The Regent: The Wildfire Saga, #5

1

HOME INVASION

Louis Halgood d’Fleur stared at the security guard in front of him, chief of his late father’s protection detail. The massive man had been one of his father’s best retainers, loyal to the core and bred for fighting. He’d never seen Roland MacTavish so much as sweat, let alone appear nervous or anxious. Yet now, the big man appeared downright scared.

Even when on guard detail at crowded public events with his father, or at Louis’ own football matches when growing up, the man had remained steady, unshakable…a rock. His father had called the man his anchor. His mother always had a small smile for him.

But today, MacTavish looked beyond anxious, beyond nervous. He looked scared. Louis noticed several tells: the way his security chief’s hand tightened and relaxed on the pistol’s grip, how he hunched his shoulders forward, just slightly, how the tips of his ears were bright pink, as if more blood were circulating through the man’s massive frame.

Louis swallowed. If a man such as MacTavish was frightened, Louis knew he should be terrified. He leaned around his hulking, kilted protector and stared in disbelief once more at the bodies gracing the floor at the other end of the long, formal reception room.

What’s happened? he whispered. Are we safe here?

MacTavish’s voice rumbled from the depths of his wide chest. We need to get you to the safe room, sire.

The ancestral De Honfleur family estate, an oddity in this part of Normandy, had remained in the family for centuries and grown little by little with each successive generation of Norman gentry. The sprawling holdings now covered several hundred prime acres and the chateau itself occupied a place of honor atop the western mount overlooking Honfleur itself and the Channel to the north. On any given day, Louis could be found riding around the estate—either by horse, as his father preferred, or by utility vehicle, as Louis preferred—marveling at the simple, idyllic beauty he’d inherited through having survived the Korean Flu.

When the Council released the bioweapon in an attempt to place King Charles back on his hereditary throne, it had swept through Europe like a burning scourge that brought back dark memories of his youth during the Pandemic. Louis had been unceremoniously recalled from his exclusive tutelage in England.

Several generations of his family, from his great-grandfather on down the line, had all attended England’s exclusive Eaton College, rubbing shoulders with princes and future kings of half the Houses of Europe. With the advent of the World Wars, the De Honfleur family—one of the old Norman aristocratic lines that straddled the Channel with blood and property since the days of the Conqueror himself—had finally come home to Normandy and severed its holdings and familial ties with England.

Louis’ father had been acutely aware of their name—d’Fleur, not De Honfleur—but had made no attempt to change it, despite inheriting all the family’s wealth and power. The English d’Fleur branch of the family sprang from some long lost Norman warrior who’d set down his roots in the ancient March under the Plantagenets. Unwilling to shed the long history that went with the shortened name and extensive British holdings, the d’Fleur line remained a backwater relation to the main Norman family.

They remained separate until ten years ago, with the onset of the Great Pandemic. The entire De Honfleur family had been wiped out, like so many families around the world, save a few minor branches. Louis’ father, an almost-forgotten cousin, became the patriarch of the tattered remains of the once mighty De Honfleur family.

All this ran through Louis’ mind as he was half-pushed, half-dragged away from the grisly scene in the reception hall toward the bolt hole MacTavish called the safe room. He blinked and found himself in a long hallway lined with dour portraits of men and women he knew belonged to his family. They all wore the same long faces or frowned at something unseen in the distance. Behind every one of them, two symbols had been neatly interwoven in each portrait. Sometimes hidden on a flag or detailed in a tapestry, other times on a shield—when the subject of the painting wore his armor. And always the same two symbols: the castle keep surrounded by fleur de lis for the De Honfleur line, and the mailed fist holding lightning, surmounted by a crown and surrounded by olive branches, the sigil of The Council.

Hurry! MacTavish said, shoving Louis toward the east wing’s library.

Louis ran down darkened corridors, skidding around a marbled corner and, for once, ignoring the carved walnut trim that adorned everything. He loved walking down this side of the chateau, running his hands over the carvings, imagining the fantastical beasts and soldiers would come to life if only he willed it.

A gunshot, loud as thunder, echoed somewhere behind them. Louis heard the screams over the earpiece MacTavish wore. The rest of the security detail didn’t appear to be faring any better against the onslaught that wiped out the advance team in the reception hall.

I don’t understand, Louis gasped as the entered the East Library. MacTavish took up a position to the left of the door, crouched and raised his weapon, aiming back the way they’d come into the gloomy murk of the corridor. Emergency lights flickered in the distance, casting moving shadows over everything.

