Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) by Chris A. Jackson Page B

narrowed.  “Why
didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”
    “I was hoping to resolve the situation today, but it
didn’t work out.”  The lie came as easily as breathing.  “He’s still
stonewalling.”
    “That’s not very smart of him.  Doesn’t he know
there will be consequences to his actions?”
    “I made that clear to him, sir, but he said he
doesn’t care anymore.  He told me that if we don’t give him back what we took,”
she fixed her eyes on his, “ everybody concerned would share the same
consequences.”
    “Did he now?”  Incredulity arched Hensen’s brow,
creasing the powder on his skin into fine lines.
    “Yes, sir.  And I think he’s serious.”  She sipped
her water, her throat suddenly dry.  Now for the final thrust.  “He said he
didn’t care if his supervisor discovered our…partnership.”
    “And do you believe him?”  Lines of worry appeared
between his knitted brows.
    Fear …  There were few things that
Hensen truly feared, but Lad was definitely on that list.
    “I don’t know, sir.  He’s in a very dangerous state
of mind.  He might—”  Kiesha stopped short as a man in an impeccable suit
approached the table, the owner of The Overlook himself.
    “Well, well!”  Hensen smiled at the approaching
restaurateur.
    “Master Hensen, let me apologize for your unpleasant
experience with our waitstaff.  The fellow was new, but will not have another
chance to displease anyone in my restaurant.  Let me make amends.”  A
flick of a finger summoned the wine steward, two bottles cradled in his arms.  Bowing,
the steward presented them for approval.  “Allow me to offer you these fine
vintages free of charge.”
    “What a lovely sentiment.”  Hensen examined the
bottles and arched his plucked eyebrows.  “A very lovely sentiment indeed. 
Thank you.”
    “It’s my pleasure, Master Hensen.”  The restaurateur
left.  The steward drew the corks and poured their wine with all due ceremony,
then departed.
    “To the fruits of our labors, my dear.”  Hensen
raised his glass to Kiesha, admiring the vintage’s light auburn hue in the
candlelight before taking an appreciative sip.
    Kiesha raised her own glass a scant inch and sipped
the blood-red wine.  It was delicious, of course.  And all it had cost was one
young waiter’s job.  She wondered if her father realized how often his belligerent
actions made him new enemies, or if he simply didn’t care.
    “About our…friend?”
    “We may have to deal with that soon, dear Kiesha,
but I think he’s just upset.  He’ll settle down soon enough.  He always does. 
Then we’ll continue where we left off.”
    “And if he’s not bluffing?”
    “Then we’ll have a serious problem on our hands.” 
Hensen swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed the bouquet.  He sipped the
wine, swished it, and swallowed, then looked vaguely disappointed.  Perhaps the
fruits of his labors weren’t so sweet after all.  “Yes, a very serious problem
indeed.”

Chapter IV

     
     
     
    T wenty thousand souls …
    Gazing out at a sea of tiny yellow spheres flickering
in the pre-dawn mists, Lad wondered if there were as many lamps in Twailin as
there were people.  He used to love this sight.  Many a night he had perched
high atop the bluff to enjoy the view of the flame-bejeweled city.  But as much
as he loved the city, he loved its people even more.  Twenty thousand souls
living and working, sleeping and dying, loving...  Now the view only reminded
him of one soul, the one soul that called to his, the one soul absent from this
sprawling mass of humanity.  His city…each and every street, lane, and alley as
familiar as his wife’s face.
    “Wiggen.”
    This would have been the tenth morning he woke
without her...if he had slept. Before Wiggen, sleep had been just a necessity,
an antidote to fatigue.  But sleeping with Wiggen had been his greatest delight. 
Beyond the lovemaking, the mere act of lying with