Page 18

Chapter Seventeen

Jacob

The applause swells around me, and adrenaline rushes in my blood as guests get to their feet. I’ve never been one to show off, but a standing ovation feels bloody good.

I took a risk with this speech. I’m well-known for my beliefs on life extension technology, but previously, I’ve kept my public announcements in the realm people are comfortable with. The chance of living to a healthy 140 years? Most people don’t take issue with that.

This time, I spoke about my true passion—solving the aging process altogether by treating it as the disease it truly is. I was worried the crowd would dismiss me as a quack, like when Aubrey de Gray said the first person to live to one thousand might already be sixty. But technology has moved on since then, and so have people’s attitudes.

They fucking loved it.

Seb claps me on my back as I return to our VIP table, applause still ringing. The ballroom is decorated all Grecian, white marble pillars and vines everywhere. Statues of curvy birds with their tits out pouring wine. Funny how the difference between art and porn is the price.

There are at least three-hundred people here, all the most promising biotech students from across the US and overseas. Tickets can’t be bought; they’re offered based on ability. It’s sponsored by the best companies in the industry, all aiming to bring new blood into their ranks.

I wonder if any of the men here will be future Brothers.

The thought isn’t a happy one, and it follows me as the applause dies down. I struggled with my decision to join the Brotherhood and still wonder if I made the right call. Most Brothers join when they’re young and haven’t seen much of the grim, dirty side of the world.

The secrecy, rituals, and ruthlessness of the Brotherhood make it eerily similar to some of the organizations I worked to dismantle.

I shake off the thought and let myself enjoy the moment. Seb hands me a glass of champagne, then watches, face dropping, as I down it in two big swigs. I never drink before a speech, and my nerves have been firing off like crazy all day. I need to settle myself down.

“Jesus, that was Louis Roederer Cristal. You’re meant to savor it.”

“I did. It was nice. Let’s grab a beer.” He rolls his eyes as I signal the waiter. “Anything from Quinn?”

He hands my phone back to me. “Nothing, though Gabriel messaged to say they dropped her back to your place. He said she looked exhausted, and Eve said she hit the drink pretty hard. Can’t really blame her.”

“No.”

Seb sips his champagne. “I like her. She seems fun, but…” He swirls the liquid in his glass, “I’m not sure how she’s going to get on in the Compound. Look at Eve. She’s a nerdy homebody. She loves working with you. There’s a lot of good in the Brotherhood for her. Quinn, though…”

My chest tightens as he gives voice to the worry that’s been eating at me all day. As new Brothers, we’re all advised, very strongly, to choose Wards who will adapt well to the Compound. Intelligent, submissive, calm natured.

Quinn is a firework in a box. I can keep her contained and have fun doing it, but I want her to thrive, too. She’s going to need something of her own, and I don’t know her well enough yet to work out what it should be.

My train of thought is interrupted as a young guy who looks half pissed comes over, clutching a copy of one of my books. He hands it to me for signing, which I do, feeling like a fucking idiot. Since when do scientists sign stuff? We have a brief chat, and then he’s replaced by another chap.

An hour later, the flow finally slows, and I tilt my head toward the exit. “Let’s go. I don’t want to leave Quinn any longer.”

Seb drags his gaze away from the absolute stunner who has slipped into the seat next to him and is enjoying a glass of his champagne. As initiates, we’re not meant to sleep around, but I’m not sure Seb takes the rule seriously. I’ve never seen a bigger flirt. His face is a picture of disappointment. “Really? Now?”

“Really. Now.”

He sighs, whispers something in the girl’s ear that makes her laugh, and kisses her on the cheek. He leaves her with the champagne bottle and a huge smile on her face as he gets to his feet. Slick bastard.

We say our goodbyes to the organizer and make a slow exit, stopped every few feet by someone wanting to congratulate me on my speech. By the time we reach the exit, I’m getting to the end of my rope. I’d expected a message from Quinn by this point, and the silence is making me nervous.

Stupid. She’s probably asleep. The girl sleeps like a corpse.

We exit into the much quieter corridor, and I breathe out just as my phone beeps. I pull it out, open the message, and stare, unable to process what I’m seeing. Then it hits, and a red haze falls over my vision, matched by the buzzing in my ears.

The glass cabinet for my special memorabilia is on its side, smashed to pieces. Everything is gone. A text comes next.

Guess what I’ve done with all your shit?

“Hey, is everything okay?” Seb looks back when he sees I’ve stopped dead.

