Page 82 of The Last Kingdom

He agreed.

But he was still counting on Marc Fenn to move forward.

In fact, it was his only play left.

* * *

COTTON WALKED DOWN THE HALL, PAST THE RESTROOMS THAT HADserved as a lure and back to the main office. Koger followed. The glass partitions bore dozens of bullet scars. Everything seemed morbidly quiet, a fitting backdrop to the carnage. Randy Miller lay on the carpet, propped semi-upright against the outer glass wall, blood splatters smeared across the clear surface, bullet shatters spreading like spiderwebs. The overweight frame had contorted in death, the smell sickening from all of the body fluids shed.

“We needed him alive,” Koger said of Miller.

“Which explains why they shot him.”

He held his breath and crouched down close to the body. The shirt had been shredded and frayed from the entry wounds. A glimmer caught his eye through the cloth on the bloodied chest. The chain with the ward key. He loosened Miller’s tie, opened the shirt at the neck, and yanked the chain free.

“We may need this.”

He pocketed the key.

“And there’s one more thing.” Koger crouched down and rifled through Miller’s pockets, finding an ID card and a ring of keys. “I need this to get into his apartment and the archives.”

Cotton checked his watch. “I’m going to go to that law firm and see what there is to find, if anything.”

“I’ll call in a cleanup team. This is a mess. In more ways than one.”

He agreed.

“You realize that if Rife knew we were here, he might know about that law firm too,” Koger said.

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Watch yourself.”

Chapter 44

LUKE WAS SURPRISED THAT THE PRINCE HAD INSISTED THAT HEaccompany Christophe back to the Guglmänner. Toni had been a little put off not to be included, but the prince had made clear that the black hoods were an all-boys club, always on the lookout for new recruits. “Herr Smith should make a great addition to their ranks,” he’d told Christophe. “Which will give us two among the ranks.”

“The grand master is a man named Marc Fenn,” Christophe told him as they walked. “He’s wealthy, smart, and obsessed.”

“Apparently not smart enough to know he has a double agent working for him.”

Christophe smiled with a confidence he’d come to detest. “Maybe I’m just good.”

Back home in Tennessee, this cocky ass would definitely qualify for redneck status. Which wasn’t bad, by any means. He’d proudly wornthe label all through puberty and into his teenage years. Even now he occasionally was tagged. Which he liked. But that didn’t mean he enjoyed dealing with ’em. Like one of his buddies used to say,You can pick your friends and pick your nose, but you can’t wipe your friends on your saddle.

“Maybe you are that good,” he said, giving the idiot the credit he wanted and hoping it would loosen his tongue. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Fenn wants to see me. They’re moving forward with things, just like we hoped. It’s our job to get involved with these idiots as deep as we can.”

They were walking the streets of Munich, the sidewalks packed with people. Christmas loomed two weeks away and the city was all decked out in anticipation. His watch read a little past 10:00A.M.The pale orb of a wintry sun glimmered in a cloudy sky, coaxing the world to light. All of the animosity from last night on the Chiemsee seemed to have waned. That was another thing about rednecks. Short memories. New battles to fight. Toni had gone with Stefan and he wondered what else might be on the prince’s mind. The background info he’d been briefed on noted that the guy was a bit of a ladies’ man. He doubted he’d make much headway with Toni since she seemed more than capable of handling herself, but for some reason he didn’t like the thought of him trying.

They turned off the sidewalk into an outdoor market. A painted sign above the entrance, adorned with fresh pine boughs, readMITTELALTERMARKT. Entering was like stepping back in time to the Middle Ages, complete with the flying of colors, period dress, food, drink, and olden crafts. Everything was buzzy and festive. Dancers were garbed in Renaissance attire. Vendors role-played medieval characters. Blacksmiths crafted swords. Glass was being hand-blown. A pig roasted on a spit. The apple fritters at one of the booths looked delicious. Christophe stopped at another vendor and ordered two meads.

“What is it?” Luke asked.

“Fermented honey wine. Time you learn to drink like an ancient German.”

The brownish liquid came served in red clay mugs that seemed awfully fragile, their thin handles just begging to be snapped off. He sipped the mead, thick and sweet with hints of fruit and spice. Not his thing, but he wasn’t going to let anyone know that. So he followed Christophe’s lead and downed the whole mug.

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