And standing on the central catwalk, silhouetted against the emergency strips bolted to the ceiling, is the penultimate fucking shithead.
Stephen Hughes.
He's a wreck. Even from this distance, I can see his destroyed eye, bruised face, and ruined suit. He's gripping the catwalk railing with one hand.
In the other, the engravedBcatching the amber light of the emergency strips, is my treasured bone-handled knife. The one I nailed him with.
He has it.
And I'm going togutthis son of a bitch with it next time.
"Thereyou are," Stephen calls down.
His voice echoes through the auditorium thanks to the acoustics of a space designed to carry sound to the last row.
Between us and the catwalk access stairs on both sides of the house, four personal guards are positioned. Two flanking each stairwell, compact weapons drawn, blocking the only routes to the catwalks.
Stephen planned for this.
The rat bastard actuallyplannedfor us making it this far.
"I have to admit," Stephen continues, his voice carrying the usual sickening calm he uses in every board meeting and contract negotiation, "I'm impressed. You've cost me quite a bit tonight." He shifts on the catwalk, and the metal grating creaks under his weight. "Well over a dozen guards and a considerabledry-cleaning bill. Not to mention the surgeries I'll have to get to fixthis."
He motions to his eye.
"A bit beyond fixing, isn't it?" I mutter.
"What's that?" Stephen demands, cupping his hand around his ear.
I smile pleasantly. "Oh, nothing!"
Stephen's remaining eye narrows. "Anythingcan be fixed with enough money, songbird. Evenyou."
A low snarl rumbles in Raf's chest. His submachine gun is up, aimed at the catwalk, but it wouldn't be an easy shot for someone whose firearms expertise begins and ends withit goes brrrrt.
And if he fires, the guards will fire onus.
I'm pretty damn sure the only reason they haven't is because they'd hit me. And Stephen wants me alive.
"Come down here and I'll add to the bill," Rex growls.
Stephen's single remaining eye finds Rex. He’s wearing that appraising look I hate. The same one he gives a balance sheet or a contract clause or a piece of property he's calculating the value of.
Except now he's looking at Rex's unmasked face.
"Ah," Stephen says, and he twirls my knife between his fingers. "There it is. The face that launched a thousand screams."
Rex's eyes flick away.
I curl my lip at Stephen.
Maybe I won't stop at gutting him. He already neutered himself, apparently. I'll just finish the fucking job.
"You know," Stephen continues, leaning forward on the railing, "I always wondered what was under the mask. I had theories. The surgery photos were... illuminating. Butthis." He gestures with the knife. "The photos didn't do it justice. It's so much worse in person."
My hands curl into fists.
"Look at him," Stephen says, and his voice shifts. He's looking at me now, using that earnest, conspiratorial tone he used when he was managing me. The tone that saidI'm looking out for you, I know what's best."Look at what you chose. A disgustingfreak." His mouth twists. "I offered you the world, songbird. I offered you?—"