Chapter Text
Cover art by DrLemurr
Cape Town, South Africa
Kinn’s plan is to get in, conduct his essential business, and get out. But in Kinn’s life, very little ever goes according to plan.
Steeling himself, Kinn walks up the steps to the mansion and hands his invitation to a bespectacled man at the door. Kinn’s entourage of three guards trails behind.
The greeter checks the invitation against a list on his tablet and then inclines his head. “Welcome, Mr. Theerapanyakul. Mr. Davies is delighted to have you join the event today. You are aware that no firearms are permitted on site, yes?”
“So I was told,” Kinn says, and he holds out his arms and submits himself to a pat-down by a burly guardsman. His guards follow his lead, allowing the check.
“Mr. Davies appreciates your understanding,” says the greeter. “The entire east wing is available to our guests for the night, as well as the side yard. If you’ve set up your betting account as instructed, betting can be conducted through handlers, and all transactions will be conducted automatically within one hour after the final fight. Any purchase during the auction will be transacted immediately. If there’s anything you need, or if you have any questions, our staff will assist you.”
“Thank you.”
Kinn walks in with his head held high, cash to burn, and a clear goal in mind.
Benny “The Ghost” McLintock has proven extraordinarily elusive, just as his name implies, but Kinn has it on good authority that the man plans to make an appearance. Benny can hack into just about any system and is a known recluse, but he also has certain predilections that occasionally draw him out into the public.
The event in question caters to a specific audience: people with a surplus of wealth and a deficit of scruples. And although Kinn admits to having both those traits, even he has his limits.
Normally Kinn wouldn’t be caught dead at an event like this.
On the surface, it’s an exclusive party for elite businesspeople, the cream of the crop from around the world. These are people who conduct interviews with business journals, own diverse portfolios across a wide array of industries, and make appearances at charity galas. Beneath the surface, every last one of them is mafia, one way or another, either by association, employment, or leadership.
Kinn makes his way through the mansion and enters a large, spacious party room, which leads to an equally large, furnished patio. Kinn finds he knows roughly a quarter of the guests from past business engagements. Most of the remainder he knows by name, reputation, or both.
Glamorous guests mill about, mingling and laughing and sparkling in what passes for “casual” fashion among this crowd. Kinn himself is wearing a white jacket and fawn-colored slacks, and he isn’t overdressed. Waiting staff in gray suits with waistcoats, jackets, and bow ties cruise among the throng, carrying trays of canapes and beverages.
Silently, Big and Ashing fan out to case the venue. Pete stays by Kinn’s side.
Reese Davies, a man of middling-to-advanced years, is the host and a man of great consequence in the mafia world. He’s blond, with a wide smiling mouth and very square shoulders. This mansion is not his house but merely one of many venues. He spots Kinn just moments after he arrives.
“Anakinn, my boy, it’s been so long!” Mr. Davies is all smiles as he approaches. He carries a glass of red wine. “Why, the last time I saw you, you were still in college, weren’t you?”
Kinn bobs his head, smiling back with respect if not sincere pleasure. “Mr. Davies has a very good memory,” he says in English. The words are uncomfortable in his mouth. “I was a senior then, not graduated.”
Next to Kinn, Pete is tense as he watches Davies’s every movement. Davies is a gregarious man, but he also knows better than to reach out to shake hands or grasp a shoulder among such guests as these.
“I do hope you enjoy the evening,” Davies says. “We have quite the lineup, I assure you, guaranteed to entertain. The guests of honor who will be modeling for us are from all over the world, each of them the very best. Just between you and me,” he leans in a bit, “the past few events have been a little disappointing. That’s why I’ve pulled out all the stops this time.”
“The specter is not in the building.” Big’s voice comes across Kinn’s earpiece at just the right time. He nods to acknowledge both Davies and Big. Although Kinn can’t see Big, he trusts that Big can see him.
“I’m sure you’ve outdone yourself,” Kinn replies, encouraging words tempered with a perfectly neutral smile.
Davies gives a booming laugh that draws attention. “Of course, exactly right! I tell you, Anakinn, I was so surprised when you asked for an invitation.” A bright, diamond-like sparkle appears in Davies’s small eyes. He lowers his voice to a more respectable level. “Am I too bold in assuming that under your more direct leadership, the Theerapanyakuls might be looking to, perhaps, expand business operations sometime in the near future?”
Kinn’s bland smile starts to ache. He can already feel the start of a headache. “I have to see how things go. I have many factors to consider, including my father’s opinion, even though he’s taken a step back.”
Davies nods, and his expression is both conciliatory and conspiratory. “I understand completely, I assure you. But I do hope you’ll reach out to me if—”
Davies is cut off as an aide approaches him. “Sir? It’s time.”
“Oh, excellent! Excuse me, Anakinn, but it looks like I need to get this show on the road.”
“By all means,” Kinn says.
Davies strides away into the middle of the room, and meanwhile Kinn edges toward the nearest wall.
Kinn tilts his head slightly in Pete’s direction, speaking quietly. “I want to know the minute we have eyes on the specter. If he doesn’t show…” If he doesn’t show, this whole trip will have been one monumental waste of time. And Kinn will be subjected to a massive flood of enthusiastic email spam from Davies for no damn good reason. Kinn starts mentally questioning the intel source that claimed Benny would be here.
In the center of the room, Davies is putting on a wireless over-ear microphone handed to him by his aide. The host then steps onto a small stool the aide sets in place for him so he can be more visible.
“Excuse me! Is this— ah, yes, good, it’s on. Can I have your attention please?”
Guests turn to him, and several who were milling out on the large patio come inside.
“Yes, yes, that’s it. Gather ‘round, the show is about to start! Hello ladies and gentlemen and all types. As your host, I’d like to welcome you here. In addition to our auction for some absolutely stunning jewelry, we will be putting on a death-defying spectacle of delight for you after the sun goes down. But before that, I’d like to ask all potential buyers, and one guest permitted, to join me in the theater for a brief presentation. I promise it won’t be too much like homework, and I won’t even quiz you afterwards!”
A few very polite guests laugh at the joke.
“If you’ll just follow me this way.” Davies hops — literally hops with childlike glee — down from the stool.
Kinn contains his sigh and follows along where Davies leads. Not all of the guests peel off from the throng, perhaps a third, and Kinn joins them. In his ear, he hears Big and Ashing trading occasional brusque notifications.
