The Kilsyth Feint

​POV: Jarrah

​The rain over Kilsyth Manor fell in heavy, gray sheets, turning the formal courtyard into a slick sea of black cobblestone.

​Alastair had called it a "Peace Summit." The press releases had already hit the syndicate wire an hour ago: The Sector Four Accord. A public truce to end two months of bloodshed. It was a lie, of course. A grand, theatrical feint designed to get me out from behind my reinforced bulkheads and into the open where a long-range round could solve his problems cleanly.

​I knew it. He knew I knew it. But in this business, refusing an invitation to negotiate in front of the regional bosses was the same as signing your own abdication.

​The armored SUV came to a halt in the center of the courtyard.

​"Three optical glints on the east balustrade," Malia said quietly from the seat beside me. She didn't look at the windows. She was adjusting the lace cuff of her dark dress, her fingers steady, her eyes calm. "High elevation. Bolt-action, suppressed. They aren't trying to hide them."

​"They want us nervous," I said, reaching over to check the action on the compact blade concealed inside my coat sleeve. "They want me focused on the roof so I don't see the knife coming from the floor."

​I turned to look at her. The dark green velvet of her gown caught the dim gray light filtering through the tinted glass. Her hair was swept up, exposing the pale line of her throat and the subtle, Kevlar-threaded collar sewn into the neckline.

​"You don't have to walk out there," I told her. The words tasted bitter. "You could stay in the vehicle. Once we cross those flagstones, I can't guarantee a clean exit path."

​Malia raised her head, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding intensity that made my chest ache more than the cracked ribs under my vest. "If I stay in the car, Vane and the rest of the council will think you brought a piece of baggage to trade. I walk beside you, Jarrah. Or I don't go at all."

​I stared at her for a long second, feeling the quiet, dangerous heat that always burned beneath her composure.

​"Beside me, then," I murmured.

​I pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the rain.

​The cold air hit my face like a slap. Instantly, the familiar skin-prickle of being hunted settled over my neck. I could feel the crosshairs, invisible red optical lines, tracing the line of my chest, waiting for the signal.

​I turned and extended my hand to Malia. She took it, her fingers firm, and stepped down onto the wet stone.

​A dozen men in tailored suits and tactical waistcoats lined the steps of the manor. At the top stood Alastair Kilsyth, flanked by Lord Vane and two under-bosses from the River District. Alastair was smiling that thin, razor-sharp smirk that usually meant someone was about to die.

​"Jarrah," Alastair called out, his voice echoing over the rush of the fountain in the center of the yard. "You look remarkably intact for a man whose headquarters caught fire last night."

​His eyes shifted past me, landing on Malia with a slow, predatory appraisal.

​"And you brought a guest," Alastair continued, taking a slow step down the marble stairs. "I didn't realize the medic was part of the delegation. Is she here to stitch you up when we finish talking, or did you bring her as a sweetening token for the trade route negotiations?"

​A ripple of low laughter passed through Vane’s men on the terrace.

​My blood went cold not with anger, but with a sudden, absolute clarity.

​I didn't answer him. Instead, I reached out, caught Malia by the waist, and pulled her firmly against my side. My hand rested on the small of her back, heavy, possessive, and unyielding. I turned her slightly so she faced the entire gallery of bosses, making sure every sniper on those roofs had a clear view through their optics.

​"Let's get something clear before we step inside," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the rain with the weight of an executioner's blade.

​The laughter on the steps died instantly.

​"Malia isn't an escort," I said, locking eyes with Alastair, then shifting my gaze to Vane. "She isn't an errand girl, and she isn't collateral. She speaks with my authority. She carries my mark. You treat her as my equal, or you don't speak to me at all."

​Alastair's smirk faltered. Vane shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward the rooflines.

​"And if any man in this courtyard or on those roofs so much as looks at her like target practice," I added, tightening my grip on her waist, "I won't just kill him. I'll burn his entire family line out of this city before the sun goes down tomorrow."

​Silence fell over the courtyard, heavy and suffocating. Beside me, I felt Malia's breath catch, but she didn't shrink away. She squared her shoulders, her chin tilted high, accepting the mark in front of the men who ruled the underworld.

​Alastair broke the silence with a dry, bitter clap of his hands. "A touching speech, Jarrah. Really. Now, shall we see if your negotiating skills match your romantic declarations?"

​He turned toward the grand glass doors of the conservatory.

​As we stepped onto the top terrace, Malia leaned in close, her shoulder pressing against mine. "That was dangerous," she murmured. "Now every enemy you have knows exactly where to shoot to hurt you."

​"Let them try," I gritted through my teeth. "It just makes the target clearer."

​Before we reached the doors, a sharp ping vibrated through the stone under our boots.

​I glanced down. A single high-caliber shell casing lay on the flagstone near the doorway, fresh, still smoking, and dropped from above.

​Above us, the high stained-glass dome of the conservatory groaned.