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Authors: Jana G Oliver
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alone, was the recipient of God’s most senior messenger.
What a sucker.
“Have you done what God asks of you?” Copeland boomed.
Trembling, Grant nodded furiously. “In all things, Most Holy Messenger.”
“Tell me.”
“I have ensured the explosives are divided amongst the warehouses so they will not be found before the Day of Judgment, just as you instructed.”
That would please Copeland’s new bosses. They demanded results. Failure, they said, wasn’t an option. He liked it that way. Davies and his TPB cronies had been too skittish to really turn him loose, let him use that street knowledge he’d picked up over the years. They’d never understood his particular talents. His new bosses did.
“The w-warehouse owner is dead, as you commanded,” the Ascendant stammered, evidently unnerved by the silence.
“Well done,” Copeland said, throwing the man a rare verbal bone. Pulling his strings was so easy.
Step by step, he’d guided Grant through the theft of the explosives and their distribution. When the plan reached fruition, the shifters would take the blame, along with that Fenian.
“What of the Devil’s servant?” Copeland demanded. “Is she dead?”
Grant’s trembling accelerated. “No…no. She is in Bedlam,” the man murmured, still on his knees. “Insane, I hear.”
Bedlam? Endorphin Rebound finally got her . He let loose a laugh, causing Grant’s eyes to snap upward in surprise. Apparently, archangels weren’t known for their humor.
“God’s wrath has fallen upon her,” Copeland announced with relish, staying in character. “We have no mercy for those who side with the Devil.”
The Ascendant nodded enthusiastically.
“She must die before the Sabbath. Do you understand?”
Grant’s eyes widened. “But the Lead Assassin—”
“Is standing in our way!” Copeland bellowed. “Go around him!”
“As you command, Most High Messenger,” Grant said, his forehead touching the carpet in humble obeisance.
Copeland smirked, knowing it wouldn’t be seen.
Just kill the bitch, will you?
Chapter 6
“I expected something more posh,” Ramsey complained as he took a visual inventory of Keats’ sitting room. Two chairs, a couch, small writing table, and a bookcase. Decent condition, but not new. No obvious signs of wealth.
Disconcerted, he moved to the window and looked out onto the street below. “Nice view,” he muttered.
“Why did you expect anything different?” Anderson inquired, still hanging back by the door.
“Keats’ family has a bit of money, from what I hear. I figured he lived better than this. Looks like any other sergeant’s rooms, except they wouldn’t have all those books.”
Anderson edged inside. “Are you saying that police officers don’t read?”
“No,” Ramsey responded curtly, suddenly aware of the trap opening up in front of him. “I’m saying that most coppers don’t have time to sit on their bums in front of the fire.”
“You think Sergeant Keats was derelict in his duties?”
“I don’t know that for sure. Always had a hunch, you see.”
“I thought inspectors kept a tight rein on their detectives,” Anderson declared.
“They do, but when it came to Keats the chief inspector gave him all sorts of liberties.”
“Why do you dislike the man so much?”
Ramsey’s nose wrinkled. “He’s the sort I used to beat up when I was a lad. You know, the short, whiny ones.”
Anderson raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? The only reason you dislike him is because he’s short?”
The inspector’s bravado deflated. “Not really. I’ve always had to work for everything I got. For Keats, hell, it just seemed to always go right for him, like he had some guardian angel watching over his sorry arse.”
“The sergeant has had some successes.”
“Yes,” Ramsey admitted grudgingly, “he has. And he’s sure to wave them under my nose every time he can.”
“If he did kill that Hallcox woman, what would be the
What a sucker.
“Have you done what God asks of you?” Copeland boomed.
Trembling, Grant nodded furiously. “In all things, Most Holy Messenger.”
“Tell me.”
“I have ensured the explosives are divided amongst the warehouses so they will not be found before the Day of Judgment, just as you instructed.”
That would please Copeland’s new bosses. They demanded results. Failure, they said, wasn’t an option. He liked it that way. Davies and his TPB cronies had been too skittish to really turn him loose, let him use that street knowledge he’d picked up over the years. They’d never understood his particular talents. His new bosses did.
“The w-warehouse owner is dead, as you commanded,” the Ascendant stammered, evidently unnerved by the silence.
“Well done,” Copeland said, throwing the man a rare verbal bone. Pulling his strings was so easy.
Step by step, he’d guided Grant through the theft of the explosives and their distribution. When the plan reached fruition, the shifters would take the blame, along with that Fenian.
“What of the Devil’s servant?” Copeland demanded. “Is she dead?”
Grant’s trembling accelerated. “No…no. She is in Bedlam,” the man murmured, still on his knees. “Insane, I hear.”
Bedlam? Endorphin Rebound finally got her . He let loose a laugh, causing Grant’s eyes to snap upward in surprise. Apparently, archangels weren’t known for their humor.
“God’s wrath has fallen upon her,” Copeland announced with relish, staying in character. “We have no mercy for those who side with the Devil.”
The Ascendant nodded enthusiastically.
“She must die before the Sabbath. Do you understand?”
Grant’s eyes widened. “But the Lead Assassin—”
“Is standing in our way!” Copeland bellowed. “Go around him!”
“As you command, Most High Messenger,” Grant said, his forehead touching the carpet in humble obeisance.
Copeland smirked, knowing it wouldn’t be seen.
Just kill the bitch, will you?
Chapter 6
“I expected something more posh,” Ramsey complained as he took a visual inventory of Keats’ sitting room. Two chairs, a couch, small writing table, and a bookcase. Decent condition, but not new. No obvious signs of wealth.
Disconcerted, he moved to the window and looked out onto the street below. “Nice view,” he muttered.
“Why did you expect anything different?” Anderson inquired, still hanging back by the door.
“Keats’ family has a bit of money, from what I hear. I figured he lived better than this. Looks like any other sergeant’s rooms, except they wouldn’t have all those books.”
Anderson edged inside. “Are you saying that police officers don’t read?”
“No,” Ramsey responded curtly, suddenly aware of the trap opening up in front of him. “I’m saying that most coppers don’t have time to sit on their bums in front of the fire.”
“You think Sergeant Keats was derelict in his duties?”
“I don’t know that for sure. Always had a hunch, you see.”
“I thought inspectors kept a tight rein on their detectives,” Anderson declared.
“They do, but when it came to Keats the chief inspector gave him all sorts of liberties.”
“Why do you dislike the man so much?”
Ramsey’s nose wrinkled. “He’s the sort I used to beat up when I was a lad. You know, the short, whiny ones.”
Anderson raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? The only reason you dislike him is because he’s short?”
The inspector’s bravado deflated. “Not really. I’ve always had to work for everything I got. For Keats, hell, it just seemed to always go right for him, like he had some guardian angel watching over his sorry arse.”
“The sergeant has had some successes.”
“Yes,” Ramsey admitted grudgingly, “he has. And he’s sure to wave them under my nose every time he can.”
“If he did kill that Hallcox woman, what would be the
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