Chapter 4 - A King Without His Queen
Arthur covered Clara with his body while bullets tore through the ranger station walls.
Wood splintered above them. The lamp shattered. Snow and broken glass blew through the window as three black vehicles surrounded the cabin.
“Back exit?” Arthur asked.
“Blocked by a frozen ravine.”
“Cellar?”
“No.”
“How many?”
Clara listened to the gunfire.
“Eight, possibly ten.”
Arthur gave a grim smile. “You always were optimistic.”
She shoved the pistol he had given her back into his hand. “You shoot better.”
“You plan better.”
Another bullet struck the stove.
Arthur rolled behind the wooden table and fired twice through the broken window. A man outside cried out. Clara crawled toward the emergency radio and found the cable severed.
“They arrived before you,” she said.
“They wanted us together.”
“Then this is not only Vincent.”
Arthur’s eyes met hers.
They reached the same conclusion.
Someone had known Clara’s location, Vincent’s plans, and Arthur’s response before any of those details should have connected.
Samuel Price.
A voice outside called through a portable speaker.
“Ms. Hughes, bring us the key and you may leave.”
Arthur looked toward the manila envelope beside the duffel bag.
“What key?”
“Not now.”
“I crossed four states to keep you alive. I would like to know what they are shooting at us for.”
“The evidence I collected before joining you.”
Arthur went still.
“You investigated me.”
“At first.”
“How much did you find?”
“Enough.”
A bullet struck the wall inches from his shoulder.
Arthur fired toward the muzzle flash.
“Strangely, I feel offended.”
“You told me I was replaceable. We are not discussing professional betrayal tonight.”
Despite the danger, something almost like amusement entered his eyes. It disappeared quickly.
The speaker sounded again.
“You have two minutes.”
Clara studied the room. Ranger stations were designed for forest fires, missing hikers, and winter emergencies. A red metal cabinet stood near the rear wall.
She crawled toward it and opened the doors.
Inside were road flares, emergency blankets, climbing rope, and two cans of fuel.
Arthur understood immediately.
“No.”
“You have a better idea?”
“Yes. I go outside.”
“They will kill you.”
“They want the key, not me.”
“They want both.”
“Clara—”
“We have worked together for five years. Do not become stupid because you are apologizing.”
His mouth tightened.
“That is not an acceptance of my apology.”
“It was not intended to be.”
Clara tied the climbing rope around the metal leg of the stove, then carried the other end toward the rear window. Beneath the cabin, the ground sloped toward the ravine. Snow covered the rocks, but a narrow maintenance ledge ran along the side.
“We use the fire as cover,” she said. “The fuel goes near the front. When the cabin burns, they’ll expect us to leave through the rear door. We go through the window and follow the ledge north.”
Arthur looked at the wound forming along her cheek, the dark hair she had adopted, and the plain clothes that belonged to a life without him.
“You planned an escape before I arrived.”
“I always plan an escape.”
“I remember.”
He poured fuel across the front room.
Clara lit two road flares. She threw one onto the soaked floor and held the second.
Flames raced across the wood.
Smoke climbed instantly.
Arthur fired through the front wall, forcing the attackers down. Clara broke the rear window with the shotgun stock and secured the rope.
“You first,” he said.
She climbed onto the sill.
Gunfire erupted outside.
Arthur fired until the pistol locked empty, then followed her through the window. They descended the icy wall while flames consumed the cabin above them.
An attacker reached the rear corner and spotted Arthur.
Clara raised the shotgun from the ledge.
The blast threw the man backward.
Arthur stared at her.
“What?”
“You missed his chest.”
“I wanted him alive.”
“You shot his knee.”
“He still has the other one.”
They reached the bottom of the ravine and disappeared among the trees.
Behind them, the ranger station burned bright against the snow.
They traveled north for nearly an hour. Arthur’s expensive shoes offered little traction, and blood darkened his coat where a bullet had grazed his side.
Clara noticed but said nothing until he stumbled.
“Sit down.”
“I am fine.”
“You are bleeding.”
“I have experienced bleeding before.”
“And every time, I was the person who stopped it.”
The words silenced them both.
Arthur sat against a fallen tree.
Clara opened the small medical kit from her bag and cut through the side of his shirt. The bullet had carved a deep line beneath his ribs but had not entered.
She cleaned the wound.
Arthur watched her hands.
“You should let me bleed.”
“I considered it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because dying would allow you to avoid accountability.”
A quiet breath escaped him. It might have been a laugh.
Clara taped gauze over the wound.
Arthur’s gaze remained on her face. “I searched every airport.”
“I know.”
“Every station. Every border route.”
“I know.”
“I thought you had gone to the authorities.”
“You thought I betrayed you?”
“No.”
“Marcus did.”
“Marcus evaluates possibilities.”
“And Vincent accused me.”
Arthur’s eyes sharpened. “How do you know?”
“I know how he thinks.”
“So did you. Better than I did.”