The theater isn’t as large as a public cinema, but it’s still large enough to easily accommodate the audience. Instead of chairs, there are narrow, small tables placed throughout the room for people to stand around and set down their drinks. It’s a smart design, allowing Davies to pack in more of his guests and their personal guards. The large double-doors to the theater remain open. Some of the waiting staff follow the crowd into the room. One offers Kinn a drink, and she leans in close with a friendly smile, but he waves her off.
Davies, thriving on the anticipation and attention, takes position at the front of the room to the side of the screen.
“I’m sure you’re very interested in seeing the delights we have for sale later on. Let’s roll!”
The lights dim but don’t go entirely dark. On the screen, a trailer-style video plays, showing brief glimpses of people in dramatic poses. They’re primarily men, but two women also make an appearance. The music builds dramatically, and then the video shows the people facing off against one another, staring intensely into each other’s eyes the way that pay-per-view prize fighters do. The trailer ends with a panorama of all ten individuals.
Then the video transitions into a still slide, showing a headshot of a single man. He’s posing with his hand held up to show off a dainty, bejeweled bracelet on his thick wrist. The model has short-cropped blond hair and an indistinct European look about him. Next to the headshot is a single line about the bracelet, along with a detailed description about the model.
Davies makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. “For your enhanced entertainment, and to put you in a buying mood, all the models we’ve hired are also highly trained martial artists, and they’ll be giving demonstrations of their skills before the auction. First up, we have Thunder, who’s sporting a lovely antique emerald bracelet. I’m sure you’d like to know a bit more about this impressive Thunder cloud, wouldn’t you?”
Several in the crowd cheer and call out for Davies to tell them details. Kinn barely refrains from rolling his eyes.
“Alright, alright, I can see you’re eager. Well, let me tell you just a bit about his background…”
The bracelet that Thunder wears isn’t the point. The model himself is what’s for sale. Everyone here knows it, and everyone knows better than to say it aloud.
Kinn tunes out the presentation. He has no interest in hearing about Thunder or Everest or Tigress or any of the other strange names assigned to the unlucky bastards. As Davies drones on, Kinn waits for word from Big or Ashing. He grows more frustrated as the minutes tick by. One of Kinn’s associates in the cartel business approaches him, surprised to see him here. Bai Jingjing is an older woman, though how much older Kinn has no idea — she seems to have stopped aging long ago. She could be forty or seventy. They quietly exchange pleasantries in Chinese, as well as a few snide remarks about Davies’s presentation style.
When the lights come back up and people file out of the theater, Kinn takes advantage of the general noise and distraction.
“Pete.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me something from the bar. Unopened.” He doesn’t often drink beer, but in this crowd, he’s not consuming anything that isn’t factory-sealed.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
“Sir.” Pete gives him woeful eyes.
“What?” It isn’t quite a snap, but it’s close.
“I’m not leaving your side, sir. We can go together, or I can pull Ashing off the perimeter to get it for you.”
Of course Kinn isn’t pulling Ashing from the perimeter. He needs those eyes peeled. “You’ve gotten damn sassy since you got your new title. I can take it back, you know.”
“I understand, sir.” Pete had stepped into his role as Kinn’s head bodyguard and VP of security a month ago, and now he’s second only to Chan. The position should have gone to Big, but circumstances being what they were with the Ken incident, it hadn’t been an option.
Pete hasn’t budged. They’re just about the last ones still in the theater.
“And?” Kinn prompts.
“And I’m not leaving your side, sir.”
“Fuck you, Pete.”
“Thank you for the offer, but you’re not my type, sir.”
Kinn can’t help himself; a snort escapes him, and a smile sneaks onto his face. Pete’s humor is a recent revelation. It started showing up after the promotion, and it appears only at the precise moment when Kinn is too keyed up and needs to relax.
Kinn wipes the smile from his face and raises a brow. “You’re doing three movie marathons with Tankhun when we get back as punishment.”
Pete barely flinches. “Yes, sir.”
It takes some maneuvering to get to the bar — the main gathering space is more crowded than before. Almost all of the guests are inside, because the main attraction has arrived: The “models” are among the throng.
Kinn gets his beer, some sort of fancy import, and he looks over the room as he takes a long, overly hoppy drink.
The models are shirtless, except for the women, who wear tight black crop-tops with straps that cap their shoulders. They all wear loose, flowing black pants, and their feet are bare. Their bodies are oiled and shining, the bright lights in the room sparkling off defined muscles. A handler accompanies each of them.
Kinn wants to park his ass on a barstool and wait for word from his people, but Davies is already throwing him hawk-like glances. Stifling a sigh, he makes his way into the crowd.
He joins the small throng around Thunder first, the only model he recalls from the presentation. He has a bodybuilder’s physique, heavy muscle and a healthy layer of fat to support it, making the man thick and broad. He has a long, well-aged scar across his rib cage.
A man next to Kinn asks how Thunder got the scar.
“From sword,” Thunder answers in heavily accented English. “I not recommend trying to hug sword. Is not good time. The other guy, he got much worse hug, though.”
The pampered guests all laugh at the joke, and Kinn takes a drink of his beer so he doesn’t have to laugh with them. Thunder smiles stiffly.
“If anyone would care to place a bet,” says the handler, “Thunder will be fighting against Zanzibar in the third bout. The fight will be hand-to-hand, bare-knuckle boxing. Odds for Thunder are three-to-one.”
A couple of people place their bets. Kinn wanders away to find Zanzibar and learn about him. He finds Zanzibar easily enough — his skin is as black as night, and he’s of a similar build to Thunder. Zanzibar doesn’t speak English, but the handler explains that the odds are one-to-two. Kinn places a respectably sized bet of one million South African rand on Zanzibar.
“Eyes on primary entrance for verification?” Ashing requests over comms.
It takes all Kinn’s willpower not to snap his gaze over to the entrance.
“False, stand down,” Big counters a moment later.
Kinn is going to have to suffer through another beer at this rate.
He wanders to another one of the models. Just two admirers are currently inquiring about him, whereas the other models are practically swarmed. This model has a distinctly south east Asian look to him, with a golden complexion and short hair as black as a crow’s wing. As Kinn gets a better look, he notices a stark difference between this man and the others: He’s much more heavily scarred. White and pink marks of varying sizes and shapes decorate his torso and arms, evidence of a dramatic history.