There’s nothing to understand, sire. Pull the book, get in the room, lock it tight. Do it!

Louis ran to the far corner of the dark room, squinting in the dim light from the hallway. The power had been cut to the entire chateau—that had been only ten minutes earlier. One moment, he’d been having a video chat with Isobel from her country home outside Oxford, inviting her and her surviving family to recuperate at the chateau. Then he’d been plunged into darkness. The security alarms wailed, the red lights turned on in the hallways, and MacTavish had all but broken his bedroom door in half, entering the room with pistol drawn.

I lost your father to the Flu, I’ll be damned if I lose you to some hairy-arsed rival, he’d announced. It’s one of the others from the Council, I’d bet my life on it.

Louis didn’t like the sound of that. He’d known about the fall of the Exiled King, of course—it’s how he came to be the new king, after all—but he wasn’t aware the international effort to root out the Council had forced the survivors to seek him out so soon. It had been MacTavish’s worry since the get-go: when the Council came under attack from the Americans and their allies, the survivors decided it was time to snap up the unclaimed power. And whoever controlled the heir, held the reins of what remained of the Council itself. The opportunity, according to MacTavish, was too good to pass up. To hell with loyalties.

Louis found the right section after shining the light from his cellphone on the gilded bookshelf. He stared at the glittering leather spines of his father’s prized fiction collection. Every single book by Robert A. Heinlein lined three shelves, each one bound in leather and gold. He’d always scoffed at the idea that the secret to entering the safe room lay hidden among pulp fiction books from the 1950s, but his father had countered that it would be the last place any respectable person would look—they would be immediately drawn to the impressive tomes of history and prestige: Plato, Dickens, Chaucer, and the like.

With trembling fingers, Louis reached out and pushed his father’s copy of Farnham’s Freehold and was rewarded with a soft click. The entire section, wide enough for two of him, or one of MacTavish, dropped back into a hidden recess and slid to the side on a whisper of wood kissing stone. He looked over his shoulder.

Go! Get in there! I can’t fight back until I know you’re safe!

At MacTavish’s urging, Louis stepped into the darkened space and groped until he found the latch release with his right hand. He pulled the heavy, wrought-iron ring embedded in the stone foundation behind the bookshelf, and the secret door slid back into place behind him, sealing him in darkness.

The breath caught in Louis’ throat. For a split second, he imagined himself entombed, buried alive. He had about as much space as a coffin to turn around but it wouldn’t do any good. Without the lights, he was cloaked in a black so complete, he couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face. He closed his eyes, remembering the ceaseless drills his father and MacTavish had forced him through during the past ten years. He knew, as the son of the heir-apparent to the Exiled King, he had a part to play in the unfolding history of the Council, but Louis had always assumed his father would take the center light and become king long before anyone thought of his son.

I’m just Louis…I’m nobody…

But he knew that wasn’t true. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart while he waited the interminable seconds it took the emergency generator to power up the safe room. It was always the same—nine seconds of complete, mind-searing darkness, then the safe room would be fully powered and all his comforts seen to with the push of a button. In the drills, those nine seconds passed in the blink of an eye.

Now that it mattered, now that his very life was on the line…those nine seconds ticked by with the span of a century. A cold sweat formed a sheen on Louis’ forehead. How bloody long does it take to turn on the lights?

And then, like when he was told his father had ascended to the family seat and became The Heir, the world rushed at him in a blur. His heart thudded once more, and the lights snapped on with an audible pop, lancing pain into his dark-adapted eyes. Louis blinked back the sudden moisture in his blurred vision and staggered forward into the technological cave of last resort. A solid steel door, perhaps eight inches thick, swished shut behind him, closing with the snap-hiss of a hermetic seal.

He rushed to the communication station and powered up the bank of monitors that gave him access to every security feed on the estate. On the left-hand monitors were the exterior views; on the right, the interior. He noticed straightaway, more than half the interior cameras were offline. The exterior views were hardly any better. Black smoke roiled and curled through every view except two—the pair of cameras at the far end of the main drive that looked back at the stately chateau. Most of the outbuildings were on fire.

The stable! he gasped. He was never overly fond of the horses his father kept, but the recent loss of his parents made his heart clench at the sight of his father’s longtime passion going up in smoke. He hoped the horses escaped at least.

Shifting his eyes back to the view of the East Library, he saw MacTavish still in position by the door. He picked up the waiting headset from its golden stand and clipped it into place over his head. I’m in, MacTavish.

