Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (25 page)

"Getting rough out there, huh?" he asked in flawless German.

The commando nodded.
 
"
Ja
.
 
Some trouble in larger cities.
 
This one just returned to us from another cell in Berlin."
 
The young soldier frowned.
 
"The riots are out of control.
 
Things are bad—people are scared…and with this damned Council…"

Cooper clapped Moeller man on the shoulder.
 
"Just make sure you leave some of them for us, yeah?
 
We'll take care of business back home, but I want a piece of this Council."

"For Atlanta," the grim-faced young commando said as he saluted.

Cooper returned the salute.
 
"For Berlin."

C
HAPTER
23

Skye, Scotland.

Dunkeith Castle.

A
S
YOU
WISH
, M
AJESTY
," said Reginald.
 
He bowed and shut off the camera with an angry flick of his wrist.
 
He stared at the blank screen for a few moments before slamming a fist on his desk.
 
"You damned fool!"

The door to the communication room opened and Stefan appeared with a tray of food.
 
"Trouble, my lord?"

Reginald wrapped a cloak of calm around himself before standing to face his steward.
 
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Stefan.
 
The King, in his infinite wisdom, has launched Phase 3 ahead of schedule.
 
He's demanding that I provide vaccines for the entire Council within 24 hours."

Stefan put the tray on the table and stared at Reginald for a moment.
 
"But that's not possible, sir."

Reginald sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
 
"Of
course
not—and he knows it.
 
The additional money required to restart the operation has only just now been transferred into the Section accounts."
 
Reginald pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the silver platter.
 
"The King suspects foul play—that can be the only reason for his behavior."

"That's preposterous!
 
You've devoted your entire life to Council business–"

Reginald smiled and waved off his most loyal retainer.
 
"Very kind of you, Stefan, but it's the only obvious conclusion.
 
The King has allowed someone on the Council to question my loyalty."

"Murata," Stefan said immediately.

Reginald nodded.
 
"He allowed it, Stefan—he encouraged Murata to whisper in his ear.
 
That old man has always had it in for me.
 
This time last year, Murata would never dare utter such nonsense."
 

Reginald paced the communications room like a caged animal and peered out the arrow slit over the loch.
 
The comms room occupied the fourth floor of his castle's south turret.
 
It provided extraordinary views over Skye's western countryside.
 
Reginald turned.
 
"Luncheon shall have to wait, Stefan.
 
I require fresh air to clear my head."

"Very good, my lord," said Stefan at once, bowing to swoop up the platter of food.
 
"Will you be going up top?"

Reginald thought for a moment.
 
"Yes, I believe that will do nicely.
 
Thank you, Stefan."

Stefan inclined his head graciously and backed out of the room.
 
"Think nothing of it, my lord."
 
Reginald waited for the door to quietly shut behind his steward before he exhaled.
 
The other news the King had relayed from Europe was equally discouraging.
 
The Korean flu had mutated quicker than anyone could have imagined.
 

Nearly three out of five people in Berlin were not only infected, but so sick as to be incapacitated.
 
The city was all but shut down.
 
Germany had quarantined itself and walled off its borders, forcing France, Spain, and Austria to follow suit.
 
Cases had been reported in Poland, Italy, Switzerland, and Austria, as well…but now Lord Stirling had been forced to admit there were infections identified in England.

Reginald picked up the scrap of of paper he had scribbled on.
 
The Royals have at last been infected.
 
The Princess of Wales had apparently gone to one too many community events and picked up the flu at a library christening.

The operative
is
the delivery device.
Stirling's words flashed through his mind again.
 
It had been reasonable to gloss over such reports when they were merely words on paper.
 
To think those words meant a living, breathing man had walked up to the Princess of Wales and sacrificed himself by coughing on her…
 

The thought was both humbling and frightening.
 
That kind of dedication was hard to find.
 
He knew the Princess—he'd been to numerous galas and events at Buckingham Palace over the past decade.
 
He'd watched their entire courtship blossom into a marriage.
 
Her death was a necessary evil, but it still left a sour taste in Reginald's mouth and a tremulous feeling of guilt—something he was not used to dealing with—weighed heavy on his stomach.
 
His appetite was gone.

Reginald donned his jacket and opened the wooden door at the rear of the communications room.
 
He took the narrow stairway of carved stone steps three at a time.
 
Reaching the roof, he threw open the reinforced hatch and climbed out into the blustery afternoon.

He let his hands soak in the texture of the rough, worn crenelations.
 
How many wars, how much bloodshed had this castle seen in the centuries of its existence?
 
He drank deep of the salt-tinged air and let the winds ruffle his hair.
 

It's good to be home.
 

No matter how he loved the Continent or exotic locales, nothing felt so good as to come home to the sights, sounds, and smells of Skye.
 
He opened his eyes and stared up at the crystalline blue dome overhead.
 
