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To my people I add, “Stay strapped in everyone; take nothing for granted until we land. This is going according to plan. Keep your weapons hot and senses sharp. We’ve got this.”
—
Seeing Anton sitting on the ground, his face a mask of rage, fills me with a joy so pure, only being with Kate can bring me greater happiness.
Led by Baptiste, my soldiers march out of the jet like a SWAT team. Faces hidden by thick, dark helmets, they point rifles and shout orders at the collected Masters, courtesans and staff. One unit breaks off to secure the pile of weapons and keep guard over them, while the rest search every last man and woman for weapons.
Kate and I watch Anton through our operatives’ body cameras.
“He looks like he’s having a bad day,” she says, a smile in her voice.
“If he thinks it’s bad now…”
She laughs.
Eyal signals us when the area’s secure, so we make our grand entrance.
Kate looks incredible in her black combat suit, holding a rifle — like Lady Death, here to leave a swath of bodies in her wake. I can forgive the Masters for staring at her; I did give them the impression she was my prisoner. They probably expected her to be naked and bound like usual, not a valkyrie at my side.
However, all eyes turn to me when I slide back my helmet’s visor. It’s not every day one sees a dead man risen from a watery grave.
Jamison somehow manages to fake a surprised reaction; his knack for deception has served him well the past nine months. Colette, however, smiles at us as we approach.
Anger shows through Anton’s dark, slanted brows and sneering lips. Yet, he doesn’t appear shocked. Maybe on some level he knew it was me.
Despite my orders, he rises to his feet and walks toward me.
“Hold,” I say to my teams. “I’ll handle him.”
I keep my M16 pointed, though. The night he shot me and I lost Kate still plays in my head.
“How did you escape?” Anton asks when he gets close.
“Luck.”
There’s no need to tell him I had help — not when he could kill Jamison and Colette with a word.
“You should have shot me in the head,” I add. “Just like I should have shot you once I figured out who you are, Simon.”
“Fuck you,” he growls. “Don’t call me that. You don’t have the right.”
“No, fuck you, Simon. You’re lucky I’m not kicking in your face.”
“Just try it,” Anton says, lunging forward and taking a swing.
I duck his fist, catch his arm and throw him to the ground in one motion. Five of my soldiers turn to point their guns at him.
“Hold,” I tell them. “I’ve got this. Stick to your duties.” I turn to Anton and say, “Go ahead. Try that again.”
He gets up, raises his fists and advances.
Judging by his footwork and stance, he’s taken a few boxing lessons in his day. He’s not really a fighter, though. Like any young, successful CEO with a home gym, he’s in shape and even slightly muscular, but he’s not built for combat. His movement lacks finesse, and he telegraphs his attacks with a slight pull-back before striking.
I let him get me with his next swing, a punch to the abdomen that looks like it hurts his fist more than anything else. Anton grunts and tries for an uppercut to my jaw. I dodge it with ease, then sweep his legs, knocking him on his back. The sandy beach cushions the fall; the real damage is to his pride. Snarling, he clumsily rises to his feet. In the time it takes, I could end this fight in a hundred different ways, but I’m happy to let it continue a bit longer.
However, Anton senses the futility as well. He throws everything he’s got into one final flurry of punches, swinging with lightning-fast, well-practiced moves. It’s a smart sequence, mixing in jabs, crosses and feints, but he’s too slow. The sand throws off his timing, and there’s a hitch in his movement: doubt.
He knows he can’t beat me in a fight. Anger drove him this far, but it’s not enough to win.