Sealed? his protector said, without moving his attention from the corridor.

Louis turned to face the steel blast door and looked at the caged light above the graceful arch that mimicked the stonework prevalent throughout the chateau. The light’s green.

"Good," MacTavish said. He stood and slipped out of the library and into the shadows, disappearing before Louis’ eyes.

Where are you going? Louis cried, scanning the monitors, looking for MacTavish. I don’t see anyone else!

Nor will you, if they’re doing their fucking jobs.

Louis patched into the security net, just like MacTavish had shown him. Voices, hushed or gasping, cascaded over each other. Louis shook his head as he tried to decipher the cacophony. There were too many voices, yet every screen showed empty rooms or unmoving bodies.

Let me know if you see anything, MacTavish called, his voice trembling in time with his pace as he sprinted down some unseen walkway. Clear the net! I want only team leaders speaking! He waited a moment for the background noise to die down, then took a deep breath. Now—how many are there? What are we dealing with?

Negative reports cycled in and the chatter started to organize itself now that MacTavish had taken command of the situation. From what Louis could discern, no one had seen more than a few ghostly figures, clad in all black and moving with the swift surety of highly trained soldiers. Everyone who’d stood to block their way had fallen in a bloody heap.

Only three? Louis frowned at the monitors. It couldn’t be that few. Most the household guard had been wiped out; three men—no matter how well trained—couldn’t take on fifty and walk away unscathed. There had to be more, and he said as much.

Stay quiet, my lord—let me think.

Louis crossed his arms. Right. ’Cause I’m just a kid. One of his mates at Eaton was an honest-to-God prince royal from Saudi Arabia. I bet he wouldn’t be told to shut up and hide.

Movement on the monitor tuned toward the chateau’s kitchens caught Louis’ eye. He watched a door swing open, and a man dressed in the family livery staggered in, leaning on racks of pots and pans for balance. He barely noticed when a half-dozen skillets clattered to the floor as he moved through the kitchen.

I’ve got noise in the kitchen, MacTavish whispered over the net. Sebastian, get your squad over here, dammit.

Moving now, was the terse, Gallic response.

I think he’s one of ours, Louis warned. He looks injured.

Sebastian, cover the exits; I’ll check it out, MacTavish advised.

Copy that.

Louis watched, heart in his throat, as MacTavish appeared at the bottom of the monitor and slipped silent as a shadow behind the counters and cooking surfaces, between the ovens and the refrigerators, inching closer to the man in the center of the room. He paused just around the corner from the stranger and aimed his massive black pistol.

Don’t move! he roared.

The man lifted his head as if he’d had too much to drink and took one halting step toward MacTavish. His right arm slid along the clean countertop next to him, trailing a streak of wine dark blood in his wake.

MacTavish swore. Hold your fire! He lowered his pistol and raced forward, catching Jean Broussard, one of the surviving stewards. Christ, man, what happened?

Louis heard muttered French over MacTavish’s link. Did he say a woman?

MacTavish swore again. Aye, and you know what that means.

A string of French coursed over the security net. Why are they so scared of this woman?

Louis tapped the transmit button. Is she with the Council?

MacTavish lowered the dying man to the floor with a gentleness that belied his bulk. He looked straight into the hidden security camera in the corner, staring at Louis.

She’s… MacTavish shrugged. I wish I knew, sire. We’ve no heard a lot from anyone in the Council lately. It could be she’s with them…

What the hell’s this, then? demanded a new voice over the net. She’s here?

Did I hear that right? a third, worried voice cut in.

Shut up, the lot of you! MacTavish said. He stared at the camera. Your Majesty, do you trust me?

Louis swallowed. Why were the men so scared? Y-yes…I…

You do or you don’t, it’s an easy enough question, MacTavish snapped.

Gunfire echoed from somewhere in the chateau and the muzzle flash of automatic weapons lit up the monitors in front of Louis. They’re shooting! he warned.

Aye, that’ll happen, MacTavish said, not even flinching. Listen carefully, Your Majesty. I was hoping this day would never come, but if things are to play out as I suspect, you need to trust that I would never do anything to harm you. Aye?

I do, Louis replied instantly.

MacTavish warned the security team to stand down. He holstered his weapon and walked out of the kitchen as he talked, heading toward the central structure. Louis spotted new movement in the reception hall where MacTavish would end up if he kept to his path.

What are you doing?