As for the man’s face, it would be almost preternaturally perfect if it weren’t for the scars. He has a pair of them, two vertical, jagged lines etched over the high arch of his right cheekbone, like shallow crescent moons bracketing his face. The larger scar is probably almost four inches long, and it tugs at the corner of the man’s right eye.
He’s still beautiful. An observer is more likely to notice that first, and the scars second. But his beauty somehow makes the scars even more difficult to look at, more offensive and painful.
Someone has also made a half-hearted attempt to cover a large bruise on the man’s rib cage with makeup. A wide bracelet of rubies and gold adorns his right wrist.
The most unnerving thing, though, is the vacant, hollow expression in the man’s eyes. He stares off, silent and unmoving, eyes locked on some distant, fixed point.
The two people next to Kinn are talking with the model’s handler, a white South African woman, about the merits of Krav Maga versus Muay Thai. The woman leans toward the handler and asks, “What were this one’s odds?”
“The odds for Tsunami are nine-to-one,” the handler replies evenly.
Kinn expected the odds to be bad, but not that bad. He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
The woman makes a considering sound and then says to her companion, “I still want to meet Everest, honey. Shall we?”
They walk away, leaving Kinn with the handler’s undivided attention.
“I’m happy to answer any questions you may have, sir,” she says.
Kinn nods in acknowledgement but looks back to the model, Tsunami.
“Where are you from?” he finds himself asking, curiosity slipping out at the wrong moment.
Tsunami doesn’t react, not with so much as a blink. Kinn can’t be certain he understood the question… or even heard it.
“My apologies, but Tsunami is the quiet type,” the handler says with a smooth-as-silk smile. She scrolls through her tablet for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have that information on file. However, his name is Tsunami, so he could be Japanese, I suppose?” She pastes on the large smile of a salesperson on commission.
Kinn feels physical pain at the restraint it takes to keep from calling bullshit. This fighter is no more Japanese than Davies is.
Just behind Kinn, Pete covers a choking sound with a polite cough, the closest Kinn has ever seen him come to being a distraction in public.
The oblivious handler continues. “Tsunami will be fighting hand-to-hand MMA in the second bout. Would you care to place a wager, sir?”
Kinn narrows his eyes and gazes at Tsunami’s empty eyes again. He gives a small shake of his head. “I don’t think so. He looks like a bad bet.”
At last, that gets the first reaction from Tsunami. An expression flits across the model’s face so quickly that if Kinn weren’t watching closely, he’d have missed it. It could be mistaken for a flinch, but Kinn is close enough to recognize it as a sneer, a moment of irritation and clear disagreement with Kinn’s assessment.
Interesting.
He at least understands English, Kinn thinks.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s been staring too long. He takes another pull from his beer, empties it, and heads back to the bar.
Over the next twenty minutes, the sun gradually sets, falling from rose gold into twilight blues. Kinn consumes his second beer and places two more smaller bets — one of them against Tsunami. He’s already been respectful and paid his entrance dues with the first bet he made.
Eventually, Davies climbs back up on his ridiculous little stool and claps his hands for the room’s attention. He starts to speak, realizes he forgot to turn on his mic, and then tries again. “Friends, betting will close in the next few minutes, so I hope you’re wrapping up. And right after that, who’s ready to see some action?!”
The gathered crowd starts to get rowdy, like a tank of sharks scenting blood. There’s cheering and jeering, less directed at Davies now and more at the models. Each guest calls for their favorite to destroy their opponent, all in the name of honor and money. Some guests engage long-standing rivalries, taunting each other in a verbal mockery of the physical combat that will soon be enacted by proxy.
Kinn idles his time away until outside on the lawn, someone strikes a gong three times. Davies loudly invites guests to come out to the patio to view the fights, and he points out that the balcony on the second floor is also available.
Big, anticipating Kinn’s next question, speaks over the comms. “Balcony checks out clear, no distant sightlines, good viewing.”
Kinn makes his way to the stairs along with multiple other guests. The upper floor reminds Kinn of a deck on a luxury yacht; it’s a large open-air room, half-covered. Kinn smoothly claims a spot along the railing that has a good view, both of the lawn and the exit.
The grounds below are dark for just a moment, illuminated only by the light spilling out from indoors, but then there’s a loud sound that makes both Kinn and Pete flinch, and the flood lights come on.
The lawn is tidily trimmed and has a large white ring painted onto it. Off to one side, behind the lights, the models are stretching out cold muscles and doing light calisthenics. A handler approaches each of them to collect the bracelets on a display tray.
Davies, unsurprisingly, sees the spotlight and immediately steps into it, walking into the center of the ring.
“Esteemed guests, my assistant is gathering the jewelry now. We take precautions to ensure that none of the merchandise will be seriously damaged. And for our models-turned-fighters, I assure you we have a medic standing by as a precaution.” He gestures off to the side where handlers and other staff are milling about, and Kinn presumes a medic is among them.
Davies continues. “Now, without further ado, let’s see some real skill!” The crowd cheers, the super-wealthy and the elite of the underworld baring their teeth ferociously, ready for a show by the gladiators.
And it is indeed a show. Blood-pounding music starts to thrum throughout the party, pumped in through strategically placed speakers. Everest enters the ring and faces off against another fighter whose pseudonym escapes Kinn. They each carry a switchblade in one hand.
The gong rings out to start the match.
They circle carefully for a few tense moments before putting on a dramatic display, lots of feints and close encounters that leave the crowd gasping and leaning in, but Kinn grows bored one minute into the fight. They’re excellent at what they’re doing and can fool most people into believing they’re out for blood, and they do indeed catch each other with shallow swipes. Everest catches his opponent across the chest, and his opponent returns the favor. Thin trails of blood begin to drip red down their skin, mixing with oil and sweat. However, Kinn can see through the movements to the control and restraint beneath the surface.
It comes to a head when Everest gets a grip on his opponent’s arm, knocks it to force the knife loose, takes him down, and then pins him with his blade at his throat. Their chests are both heaving with exertion.
Kinn scans the crowd, failing to find the face he’s looking for. All he sees are the delighted guests, some applauding and others jeering.
Then, suddenly, Ashing reports, “The specter is on the balcony. I repeat, the specter is on the balcony.”
“When the fuck did he get there? ” Big asks urgently. “How did he slip past?”
Kinn forcefully keeps his gaze on the crowd below, but he senses Pete craning his neck behind him.
