Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Spread the word. Nobody knocks. Get a fucking doorbell installed.”
Jean seems totally bewildered. “Seriously?”
“I’m not fucking around,” Julien growls.
“It’s fine,” I call out. “Seriously, I’m just a little raw. It’ll be fine.”
He ignores me. “Pass it along and get it done.”
“I understand.” Jean nods and glances in at me before focusing on Julien again. “We have to talk.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it really can’t. Pascal’s waiting in the basement.”
That must have some deeper significance I don’t fully understand, because Julien stiffens for a moment before turning to look at me. “I’ll be back shortly. I have guards on your door. Please, stay in bed and don’t fall asleep.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, smiling a little. The pain in my head is receding which means the pain pills are working, at least. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, but shakes his head with frustration and follows Jean out of the room.
I sink back into the pillows and try not to think about the sound of a bomb ripping my life to shreds.
Chapter 24
Julien
I’ve never been so angry in my life.
Angry at myself, angry at Dusan, angry at Grandpère for starting this war. Angry at the fucking guards who failed to protect my wife. Those two are being punished as we speak and I suspect they will never fuck up again—assuming they survive.
Jean doesn’t talk as he leads the way to the basement. If Grandpère wants to speak with us down here, it must be something serious. And that’s good, because I have some things I want to say to the old man, things which I know will not be pleasant.
“He’s in here,” Jean murmurs, taking me to the last room on the left. The room of many questions, as I think of it in my head.
Bare concrete floor. Drain in the middle.
Jean steps inside and I follow. Grandpère is standing at the far side of the room with his back to us, looking at something on the table. A fresh sheet of plastic is covering the top.
“What’s so important that you called me down here?” I ask, unable to contain my impatience and frustration.
Grandpère slowly turns around and steps aside.
The object he was looking at comes into view.
It’s a human head. Black blood congeals around it.
And the face is very familiar.
Rene Pelletier stares at me, his eyes blank and milky white in death, his mouth open in a snarl.
Good old Rene must’ve died angry.
“Fuck,” I manage to say as Grandpère turns to look at his former head of security. “How?”
“It was found this morning around the time your bomb went off. He’d been out running errands for me last night and hadn’t come back, and I suspected the worst. This confirms it.” Grandpère stares at Rene’s severed skull. “A waitress that works for one of your restaurants found it on the ground out front. La Palais Gourmet? It doesn’t matter. Rene is dead.”
Well, fuck. Whoever found Rene’s head is going to need a big raise and a fat bonus check to help with her mental anguish.
But for now, I focus on what’s in front of me. Which is a man’s face frozen in his last moments. “What did you have him doing?” I ask out of curiosity. Rene was a strong and skilled bastard, and if someone got the drop on him, that means they must be pretty good.
“He was scouting our adversaries’ positions. There was a rumor that they hired some muscle to help out with the war, and, well—” Grandpère waves a hand at the head. “As you can see, something went wrong.”
“Who did Dusan hire?”
“I’m not sure yet, but we’re working on it.” Grandpère’s tone is sharp. He flips up the ends of the plastic sheeting and wraps Rene’s head up. “This is unacceptable, Julien. You should have finished this already.”
“I told you not to start this war to begin with,” I snarl at the old man. “If some of your people get hurt in the fighting, so what? That’s the cost of your own bad mistakes.”
“Watch your mouth with me, boy. This is still a good strategic move. It isn’t my fault you are incompetent.”
“You doddering old husk of a human,” I say, snarling as I move toward the old bastard. “I can break your spine. You know that, old man?”
“Go ahead and try,” Grandpère says, showing his teeth and turning to me. “I’d love the chance to beat some sense into you.”
“Okay, enough,” Jean says, getting between us.
“My wife was nearly killed today. Her friend is in the hospital. All this because you couldn’t listen when I told you to stand down.” I stare at Grandpère with pure loathing in my heart. “Now I’m stuck with a war I didn’t want.”
“Ah, yes, Julien is whining yet again.”
“No, Pascal.” It feels strange to use his given name, but this man is nothing to me now. He isn’t Grandpère anymore—he’s not the same man I once looked up to as if he were a god. “I’m telling you facts right now. And here’s another: when this is over, you will leave America, and you will never come back. You are through here.”