He shifted his attention to that monitor. Someone all in black, like a shadow—most definitely a woman, though—strode purposefully through the carnage and stepped over the bodies of his security guards as one might avoid dog droppings. Louis’ eyes were transfixed on the sway of the leather-encased hips as she worked her way forward, a short black coat covering her upper torso, made of the same shiny, jet black material that hugged her legs and hips. She paused to look down at one body in particular and a tumble of bright blonde hair fell over one shoulder.

On the opposite side of the hall, a picture, shot up and abused during the recent fighting, gave up its struggle with gravity and crashed to the floor. The heavy, gilded frame made a terrible racket, not unlike a gunshot. She spun, quick as lightning, a pistol materializing in each hand, aimed at the wreckage on the floor across the hall.

Louis’ mouth had gone dry through a sick combination of fear and roiling hormones at the sight of such lethal beauty strolling the halls of his own house.

My God, she’s…amazing.

2

A COWBOY IN EDINBURGH

Danika Helström tightened the high collar around her neck as the helicopter rotors buffeted her from across the landing pad. The cold north Atlantic air sweeping down over Scotland had been in place over Edinburgh for several days now, providing a glimpse of an early winter to come. When the aircraft flared for landing, an icy blast hit her in the face, mixed with dust and tiny pebbles kicked up by the landing.

She shielded her eyes with a hand and frowned at the display as the UH-Blackhawk lowered its nose and landed precisely in the middle of the large X that filled the landing pad. Someone’s showing off—there’s no need for theatrics like that here.

She glanced around at the grim-faced men in black business suits who ringed the helipad, all with matching dark sunglasses and barely concealed compact sub-machine guns strapped to their sides. They’re certainly not very impressed.

Danika had personally reviewed the files of all the U.N.-provided security detail, and to a man they were all ex-military, and several were former special forces from their respective countries. Frenchmen, Swedes, Germans, some Italians, and a few Russians sprinkled in for good measure. Her frown deepened. The absolute lack of anyone representing the United States spoke volumes over why this mission must succeed.

To be honest, Danika couldn’t care less whether the mission blew up in the politicians’ faces—she was here for other reasons. To be sure, the junior senator from Idaho was a man on the right path—at least as far as she could tell—but he had no idea how dangerous the game had become. He was part of the new bloods in Congress, those elected in the past six months to replace people killed during the Korean Flu and subsequent invasion. Because he was new, he hadn’t been saddled with lobbyists and special interest baggage—yet—and because he was angry, he was as much a target as he was popular.

Danika’s eyes focused beyond the slowing rotors as the pilot powered down the helicopter’s turbo-charged engines, taking in Edinburgh’s gothic skyline. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in Scotland’s capital, but it was the first time she’d visited while on a mission.

Her eyes danced across the studded ramparts of Edinburgh Castle at the other end of the Royal Mile, lording over the sloping lands surrounding the castle’s plateau. With the surviving power brokers of the U.N. gathered here—even if it was impromptu and only known for a few days prior to actually happening—Edinburgh had a massive target on its back. The remnants of the Council would be stupid to pass up an opportunity to strike back at those that took them down just half a year before.

The wind grabbed hold of the bottom edge of Danika’s coat and threatened to expose her bare legs to the cold even more. She slapped it down with growing irritation and willed the American to hurry the hell up and disembark. She could almost feel a sniper out there watching the helipad, waiting for a target of opportunity.

There had been several attempted incidents in the past week as the international conclave assembled, all minor, and though the frequency was enough to raise the eyebrows of security experts like Danika and her foreign counterparts, the targets were so low on the proverbial totem pole as to be inconsequential: sub-level staffers, a few aides, and one extremely junior assistant.

Still, the attempts—mostly cyber—were enough to keep people like Danika and the men surrounding the helipad on edge. Having a cold wind blow up her dress didn’t help her mood, either.

At last, the sliding door on the side of the battleship gray Blackhawk opened and several men and women in business attire stepped down on shaky legs, blinking in the dim, blustery light. Despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, the sky was unnaturally bright. Danika thought nothing of it—she was used to the midnight sky being much brighter in her native, higher latitude Sweden.

A shadow moved in the interior of the helicopter as the last passengers stepped down clutching briefcases, satchels, or purses. Two of the U.N. security detail hurried forward and escorted the passengers to the edge of the helipad and the exit door built into a shack-like structure jutting up from the edge of the rooftop.

Danika’s frown increased. It was bad enough that the U.N. decided to hold their summit here—practically in Reginald’s backyard at just over 50 miles from Skye—but to force incoming participants and their staff to land at the Scottish National Parliament Building was inviting trouble. It was never a good idea to paint a target on the actual event grounds.