“Hell if I know!” Ashing responds. “Pete’s upstairs, so specter got by him, too. He’s on the opposite end of the balcony from Khun Kinn. Maybe he really is a ghost?”
“Fuck,” Big mutters, apparently forgetting he’s still active on comms.
“Cut the chatter,” Pete orders, causing a voice echo over the comm in Kinn’s ear. “Eyes up.”
“Confirm, eyes on,” Big replies.
Kinn spares a glance at the opposite end of the balcony, across the numerous people dividing them. There he is, Benny McLintock, leaning against the railing with both elbows on it. A guard stands at his back, casually dressed in a black shirt and khakis. Benny is in his mid-thirties, with wavy brown hair that falls unkempt to his shoulders. He’s thick and solid without being truly overweight, a stocky sort of man. His face is round, his eyes sharp.
He’s a normal, average-looking man with extraordinary skill at everything to do with computers. And his skill has caught Kinn’s interest.
As Kinn watches, Benny’s eyes suddenly light up with excitement, and he straightens, saying something enthusiastic to his guard and gesturing to the lawn below. Kinn glances down to see what sparked the reaction, leaving it to his men to keep eyes on Benny. On the lawn, the next bout is about to begin. Tsunami is squaring up to off against another fighter — Kinn is fairly sure the other man’s name is Striker.
The difference in Tsunami is breathtaking.
He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, loose and limber, and his entire countenance is animated. His eyes are locked onto Striker with a bloodthirsty intent that Kinn can practically taste on the air. Before, when Kinn had looked into Tsunami’s eyes, it had seemed like no one was home, but now he’s practically on fire.
The two fighters circle warily, waiting for the match to start. Striker is more subdued, watching Tsunami with a gaze like cold steel.
The second the gong sounds, Tsunami takes off like a bullet from a gun. He gets directly into Striker’s reach, but the move is only to draw out an attack. As soon as Striker commits to a roundhouse kick, Tsunami is back out of his range, and he spins in around behind Striker to give him a straight-on front kick to his back, sending Striker stumbling forward.
Tsunami's kick isn’t a move meant to cause damage — it’s meant to humiliate. And it works.
Striker whips around, a fierce, angry look in his eyes, and he says something to Tsunami that’s covered by the outraged cry of the crowd. The audience is mad. Although the rules for fair play are minimal, it’s taken Tsunami all of three seconds to get on the audience’s bad side.
Tsunami gives Striker a feral grin and makes a “come at me” gesture with both hands.
Where the first two fighters made an artful display of well-executed movements, like a dance, this round is brutal and raw, a true fight where almost anything could happen. Tsunami soon takes a nasty blow to the side of his head, but he rolls with it and gets out of range. It takes him only a second to shake it off, and then he dives back in, weaving beautifully with Capoeira-like movements until he’s in a position where he can deliver a back kick to Striker’s midsection. Striker stumbles back and nearly goes sprawling, but somehow he maintains his feet.
Off to the side and behind the lights, Davies is watching the match and arguing wildly with two of his staff members, gesturing at everything happening in the ring. The gathered guests, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. Most of them are screaming for Striker to draw blood, but a respectable handful have begun cheering for Tsunami.
Striker does indeed draw first blood, busting open Tsunami’s lip.
Tsunami returns the favor with a kick to the side of the head that somehow leaves blood in Striker’s buzz cut, possibly from a toenail.
The crowd is surging, enthralled, captivated, eager for more. It’s a good thing this mansion is remote and widely spaced from other properties, with forest along one edge — otherwise the noise would surely draw attention.
Davies is practically frothing at the mouth as the fight drags out. Tsunami continues to play with Striker, enjoying every minute of it. Tsunami may be taking hits, but he’s controlling the fight — he repeatedly backs Striker against the white line, only to give him an opening to get clear.
A random guest in the crowd can’t handle the tension anymore, and he screams out above the music…
“Kill him!”
Tsunami’s whole attitude changes from feral fun to cold, white-hot rage. Then he’s suddenly a flurry of fists and feet, and in mere moments Striker is overwhelmed.
On the sidelines, Davies looks panic-stricken, ready to run into the ring and call it off. His aides have to hold him back. His calls for the fight to stop can’t be heard over the roaring of the audience.
Tsunami backs Striker to the white line and kicks him soundly in the chest, sending him sprawling on his back outside of the ring.
Tsunami stops and pants for a moment, and the noise of the crowd dies down before surging again, the cheering a mix of anger and delight. Tsunami’s eyes scan the crowd with all the rage of a trapped panther, searching as though he can find the person who called for the kill. It’s a lost cause, though. He spits blood into the grass and slowly walks out of the ring, while two of the handlers rush to help Striker limp to the medic.
“If the specter leans any farther over the railing, he’s going to fall off,” Ashing says over comms.
Kinn startles. He’s been so engrossed in the fight he utterly forgot his objective. Recollecting himself, he looks over to Benny.
The hacker is cheering, a huge smile on his face and a covetous leer in his eye. His gaze trails after Tsunami even when the fighter steps into the shadows.
Kinn thinks back to the intel he received. Rumor has it Benny is here tonight to buy. Seems like rumors are true, and now Kinn has a good idea of what — or rather, who — Benny is shopping for.
“Specter is on the move,” Big reports.
“Don’t worry,” Kinn murmurs aloud, “he’s not going anywhere.”
The rest of the event is a waiting game. Davies, now in a flustered and frustrated mood, tries to get the crowd back under control, but the toothless fights that follow pale in comparison with the show that Tsunami put on.
Kinn lingers on the balcony and watches Benny from above as the man mills about the patio. The hacker sticks to the fringes of the party and continually talks to his guard. At one point, a man tries to approach Benny and offer him a business card, but he rejects the advance, cool and unmovable.
Sometime later, the fights come to their inevitable lackluster conclusion. The guests’ interest already peaked and crashed, but Davies does his best to rally. He explains the details of the silent auction, which guests can conduct via an event-specific app over the next half hour.
“Now that our models have finished their fights, the rest of the battle is up to you! Good luck winning whichever gem you have your eye on. And please remember, no hard feelings if you don’t get your heart’s desire — by all means, I welcome you to speak to me personally if I can find you anything special for the next auction, which will be held in beautiful Monaco. And with that, let the bidding begin!”
The gong rings out, and then Kinn’s phone chimes, but it’s only one of many. All around the event, phone notifications go off.
