Twenty Seven Days
He knew the layout of the brickwork; he knew where the floor sloped toward the old well-receptacles.
Ahead of him, thirty yards down the pipe, a single beam of light cut through the damp gloom. It was shaking—the erratic, uneven movement of a man who was injured.
Julian.
Xavier adjusted his grip on the rifle, his boots making no sound in the shallow layer of silt that lined the floor. He closed the distance with a steady, mechanical pace, his breathing slow and even. The anger that had consumed him in the foyer had turned into something else—something cold and clinical. It was the focus of a Sovereign, but it wasn't directed toward building an empire. It was directed toward tearing it dow
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