Clara placed the medical supplies back inside the bag.
“You stopped listening months ago.”
“I stopped listening because every time you warned me, I heard how much you cared.”
“That frightened you?”
“It made me weak.”
“No, Arthur. It made you human.”
He looked toward the burning glow behind the trees.
“My father taught me that love creates leverage. He loved my mother. His enemies used her to control him until there was nothing left of either of them.”
Clara had heard fragments about Arthur’s childhood but never this much. His father, Lorenzo Costello, had ruled through terror. Arthur’s mother had disappeared when he was eleven. No one in the family spoke her name.
“What happened to her?” Clara asked.
“My father suspected she was helping federal agents. He locked her inside the east wing for six months.” Arthur’s voice was distant. “One morning, she was gone. He said she ran away.”
“You did not believe him.”
“I found her necklace in the furnace.”
Clara’s hands became still.
Arthur looked at her. “I decided I would never need anyone enough to be destroyed by their absence.”
“And then I left.”
“Yes.”
The single word held more truth than every apology he had attempted.
Clara stood.
“We need to keep moving.”
Arthur pushed himself upright.
“Will you ever forgive me?”
She looked at him across the snowy darkness.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded once.
It was not the answer he wanted, but he accepted it.
They reached an old hunting road shortly before dawn. Sheriff Cooper waited beside a state police vehicle with Marcus Vale and three Costello guards.
The sheriff aimed her weapon at Arthur.
“Step away from Clara.”
Arthur obeyed.
Marcus moved toward him. “We tracked the shooters’ radios. Reinforcements are searching the forest.”
“Take one alive,” Clara said. “The man I injured should still be near the cabin.”
Cooper looked between them. “You two appear disturbingly comfortable giving orders.”
“We have practice,” Clara replied.
They drove to a secure farmhouse owned by one of Daniel’s contacts. Arthur’s doctor treated the wound while Marcus questioned the captured attacker.
At noon, Marcus entered the farmhouse kitchen holding a phone.
“The prisoner talked.”
“Vincent?” Arthur asked.
“He received orders through an intermediary.”
“Who?”
Marcus placed the phone on the table. A photograph showed an older man leaving a private airfield. Silver hair. Narrow face. Dark overcoat.
Clara recognized him immediately.
“Samuel Price.”
Arthur studied her reaction. “The federal investigator?”
“My handler.”
“The dead one?”
“He was declared dead eight years ago.”
Marcus continued. “Price has been operating through an intelligence consulting firm. He provided Vincent with financial information and promised federal protection after the Costello organization collapsed.”
“Why does he want Clara’s archive?” Arthur asked.
Clara stared at the photograph.
“Because it proves he built the corruption network he later assigned me to investigate.”
Price had never wanted justice. He had used federal resources to identify vulnerable officials, then sold that information to criminal families. When Clara began tracing the payments back to him, he placed her inside Arthur’s organization and expected her to die there.
Instead, she survived.
Worse, she kept records.
“He knows the deposit box location,” Clara said.
Marcus shook his head. “Then why does he need the key?”
“The bank requires both the physical key and biometric verification.”
Arthur looked at her. “Yours?”
“Yes.”
“Then Price cannot open it without you.”
Clara’s false phone began ringing.
Only Daniel had the number.
She answered.
No one spoke.
Then she heard breathing followed by a familiar voice.
“Clara,” Daniel said weakly. “Do not give them anything.”
A blow sounded.
Price came onto the line.
“You were always my most promising recruit,” he said. “Bring the key to Chicago by midnight tomorrow, or Mr. Reed will become another man you failed to save.”
The call ended.
Arthur took the phone from Clara’s hand.
“No.”
“Daniel helped me escape.”
“That is why Price chose him.”
“I will not abandon him.”
“You are not walking into that bank.”
Clara faced him. “You do not command me anymore.”
Pain crossed his expression, but he did not argue with the statement.
“Then let me help you.”
“I cannot trust your empire.”
“Neither can I.”
Marcus looked at Arthur.
It was the first time any of them had heard him say those words.
Arthur removed his signet ring—the symbol every Costello captain recognized—and placed it on the table.
“Vincent knew our operations because I gave him authority. Price reached Clara because my organization created the path. This empire is no longer protection.”
“What are you proposing?” Marcus asked.
Arthur looked at Clara.
“We destroy it before Price can take it.”
Clara studied the ring resting between them.
For years, Arthur had treated the Costello name like a throne built from sacred stone. He had killed to defend it and sacrificed every gentle part of himself to remain worthy of it.
Now he was offering to burn it.
Not to win Clara back.
To give her a chance to survive.
“What happens after?” she asked.
Arthur’s voice was quiet.
“If we live, you walk away free.”
“And you?”
“I answer for what I’ve done.”
Clara wanted to believe him.
Belief had once cost her five years.
This time, she would require proof.
“Then we go to Chicago,” she said. “But we do it my way.”
May you like
Arthur almost smiled.
“It always was.”