The flood lights on the fighting ring get shut off, and Kinn watches as the handler who collected the bracelets before the fight returns them to their bearers. Fighters turn back into models once more as they attach their jewels to their wrists.
Delicate, shining shackles.
Benny is glued to his phone.
A moment of inspiration strikes, and Kinn pulls out his own phone. He pulls up the auction app and finds the ruby bracelet. Kinn makes a bid that’s a minor increase on the minimum starting bid, and then he waits.
Sure enough, the next time Benny checks his phone, he curses. He says something to his guard and types on his phone. A moment later, Kinn checks the app to find he’s been outbid.
Perfect. Benny is apparently smart enough not to make the first move right out of the gate, but he’s anxious enough to counter quickly. Kinn is getting to know Benny better already, and they haven’t even met yet.
Kinn puts his phone away. He doesn’t need it anymore.
For the next half hour, he’s able to relax enough to socialize and network with some of his acquaintances, while in the background his guards keep tabs on Benny. Eventually, a warning notification on his phone announces that the auction is about to expire, and shortly thereafter the final gong of the evening rings out.
Kinn isn’t the least bit shocked when Benny heads to the patio to claim his prize. As Benny comes back into the great room, he’s beaming from ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Tsunami’s bare waist, and they’re walking side by side. The ruby bracelet glints on Tsunami’s wrist like drops of blood.
“He could be leaving, should we…” Ashing says from a discrete corner.
“Hold,” Big orders before Pete can. “It’s boss’s move. Stand by.”
Already, a few guests are saying their farewells and departing, but the majority still remain. Kinn narrows his eyes.
Benny isn’t leaving; he’s taking a victory lap. He spends time first with his fellow auction winners, congratulating and being congratulated in return. Then he begins to make his way through the room in a broad circle…
…which inevitably leads him by the bar, and Kinn.
Just as Benny and his company are about to pass behind him, Kinn makes a show of noticing them.
“Your new friend cost me about ฿50,000 tonight,” Kinn says to Benny, smiling to show he means it in good humor. The friend in question doesn’t react to Kinn’s statement, merely blinking and staring over Kinn’s shoulder at a wall.
Benny, on the other hand, reacts with delight, laughing from his belly. His wavy hair bounces with the laughter.
“Haha, that’s the beauty of him, though. He fools everyone, but not me.” Benny grins at Tsunami, a thumb caressing his waist absently. Then he looks at Kinn again. “Sorry about your loss, but you know how it goes.” He’s very sympathetic in the kind of way that seems more like he’s boasting.
“Not to worry. It was a minor wager.” He made up for it with a much larger win, but there’s no need to mention that. “You’re Benny McLintock, aren’t you?”
That gets a raised eyebrow. “You know me?”
“By reputation,” Kinn confirms. “You helped my friend, Sandoval, with a little encryption problem a while back.”
Benny relaxes, nodding. “Ahh, yeah, I remember. That was an especially tough nut to crack. And you are…?”
“Kinn Theerapanyakul.”
“Kinn… Kinn… where do I know that name? Oh!” He snaps his fingers and points one at Kinn. “I know! You’re a big name in Thailand, aren’t you? Yeah, cool cool.”
“Actually,” Kinn says with a gracious incline of his head, “there’s a matter I hope to discuss with you, an opportunity. You were highly recommended to me, and I’m not sure anyone else could handle this. It’s a difficult matter.”
Benny frowns and holds up a hand. “Hold on, I have to stop you there. I don’t talk business in person. Since you already know about me, I’m sure Sandoval can set you up with info on how to get in touch. I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Theerapakul.”
Benny turns to leave, but Kinn hasn’t given up yet.
“That’s too bad,” he says. “It’s been a rough night, losing the wager and then also losing the auction to you.”
Tsunami’s eyes somehow become even more blank. Benny, meanwhile, turns back to Kinn with his full attention, a spark of both delight and annoyance in his eyes.
“That was you bidding against me? Ha, you sure came around from betting against him, didn’t you? You saw him fight and couldn’t resist?”
Other guests must have gotten into a bidding war with Benny after Kinn placed his sole bid, but Kinn doesn’t correct him. “Indeed. I’ve never seen a fight quite so breathtaking.” That statement comes out alarmingly honest.
Benny nods thoughtfully. “Don’t feel bad about underestimating him; everyone does. But that’s what makes him special.” Benny takes Tsunami’s chin in hand and tilts his head just slightly, angling for a better view of the unscarred side of his face. “I saw him for the first time about a year ago, and it was something else, let me tell you. But he wasn’t available at the time, if you catch my drift. I’m not surprised he made it all the way to this circuit, though.”
“You have an eye for quality, then.”
A little flattery…
“So I’ve been told.” Benny scratches his own cheek thoughtfully. “You know, for a man like yourself, it wouldn’t hurt to hear you out about that business deal. I’m not in a rush. I can also tell you about the first time I saw Tsunami in a fight, since you’re a new admirer.”
…can go a long way.
“Ah, wonderful, you do me the honor,” Kinn says with a big, surprised smile. “I understand there are quieter rooms in this wing…”
“Mm, I don’t know about a room,” Benny hedges. He looks over his shoulder at his guard, who makes a subtle shrug.
Kinn raises his hands. “We’re all unarmed here. Let me tell you what; I’ll compromise. To show I’m peaceful, I’ll leave my man just outside the door.” Kinn leans in and lowers his voice. “I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you should know. And you can even bring your new friend in, for greater security.”
Kinn can tell his offer strikes home, tickling Benny’s fancy.
“Oh yeah?” Benny looks at Tsunami, takes his chin in hand again and tugs to make the model-fighter face him. “What do you think of that option? You gonna defend me, since we’re friends now?”
“Yes, sir,” Tsunami replies flatly.
“Aww, now, that’s not right. There’s gotta be something else you can call me.” Benny’s voice drops lower, becomes a little firmer.
“Yes, master.”
Benny’s hand tightens on Tsunami’s waist. “No, no, that’s so crass. You can do better, can’t you? Because you’re a good boy.”
There’s a brief pause, and then… “Yes, daddy,” Tsunami says in the exact same emotionless tone.
Kinn keeps his face placid even though nausea rolls over him. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world for him to deal with this shit.
Benny, meanwhile, smiles smugly, giving Tsunami’s waist a tight squeeze. “There you go.” He meets Kinn’s eyes and jerks his chin, proud of himself as though he’s just done something impressive. “Let’s do this.”