I hold up a hand, eyes glued to the screen.

First comes one of my signed West Ham balls. She’s taken a permanent marker and covered over all the signatures, turning them into pictures of bunny rabbits. She’s posing in the photo, holding the ball in one hand with a wild look on her face and her middle finger raised.

“That fucking…”

Another photo, the winning boots from the 1964 FA Cup. Irreplaceable. I made sure all the sharp knives were locked away, but the little cow is holding my boots over the flame of the gas stove. In the next photo, they’re sitting, destroyed, in the kitchen sink.

More photos follow, my other balls, ruined. The final text plasters itself across the screen.

That’s what you get for being a fucking liar.

What the hell is she talking about? I should work it out, but my anger is running too hot. Grandad and I searched for all the memorabilia together. He found the boots at a tiny collectibles shop in Bristol, of all the weird places, and couldn’t contain his excitement when he took me to get them.

She’s destroyed them. Destroyed that special memory.

A familiar feeling creeps over me, one I haven’t given in to for a long time. A deep, reckless anger—the sort that had me stealing cars and crashing them into walls just for the hell of it when I was a kid. If Quinn thought I was strict before, she has no fucking idea what’s coming to her now. I’ll—

The sound is so faint, and the buzzing in my head so loud, I almost miss it. Only my years of training make me register the faint click. My body moves before my brain catches up, and I smash into Seb, knocking him to the floor as the bullet whistles past.

“Jacob, what the f—”

I’m moving, on my feet and pounding down the corridor toward the shooter. The man—I can see him now, hovering in a fire escape door—fires again. I’m ready for it and launch myself to the side, leaving the bullet to smash a chunk of plaster out of the wall.

Seb is shouting something but I’m barreling toward the guy. I get a brief impression of dirty blond hair and wide, panicked eyes before I crash into him, driving him to the carpet.

The gun flies out of his hand as I raise my fist and smash it into his face over and over until he goes limp.

It’s over in seconds.

Only once he’s down do I register the pain in my knuckles, the sweat sticking my shirt to my body, and the pounding of my heart. I jump up, grab the gun, and check for accomplices.

I push open the fire escape, breathe in the cool, fresh air, and peer into the darkness as Seb’s voice registers. He’s on the phone, yelling at someone. Probably the Gilda team waiting at the chopper.

I crouch to examine the assailant. Scruffy hair, stubble, and the yellow teeth of a crackhead. He doesn’t look like a pro, and he didn’t shoot like one either. I’m searching him for identification when the Gilda arrive.

“Sir. You both need to head back to the Compound immediately. Kendrick’s orders. We’ll take care of the local police and bring him in for questioning.”

I ignore the young officer and continue my careful pat-down. Nothing. Fingerprints will give us an ID, though. No way someone who looks this fucked isn’t in the system somewhere. I examine the weapon. Cheap as shit. Entry level. If this guy is a hired assassin, he’s the bargain basement variety.

“Sir, sorry, but I have to insist you—”

“I’ll leave when I’m fucking ready.”

The guy isn't dead, but he's bleeding, and a crowd will be here soon. Although my instinct tells me to stay with him, the Gilda officer is probably right. Getting custody of him will be a lot easier for them if the keynote speaker at the event isn't found with bloody knuckles clutching a weapon.

“Cameras?”

“We'll deal with it, sir. The chopper is ready to go.”

A polite shove in the right direction. With a last look at the assassin, I get to my feet. Seb and I follow the officer to the helipad on the roof and climb in. Seb is white-faced, fingers shaking as he buckles himself in.

The helicopter is small but top spec, and I’m glad of it as we take off. It’s been a while since anyone tried to kill me, and I take a minute to get my head on straight before I turn to Seb. “You okay mate?”

He laughs, an edgy sound, and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Sure. Fucking hell.” He stares out of the window at the shrinking roof of the hotel before turning back to me. “Was he shooting at me or you?”

A good question. “Me, I think, but his aim was shit, so it’s hard to tell. Probably some religious crazy with a grudge against me.”

Plenty of religious wankers hate the idea of radical life extension. I’ve been accused of trying to steal souls from God. As if that dickhead needs any more than he already has.

He nods, but I can tell he’s still freaking out. He’s probably never been shot at before. He needs a distraction, or he'll start to spiral. “Look what bloody Quinn did.”

I hand him my phone and show him the messages. His mouth drops, but it’s done what it needed to. His hands grow steadier as he scrolls, and his voice sounds almost normal as he asks, “What are you going to do about it?”