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Chapter 29
Stanislaw and Henrik escort me to Ingram’s old residence on the island, but when we get there everything’s covered in a layer of dust. Even if it wasn’t, I don’t think I could stay. The last time I was here, I’d just killed Edward Lonergan and a couple guards. Ingram and I had only one chance to escape. It didn’t work out. I’d rather not think about that night.
Walking around on the island elicits a truly surreal feeling. While I’m still escorted by guards, now they’re here to protect me — not control me. I’m clothed, and not tied up or gagged. If I want something, I need only ask.
It doesn’t help that parts of the island resemble a battlefield. Burning cars sent plumes of smoke into the air; some of the fires on the beach still burn, so the smell lingers. Thankfully, the bodies have been moved, leaving behind only the bloodstained sand. Patrol boats no longer zip by offshore, and delectable aromas from the pavilion’s kitchen don’t waft on the breeze. Most of the buildings have gone dark — empty now, their residents dead.
“Can you take me to the jet?” I ask Ingram’s men. “I think I’d like to stay there.”
“Of course,” says Henrik.
The only other place on the island where I used to stay is the harem. Right now it’s being used as a makeshift prison, filled with Anton’s surrendered guards. I have no idea what will happen to them, but it’s not my problem to solve. I’m sure Ingram will figure it out.
When the wind dies down I hear a deep scream in the distance. It’s my imagination. There’s no way I can hear Anton from back in the dungeon. Still, I hear it anyway.
I’ve seen torture in movies; I’ve seen it in news footage. It’s not the same as being there in person.
The second we reach the jet I run to Ingram’s room, weave my way to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet.
Am I crazy?
I’ve dreamed about revenge on Anton for so long. He deserves everything that’s happening to him. As much pain as we caused, we haven’t gotten to the really nasty stuff yet: pulled teeth, severed fingers, gouged eyes…
I vomit again. These aren’t just ideas — I can picture them. I know the sounds he’ll make when we do them.
Shouldn’t I want to see him suffer? Shouldn’t those sounds fill me with glee? I felt fine after I shot Victor Sovereign — five times. Killing Lonergan made me feel even better, and he suffered quite a bit before dying. Both of them had tried to kill me, and both were in self-defense. The guards I killed that night — it was in trying to save Ingram. I barely gave them a second thought — I still don’t know their names.
So why am I losing it now? Anton’s worse than all of them. When Courtney, Sam and Paulina took their shots, I saw their satisfaction — I wanted to feel it. I couldn’t, though. I felt relief when it was over.
Except, it’s not really over, is it? We’re just getting started. This will go on for days, at least. Maybe weeks, depending on how long it takes for Anton to confess.
The thought raises another surge of acid in my gorge.
Ingram’s going to have to do this without me. Will he mind? Will he be disappointed? Do I want him to be?
I may not be able to stand watching what we’re doing, but does that mean I think it shouldn’t be happening? Nothing I saw in that dungeon made me angry; everything we did to Anton was justified. Is it possible I’ll get used to it?
Or, maybe today I just saw too much death. The Masters… Colette… so many of Anton’s men… Has it all sunk in? Will I wake up crying over Colette and want to give Anton a taste of my rage? I wouldn’t rule it out.
“Henrik, can you get me a secure connection?” I ask. “I’d like to talk to Brendan.”
“Sorry, you’ll have to ask Ingram,” he says. “But we’ve kept the compound updated on the mission. He knows how it went.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I’d like to talk to him, regardless, but it can wait.
National headlines are about to be made. More than a dozen very famous, very powerful men are dead. Are we going to alert the authorities, or the media, or anyone? Our plans went out the window when Anton triggered the implants. Instead of hours of taped confessions to send to every law enforcement agency in the world, we have cooling corpses.
If we don’t tell anyone, sooner or later most of these men will be missed. Merwin Locke was a prime minister — his staff is probably already concerned. Roderick Picot receives hundreds of e-mails a day about investments and holdings — as well as a few dozen texts per hour from various laundering operations. A lot of shady people are going to figure out, if they haven’t already, that the world’s foremost money man isn’t returning anyone’s calls.
Alarm bells are about to go off in a lot of government offices. Several of the world’s biggest tech companies are about to see their stock prices plummet. Would that be enough to trigger a larger disruption to the market?
What happened here is like an earthquake; only the island felt it, but a tsunami is about to hit shores hundreds of miles away.
Not that I particularly give a fuck about the stock prices of Innovative AF or Hardt Farms, but how much damage has been done? Is there a way to prevent it, or cushion it? I’d like to start going over it with Brendan as soon as possible, so when Ingram gets back I’ll have to have him set it up.
I pause a moment, holding myself over the bathroom sink.