“Excellent.” He gets up from his barstool and starts to lead the way.
“Specter engaged,” Big says over the comms.
“Wait! No, hold it,” Benny says. “My man will pick a room. Just a precaution, of course. No offense.”
“None taken,” Kinn replies serenely. He gestures for Benny to take the lead.
As they’re walking toward a side hallway, one of the wait staff, a woman, is looking exactly the wrong way as she walks into the room. She comes closer and closer, in a hurry, until she’s almost on top of him… and then she makes the mistake of reaching into her pocket.
Pete takes offense at that. “Stop right there!” he says.
He gets a hold of the staffer, pulling her away from Kinn and taking both of her arms behind her back, causing her to gasp.
They’re drawing attention from other guests. Benny and his guard look at them in alarm.
“What were you reaching for?” Pete demands to know, one hand starting to search her for weapons.
“Nothing, nothing, I swear, I was just checking my tips!”
Pete’s hand goes to her pocket, and sure enough, there’s cash in there.
“Pete, stand down,” Kinn snaps. “Let her go. It was an honest mistake.” Pete rushes to comply, freeing her arms and then helping the girl straighten her jacket and shirt again. Kinn is quick to point a finger at Pete. “We’re going to have a long talk about protocols after this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Benny tuts. “So hard to find good help. Looks like you and Davies are both having problems.”
Kinn gives Benny a “what’re you gonna do” shrug. “I’ll deal with you later,” he promises Pete, a clear threat in his voice.
“Sir.” Pete lowers his head.
The eyes that fell on them during the interchange peel away just as quickly when there’s no further hope of entertainment.
“Come on,” Benny prompts. “I said I wasn’t in a rush. I didn’t say I had all night.”
Kinn follows, and Pete shadows him once more. They reach a door to a side room, and by agreement, Benny’s guard and Pete do a simultaneous sweep of the room while Benny, Tsunami, and Kinn wait outside. When the guards finish, Pete comes back out, while Benny and Tsunami go in.
Pete turns concerned eyes on Kinn. “Sir, are you sure—”
“Leave it,” Kinn snaps. He enters, shutting the door behind him with a firm thunk.
It’s a spacious room, with contemporary paintings on the wall, a plush couch and chairs, a TV, and even a small bar.
Benny pulls Tsunami along to the couch and tugs him down to sit next to him, while his guard stands vigilant just to the side, hands clasped below his waist. Kinn takes a seat across from the couch.
“Sir, just confirming, the bar is fully stocked.” Pete says in Kinn’s ear.
Thank fuck. If it hadn’t been, he’s not sure what he would have done.
“Now, about this business opportunity…” Benny begins. His arm is around Tsunami’s bare shoulders, and he seems to be trying to tuck the man into his side. Tsunami isn’t resisting, but he isn’t cuddling up to Benny, either.
Kinn smiles. “I always believe in pleasure before business.” He crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m very curious to hear more about your friend Tsunami.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame you. You have good taste, I’ll give you that.”
Then Benny launches into a lengthy story about how and why he was in Hong Kong for business, and how the head of a faction personally took Benny to the largest underground fight ring in the city. He explains that Tsunami was under the name Fire Devil at the time, and how Benny instantly admired the way he fought like the devil he was named for. He goes into extensive detail about each of Tsunami’s fights, and some others besides.
The longer he talks, the more handsy he gets with Tsunami, palms wandering over shoulders and scarred chest, a thumb over the split lip. At one point, he pinches a nipple — Tsunami barely flinches, and his breathing only goes deeper and more controlled.
“Isn’t he just perfect?” Benny gushes. “Except for these scars, of course.” Benny runs two fingers along the right edge of Tsunami’s face, directly over the twin scars. One of Tsunami’s hand twitches, an involuntary reaction.
Kinn has to control his own reactions as well. He manages to say, “They have their own sort of charm. The mark of a fighter.”
“Oh, I suppose if you’re into that, sure.” Benny waves a hand and shrugs, tearing his eyes off Tsunami to look at Kinn again. “But I’ll get rid of them. I already have a plastic surgeon lined up to fix him, so he can be as pretty as possible. I just love that he’s a pretty, quiet doll out of the ring, but a real monster inside it.”
“I wouldn’t have believed his skill if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” Kinn says.
Then Kinn moves to rise, and both the guard and Benny tense.
“Ah, excuse me,” Kinn says, raising an empty hand. “I want to get myself a drink, and then perhaps we can get down to business. It’s been a very long day.”
Benny and the guard relax. Benny waves Kinn off. “Of course. If there’s spring water, I’ll take some, too.”
Kinn isn’t sure he’s ever met someone with a bigger pair of balls on him, and that’s saying something considering the company Kinn keeps.
As Kinn goes to the bar, Benny starts talking to Tsunami, telling him that he’s going to help get him back in the real fights where he belongs, and won’t that be the best?
Kinn looks around behind the bar and experiences a moment of tension, a moment when his heart is in his throat with uncertainty. Then he opens the small, under-the-counter fridge, and there it is: one glock, complete with suppressor.
He pulls out the gun, turns, and fires.
Thwick, he takes out the guard with a single shot.
Benny has just enough time to curse and open his eyes wide before…
Thwick-thwick, Kinn shoots Benny in the throat and then the head, and blood splatters into squiggly brown hair.
Benny’s eyes roll back, and he falls on top of Tsunami, momentarily obscuring Kinn’s next shot. Tsunami doesn’t scream or cry out, only inhales sharply and jerks to sudden life and alarm. Benny’s body rolls lifelessly over his lap and onto the floor.
Tsunami stares at Kinn with wide eyes and hands raised. His eyes drop from Kinn’s gaze down to the gun.
Kinn is frozen. He needs to pull the trigger. His hand is like ice.
Tsunami’s breathing grows faster, but somehow he relaxes. He closes his eyes, whispers something that Kinn can’t hear, and waits.
Kinn lets out a short curse. He should kill him; he really, truly, deeply understands that he should kill Tsunami. Instead, he starts walking sideways toward the door, gun still trained on the other man and keeping obstacles between them. Kinn thinks he can let him live, as long as he doesn’t make a noise or pull a stunt.
When Tsunami hears Kinn moving, his eyes flash open. He looks between Kinn and the door, and there’s a spark of understanding as he realizes Kinn is about to leave. He leans forward urgently, a hand clutching a couch cushion so hard that his bruised and bloody knuckles turn gray. Kinn freezes, eyes locked and reassessing the threat.
