.
In the Four Horsemen hierarchy, a gang that I’d heard of but had never bothered to learn more about as our ties weren’t UK-based, he was the Declan of the Four Horsemen family.
Azrael Shaw dealt drugs, Edwin Carsten handled their prostitutes, and Cole Flyn managed the protection racket.
Each ‘owned’ a quarter of London, separating the boroughs between them, though their umbrella corps—the guns, drugs, prostitutes, and protection racket—spanned the city.
What fascinated me the most, however, was how the Four Horsemen had run the capital in this way for almost two centuries with a Cole, Azriel, Edwin, and Tryn each heading the group since the Four Horsemen came into being.
The growth of the city had been cultivated by the gang itself, its power slipping through the roots and into the body until their rule was more pervasive than whichever government was in charge.
It came as no surprise, then, when we were guided into the Harrods Tea Room and it was empty apart from Tryn.
He was seated in the center, illuminated by the overhead glass ceiling, while a pianist played swing music.
To “Fly Me To The Moon,” Bowen dolloped what appeared to be a thick type of cream on a scone as he watched us slip toward his table. The maitre d’ held out the chair for Star, who sank gracefully onto it, and she immediately reached for one of the sandwiches on the stands without waiting for an invitation to do so. As she ate, a server appeared and poured us tea.
It was the most British thing I’d ever seen in my life.
Bowen remained silent until the staff disappeared.
“Didn’t take you for the kind of guy who ate finger sandwiches,” Star mocked.
Bowen arched a brow. “Why was Ovianar killed?”
