Page 15 of Beastly Armory
A sad smile crosses my lips, remembering the day of slaughter Markus and I had just been discussing. “Do you have anyone left?”
The corners of his mouth and eyes tighten. “No. Just me.”
Taking a deep breath, I clap my arm around his shoulder. “And me. And Ari.” He nods quickly at my reassurance.
The older woman hired as our chef bustles in from the cellar, carrying a sack of potatoes. “Mr. Freidenberg! I didn’t expect the master of the house in thekitchen. Lunch will be served promptly in ten minutes. Would you prefer it in the breakfast area or the dining room?” It’s not a question; it’s a choice given to me like I’m a toddler. She clearly wants us out of her area, just as she has screamed all week at the construction workers trying to do their jobs around the manor.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kroft. We’ll get out of your hair. If you want to set a table in the breakfast area, we’ll pick at it before we head out.” Motioning to Markus and Derichs, we amble toward the living room.
Hanging dark wooden beams are now in their rightful place on the boxed ceiling, and the room is clean, but empty. Rich brown wainscotting covers two stories leading up to plastered white walls. A tinge of fresh paint hits my nose as I study the worker balancing on a tall metal scaffolding, repairing the centuries-old portraits of my ancestors displayed along the upper-level picture rail. Unfortunately, the skilled craftsmen Jakob hired were also insistent on fixing the old pipe organ, too, but no one had played it on my order.
Skirting around the sheet-covered furniture parked along one wall, we amble back to my study and connected library, neither of which had been touched, other than with a duster.
“So, tonight?” I address my advisor and new guard. Markus is right; I don’t trust anyone to be near my little sister other than Jakob, whom I met with (and threatened to within an inch of his life). He was my mother’s third cousin, our fourth. It made me feel better that he, hopefully, was not into familial relations. Now that I know Derichs and I are also cousins, I feel safer to have the two near Arianna.
Markus looks toward the young Derichs, raising his scruffy eyebrows.
“Oh, right. Um…” I can tell Derichs feels put on the spot, taking charge of security for the boss. He clears his throat and the bear tattoo under his eye folds into the skin with his concentration. “So, we’ll enter the side doors of the warehouse. Aries and Gemini are your two spies, sir—Max. I’ve been informed we have three exits. Here." Pointing to the ledger on the desk, he grips the edge as I slide it over. He produces an ink pen from a small case on his belt and flips the large calendar paper. On the back, he draws a rudimentary layout of the building the meeting will be located in.
As the ink flows over the paper, he discusses the strategy. “We enter through this door. And here are escape routes if things go poorly. We meet here if we get separated and here for rendezvous or retreat. Holland has point position here if they don’t see him, and Aries will be playing sniper tonight from here.”
Holland, another of Jakob’s security team. I hadn’t met any of my tanks yet, nor any of my spies. Derichs’s face meets mine for approval, and I study his sober brown eyes. He’s young, but he’s not reckless. He’s me about four years ago. And he, too, has a bone to pick with Strauss.
Derichs’s nature appears more serious than my own. That’s a good thing. Where I am brash, he can be more calculated. We’ll work well together, and I believe he knows what he’s doing. I won’t fully trust him; that would be unwise, but Markus’s words come back to me. The ones about having to rely on others. Adal Derichs seems like the place to start.
“Alright. This sounds like a solid plan. What’re you carrying?”
“Just my Smith and Wesson. Aries has the sniper rifle. The tanks and spies have handguns. We have a few rifles and one machine gun leftover in storage. There’s also a box of grenades in the dungeons below us, but I’m not sure if they even work.” He snorts. “We could try tonight.”
“Ha. Yeah, actually. Let’s take two. Just in case.”
Pulling out his phone, he instructs his lackey, Holland, to pick two up for us. I hear some argument, but Derichs handles it as a good manager would. Like a commander, he ends the call saying, “I expect them here in ten.” Slipping his phone in his back pocket, he sees me looking at him. “Taken care of.”
“Okay, I’ll talk with Strauss?—”
“Oh, it won’t be him. He never shows for meetings. It’ll be Sergei Antonov, his right-hand.”
I huff at the slight. “I’m Maximillian fucking Freidenberg. He’s not going to meet withme?”
Derichs and Markus cast their eyes down.
Taking a deep breath in, I calm myself. “Tell me about Antonov, then.”
“He’s a big brute. Ugly, too,” Markus says. “About my age now, I’d say.”
“Still got a good right hook,” Derichs says, rubbing his jaw as if recalling a run-in with him. He runs a hand through his dark brown waves and points to the shoddy map. “We enter here. Antonov will probably be here. His men will likely be here and here.” As he points his finger, I memorize the locations. “Antonov will say no to your business license request. Be prepared.”
“And then offer him something in return.” Markus stands and wanders toward the dark green marble fireplace along the far wall, gold veins glistening in the light of the flames.
“Like…” My mind scrambles to find something I could offer before doom strikes me.Fuck. “Like the armory locations,” I say, almost to myself. “The ones he doesn’t know about.”
Markus nods and Derichs appears unconvinced, but says, “I suppose so.”
“I can’t give him that. They can’t know thatIknow where they all are. It would be a sure way to get captured and tortured. Perhaps I could offer him 10% of the profits, like my grandfather and his father did.” Gripping a fragile document from the table, I hold it up for them to see. It was extortion, but that plan worked for hundreds of years before me. At least it left our businesses standing.
Markus’s jaw flexes. “Yeah... it did keep some semblance of peace for a while. See what Antonov says.”
“You want a drink?” Standing, I amble to the mirrored bar cart in the corner of the room. It has freshly cleaned decanters refilled with liquors. Hopefully, one is an old scotch.