“Take me with you,” Tsunami begs.
Not exactly what Kinn expected to hear. “The hell I will,” Kinn replies automatically.
“I can fight,” Tsunami offers. A pause, and then, “I can fuck.”
“I have people who can do that for me already.”
It takes Kinn a half moment to realize they’re speaking Thai.
That hardly matters, though. Kinn starts easing toward the door again. Tsunami’s eyes flash with desperation, and he scrambles a few inches along the couch, not daring to get up but unable to hold still.
“Do you have any idea what Davies will do to me with a dead buyer?”
Kinn doesn’t, but he can make an educated guess. He hesitates.
“Boss? It’s too quiet. Please check in,” Pete says in Kinn’s ear.
Kinn raises his free hand and uses his own comm for the first time that night. “Specter eliminated, stand down.”
Kinn considers Tsunami’s pleading expression. Too much risk, not his business. He needs to get clear of this place right the hell now, not take on extra baggage.
He reaches for the door.
“If you think not shooting me is mercy, you’re wrong.” Tsunami’s words are full of righteous anger, but his eyes still beg, his brows scrunched and face twisted. “A clean headshot would be more merciful.” He waits for a split second, but Kinn is caught in his eyes and can’t think clearly. “What about self-interest, would that do it? Wang Xin, Nishigaki Kenta, Dominik the Dealer, Chase Lounge, Allegra Bianchi… any of them familiar?”
Almost all of them are familiar, if not by direct dealings then at least by reputation.
Tsunami sees the answer in Kinn’s eyes and leans in further. “Yeah, you know ‘em. I’ve been bought by all of them in the past couple years… and I know things they don’t know I know.”
Kinn’s doesn’t let himself react on the surface, but under his skin he just about starts vibrating. God, if he can get that Nishigaki bastard off his ass even for a fucking minute, it’d be worth a shit ton of hassle…
He makes a pointing gesture with his raised gun. “If you come with me, you follow my orders and my men’s orders without question. And when we ask you questions, you hold nothing back, not even the smallest piece of information. Got it?”
Tsunami’s jaw drops, and he seems to choke on thin air. He has to swallow twice before he can answer, “Yes!”
Kinn nods sharply, gun still raised. “Deal.” Then he activates his comm again. “Pete, get in here.”
Pete slips in and shuts the door, and then his gaze quickly begins to ping-pong back and forth between Kinn and Tsunami. “Sir?”
Kinn lowers his gun. He puts the safety on and tucks it into the back of his pants, suppressor and all. God, that’s uncomfortable. “We’re taking him with us,” Kinn says, with authority in his voice that forestalls any questions. “Both of you, see whether you can salvage the guard’s shirt or Benny’s.”
He can see in Pete’s eyes that he really wants to argue, but he visibly tamps it down. “Yes, sir.” He gets to work, and Tsunami helps him.
Kinn, meanwhile, has more orders to hand out and turns on his comm again. “We’re taking on an extra passenger. Arm, pull the SUV around to the front.”
“Yes, sir.” They’d left Arm outside in the van with a small fortune in tech and weapons.
“Big, what’s Davies’s position?”
“On the patio, sir,” Big responds.
“Good. Let me know if that changes. Ashing, what’s Fern’s status?”
“Ready to go, sir,” Ashing replies.
“Good. Be ready to move.”
Kinn looks over and sees Pete and Tsunami rushing to change him into the nameless guard’s casual clothing, slacks and all.
“Sir, do we need to know who the extra passenger is?” Big asks. He’s gotten cleverer at his wording lately. Big obviously wants to ask exactly who the passenger is, but he deftly dances around it.
“Yes,” Kinn answers. “It’s Tsunami, from the auction.”
The line goes quiet, most likely because everyone on the team is cursing his name right now. Heh. They should be used to it. He never sticks to the plan, and it would be a shame to break his streak now.
Kinn turns off the comm and checks with Pete and their new, temporary, teammate. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir. This is the best we can do,” Pete replies.
Tsunami looks a little ridiculous in the khakis and black button-down, both of which are oversized for him. They had to roll up the hems of the khakis, and they clearly stole the shoes as well. That scar, though…
Kinn takes out his own reading glasses, the ones he swears up and down that he doesn’t need, from the inner pocket of his jacket. He tosses them to Tsunami, who deftly catches them.
“Put these on,” Kinn orders. “Stay on Pete’s left side. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Tsunami responds, looking like he’s ready to head straight back into the fighting ring. The glasses don’t hide the scar, exactly, but they provide another noticeable feature.
“In position, sir,” Arm reports.
Kinn turns his comm back on. “Good. Moving out.”
Kinn takes a breath. He opens the door and leads the way, his heart hammering. Pete and Tsunami follow, and Pete carefully shuts the door behind them, leaving behind two warm bodies.
The front door isn’t far.
Ashing and Fern join them first. Fern has changed out of her waiting staff jacket and shirt and slipped into a slinky, glitzy silver top, complete with fine jewelry and hair piece. Kinn crooks an elbow for her, and she takes it smoothly, no longer the humble servant but a pretty heiress or socialite. Ashing falls into line on Tsunami’s other side.
A moment later, the rapid clop-clop of dress shoes lets Kinn know that Big has caught up and is taking up the rear.
The front door is in sight. The path is clear. As they exit, there are still two of Davies’s men standing by the entrance, but they look bored as fuck and are watching out into the darkness of the fancy drive. They’re unconcerned with departing guests. One of the men yawns.
The door to the SUV slides open, and Kinn assists Fern into one of the mid-car seats and then clambers in next to her. As he settles into his seat, there isn’t a power in the universe that could keep the smile from his face. Triumph and adrenaline rush through his veins, quickly making up for the appalling lack of quality liquor.
Now that he thinks of it…
“Big?”
“Sir.” Big is in the front passenger seat. Without further discussion, he opens the glove compartment and pulls out a flask, handing it over to Kinn. He takes a big, long pull from the flask as Ashing, Pete, and Tsunami all somehow cram themselves into the back row bench seat.
The door slides shut, and Kinn lets out a small, satisfied sigh, the golden smooth aftertaste of bourbon on his tongue.