Thin, wispy clouds scudded across the horizon, far to the west.
 

That way,
he mused to himself,
lies trouble.
 

Jayne hadn't contacted him in over twelve hours.
 
Normally, that would not concern him in the slightest as Jayne was his most experienced and resourceful field agent.
 
If anyone could get out of a bad situation, it would be her—more than likely leaving a trail of blood and mayhem in her wake.
 
The question remained when and where would she reappear—and how much collateral damage she would cause.

The roof hatch opened with a squeak behind him and Stefan's head appeared.
 
"Shall I bring the luncheon, my lord?"

Reginald nodded absently.
 
"Thank you, Stefan."
 
He leaned his hips against one of the crenelations.
 
Stefan looked not the least bit comfortable to be at such heights on a rickety, collapsing medieval tower, but gamely pressed forward and produced the silver platter with a flourish.
 

Reginald tucked the napkin into his shirt and rubbed his hands together.
 
"You know, I find the air up here most refreshing.
 
I've quite regained my appetite!
 
What have you today?"

Stefan removed the silver dome from the platter and bowed.
 
"
Langoustine
in feiulle de bric avec basil
.
 
Fresh caught, my lord."

"Excellent," replied Reginald.
 
He reached for a garishly labeled bottle on the tray.
 
"Is this…?"

"Irn Bru, my lord.
 
I realize it is not exactly the traditional beverage paired with such cuisine but I thought you might like—"

"No, it's perfect!"
 
Reginald took a deep drink from the ice cold bottle of Scottish fizzy pop.
 
"God, it's just like I remember.
 
You know how long it's been since I've had one?"
 
Reginald laughed, looking at the five-star cuisine spread before him and the extremely sweet bottle of pop in his hand.
 
"Thank you."
 

Stefan nervously glanced at the edge of the crenelation to the calm waters of the loch, some 80 feet below.
 
"You're certain this tower's still structurally stable, my lord?"

Reginald picked up a succulent morsel of 'Norwegian lobster' and took a bite.
 
He cheerfully replied around the food, "Not at all!"

Stefan's face paled.
 
"Oh…that's…"

Reginald laughed.
 
"Of course it's stable, Stefan.
 
You honestly think that I would be up here risking my life for a good view?"

Stefan arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Reginald rolled his eyes.
 
"Very well, I retract the question.
 
But Dubai doesn't count," said Reginald, pointing a bit of skewered langoustine at Stefan.
 
The steward merely inclined his head.

Reginald sighed.
 
"You know me too well, Stefan.
 
Well, you have me at a disadvantage—you win this round."

"Will my lord be needing anything else?" asked Stefan, already backing toward the hatch.

"No, I will not be needing anything else.
 
You may go."

Stefan bowed and scrabbled his way down through the open hatch, letting it shut with a soft
click
.

Reginald chewed and let the ocean breeze carry his worries away.
 
He needed exercise—yes, that's what he needed.
 
As soon as he finished lunch he would head down into the practice yard for some calisthenics.
 
He took a long swig from the Irn Bru and wiped the sweet froth from his lips.
 

The hatch opened behind him and Stefan's head reappeared.
 
"I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you again, my lord, but you've received an important Class One communique."

Reginald looked over the edge and brushed the crumbs from his lunch into the water far below.
 
"Class One?
 
Who is it?"

"I'm afraid the young lady refused to divulge her name.
 
The only word she said was '
treize
'.
 
I must say, it certainly
sounded
like Mistress Svea…"
 

Reginald felt his pulse quicken.
 
13—she's alive!
 
"Don't just stand there gaping about like a shepherd, give me the bloody phone!" snapped Reginald.
 

Stefan offered the phone then gracefully disappeared, closing the hatch behind him.
 

"Is that you, dear?" asked Reginald when he put the phone to his ear.
 
"Are you all right?"

The reception was scratchy, the signal bounced halfway around the world and back to avoid detection, but the voice was clear enough for Reginald to confirm.
 

"Yes…for now.
 
I need clearance through British airspace."

Reginald smiled.
 
"I have a lot of questions for you—chief amongst them is why you decided it was necessary to retire some of my best operatives?"

"Was the package not delivered?"

Reginald thought back to when Darius limped into his private chambers and handed over the USB drive with all of Dr. Boatner's vaccine research.
 
"Oh yes, the package has been delivered," he replied.

"Then I see no problem
," was the terse response.
 
"
If they were some of your best, you need to work on your training program.
 
Now, are you going to give me clearance or not?"

Reginald stifled a laugh.
 
"But of course I will give you clearance.
 
You must return home straight away!"

"
Thanks.
 
ETA in four hours.
 
Make sure there's a fire going in my room, please—you know how I hate winter in that dreadful chalet of yours,
" she said.

"Well, you're in for a pleasant surprise, then.
 
When I say home, I mean home.
 
The chalet is…closed for the season, shall we say?"