She refused the urge to glance over her shoulder at the row-house rooftops across the Royal Mile, or at Holyrood Palace and the ruined Abbey just across the road to the east. She knew they were all crawling with security officers and that foot traffic had been severely curtailed to official U.N. business only, but still…

Someone’s out there. One of Reginald’s men maybe…I can feel it….

The last man not part of the aircrew hopped down from the flight deck with the easy practice of someone who’d done so many thousands of times. Danika took a good look at her new partner—she hadn’t seen him in six months—not since the night she’d ended Reginald’s life with a bullet to the forehead. Then, Cooper Braaten had been bleeding, wounded, and limping, but determined to fight Reginald. The man just couldn’t pull the trigger and end Reginald’s threat once and for all.

Danika sighed as Cooper caught his duffel bag and waved to the aircrew. He was clearly ex-military; even a grocery store clerk could see that. The way he carried himself and the easy smile he had for the flight crew—it all bespoke a long familiarity with the brotherhood of arms. Despite the fact that he wore civilian clothes, a nondescript suit, and loafers with a dull gray overcoat, his bearing, the set of his face, the way his eyes never stopped moving—it all screamed operator.

She stepped forward, supposing it was good that Braaten seemed so at ease with the prospect of imminent violence, but that would also blow his cover, if he was really going to blend in and use the U.N. summit to their advantage. Because she sure as hell wasn’t here to babysit some senator, even if he did want to bring fire and brimstone down on North Korea for their botched invasion. Danika Helström had signed on to be the head of Senator Tecumseh’s security detail for the sole purpose of ferreting out Jayne Renolds and ending her life.

She walked across the gravel and tarred rooftop helipad, her high heels sinking slightly into the semi-spongy material as she went, her head bowed slightly against the wind—blessedly less intense now that the Blackhawk’s rotors had finally stopped spinning. Braaten looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed despite his trans-Atlantic flight, so he likely spent the time sleeping as a veteran soldier would.

Ms. Baker, he said, extending a hand.

Danika smiled, not too pleasant or inviting, but not without real emotion either. After all, Braaten had saved her life when the Council assassin had tried to kill her, back when she’d first offered her services to the Americans. Less than a year ago it was, but she could still feel the assassin’s cold blade against her throat.

Danika forced a smile as she took his strong, warm hand in hers and shook. I wouldn’t be here shaking hands if it weren’t for you.

The look of rage on Braaten’s face as he’d barreled the would-be assassin in the corner and proceeded to kill the man by ripping off a chunk of his own leg brace and stabbing the Council’s pawn through the neck…it had been something she’d never forgotten. Though Braaten was smiling now, she noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was relaxed but wary, his eyes roving, checking out the men that flanked her, spotting the concealed weapons they carried, and sizing them up as possible threats.

Mr. Braaten, she replied. So good to see you. How was the flight? she asked, turning and gesturing for him to follow her.

He shifted his duffel to his right shoulder and grunted. Ms. Baker. Don’t know, I slept the whole way—best sleep I’ve had in a long time.

Danika smiled. I knew it. She waved off the security detail that stepped forward, ostensibly to search Braaten for weapons. He wasn’t on their official lists and she saw the others move forward as well. She stopped and held up a hand.

Relax, Franz, he’s with me. This is Cooper Braaten; he’s part of Senator Tecumseh’s security detail.

The big German turned his head, his dark sunglasses reflecting the lights behind her. He’s not on my list.

She lost her smile. Franz was loyal to a fault, but he was too loyal to the fucking rule book, as far as she was concerned. He’s with me, she repeated, stepping forward. Shall I wake the Senator and have him confirm it for you?

Visibly taken aback at the thought of having to explain to his supervisor why the American senator—the media darling and star of the show—had his beauty rest disturbed, Franz swallowed and backed up, motioning with a jerk of his head for the others to back off.

"Next time, clear it with me, ja?"

Danika flashed her most charming smile. I will, thanks.

Hey thanks, bub, Braaten said as moved to follow her. When Franz did nothing but stare at the American, the ex-SEAL grinned. We’re all on the same team, guys. He turned in a circle as he walked, careful to make eye contact with the closest of the security team, careful to warn them with his eyes that despite his smile, he wouldn’t take any of their shit.

Danika couldn’t help but grin at his bravado. Way to confirm their suspicions: you’re just another American cowboy.

"Come on, let’s