Everyone grows silent as Arm puts the car in drive, still waiting for a shout or alarm from inside, but it never comes. Arm drives the van sedately, at least until they leave the mansion property, at which point he begins accelerating until finally he’s speeding along like the proverbial bat out of hell.
Kinn starts to laugh, adrenaline and hysteria overwhelming him. He takes another big drink and lets out a bigger, louder gasp of appreciation this time.
“Everyone’s getting a bonus because Big remembered the booze,” he announces.
The team whoops and cheers, and suddenly Big is in everyone’s good graces.
Kinn knows they can’t fully relax yet, but for the moment, the victory is worth celebrating.
Rest in peace, Ghost, Kinn thinks with great satisfaction.
Kinn has a chartered plane sitting at the airport, waiting to go. Getting Tsunami onto it is a simple matter of an extra bribe for the same custom official who’s already well aware of the kinds of firearms and explosives in their baggage. The flight attendants are also his own people, certified by the FAA.
As soon as they’re all on the plane, the team experiences a second lift to their morale and a relaxation in protocol. The positive energy expresses itself in sudden chatter, with “did you see this” and “what about when” exclamations. Most of them are from Ashing, but Pete and Fern also chime in, and even Big seems pleased enough to smile for once. Arm asks leading questions because he couldn’t be inside the mansion. Fern boasts about her undercover skills. They’re all bustling about the cabin, while Kinn is squared away in his seat.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” Kinn calls out. “We have a long flight and a pit stop to get through.”
One of the pilots comes to speak with Kinn, and he makes all the appropriate, friendly gestures. He assures Kinn that they can lift off in short order.
While the captain is talking, Kinn’s phone, the burner that he used for the auction, starts ringing. He has a feeling he knows who it is. Sure enough, as soon as he pulls it out of his pocket, he sees on the screen that it’s Davies.
“If you’ll excuse me, captain?” Kinn prompts. The pilot begs his pardon and returns to the cockpit.
As soon as the pilot is gone, all eyes are on Kinn, waiting to see how he’ll respond to the call.
With flair, he raises the phone, lifts one finger, and then sends Davies to voicemail. The team laughs and applauds.
It’s only a moment later that his phone starts blowing up with irate text messages. Kinn reads them and starts to giggle.
“What’s he saying, Khun Kinn?” Arm asks.
“It would appear that I’m barred from showing my face on any of Davies’s properties or at any of his events for the rest of my life.” Kinn raises both eyebrows at Arm and says in his driest voice, “What a shame.”
That sets everyone off in another peel of laughter, and the chatter starts up again.
One of the flight attendants calls for everyone to take their seats. Kinn hardly pays attention, eyes glued to his phone and thoroughly entertained by every new message that comes in.
Pete slides into the empty seat that faces Kinn’s.
“Khun Kinn, about our extra guest…” he prompts.
Kinn looks up from his phone. Sure enough, there’s Tsunami, standing in the middle of the plane, looking out of place and stressed. The rest of Kinn’s team members are giving the man occasional glances that are a mixture of wary and curious.
Without a word, Tsunami reaches for his own wrist. Suddenly all guards are watching him, and the gazes don’t waver. But Tsunami merely pulls off the ruby bracelet and holds it out toward Kinn.
Kinn frowns. “What?”
“You can have it. For the deal you made with that official. For the plane trip.” Tsunami’s eyes are darting wildly all over, seemingly unable to settle.
“I don’t need it,” Kinn says simply. He really doesn’t; the bribe was pocket change.
And he’s painfully aware that the bracelet is the only thing of any value that Tsunami has on his person.
Tsunami’s eyes settle somewhere over Kinn’s shoulder and stop moving. He doesn’t budge, simply says, “I don’t want to owe you.”
Kinn lets out an aggravated sigh. “Arm, take it.” Arm is the closest. All he has to do is hold out his hand, which he does, and Tsunami drops the bracelet into it. Tsunami also takes off Kinn’s glasses and hands them to Arm.
Kinn points to a seat that’s within his sights, but which faces away from him. “Tsunami, you sit there. Pete, keep him company. Big, you’re with me.”
The three men in question shuffle around and settle into their assigned seats.
Kinn turns off the burner phone and drops it in his bag, no longer quite so amused.
A short while later, they’re in the air. As soon as they reach altitude, Kinn asks the attendants to serve dinner immediately — he had arranged ahead for a nice menu to be available, anticipating the need for a reward. He has the steak with shrimp, as well as a glass of champagne. He wishes he could give permission for everyone to enjoy drinks along with him, but until they’re back in the tower, his team is still on duty… especially considering they have an unexpected addition on board. Pete won’t be able to sleep a wink — Kinn will have to switch him out with Big when they refuel in Yemen.
After dinner, everyone’s energy seems to crash. The team members start to drop like flies, asking the attendants for pillows and blankets, setting their seats back to recline. Across the aisle from Kinn, Ashing puts an earbud in one ear and soon begins to lightly snore, while Arm curls around a large pillow like it’s one of Tankhun’s teddy bears.
Kinn pulls out his tablet and does a little work, catching up on emails. Time ticks by slowly, as it tends to do on an airplane. The attendants dim the cabin lights.
When everything is quiet and his team is mostly asleep, Kinn rests his tablet in his own blanket-covered lap and closes his eyes for a few minutes.
A flight attendant does a slow walk through. Kinn listens as she makes a stop next to Pete and Tsunami. Kinn cracks his eyes open just a fraction.
The attendant leans over Tsunami and asks whether she can get him anything, a blanket or pillow to help him rest.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he replies in a small, polite voice.
The flight attendant walks on, and now Kinn has a clear view of Pete. He looks fast asleep to the untrained eye, but Kinn knows he’s awake.
Tsunami’s next statement is almost too quiet for Kinn to hear. He barely catches it when the man murmurs, “It’s more comfortable than the cargo hold.”
Fuck. Kinn turns his eyes to stare out the window into the black night, the light on the tip of the wing winking at him slowly. He wishes he’d shot Davies. It wouldn’t make the underlying problem go away, and someone would inevitably rise up to take the man’s place, but Kinn sure would feel better about it.
Kinn is suddenly so overwhelmingly, fiercely pleased that he took Tsunami away despite his reluctance. The feeling of it, the shocking amount of pride and satisfaction, just about chokes him. He has to breathe deeply to wrestle the unwelcome emotions under control.
Hardly anything in Kinn’s life goes according to plan, but he’s beginning to wonder exactly what he’s gotten himself into this time.