“What about everyone else?” Gustavsson speaks up. “The two hundred plus recruits you have working for you.”
“They will be left in the dark,” I announce. “Only the three of you standing in this room, and Kessler, currently out in the field, have been informed of anything. Everyone else will continue as they are, but you are all to cut off communication with them until I say otherwise.”
“And what if someone has important information on Vonnegut?” Woodard asks. “Stiles and McNamara in the Second Division have been working on their mission for a year, and—”
“Is that really the fucking question that needs to be asked here?” Niklas cuts in. He looks right at me, an angry, blameful glare in his eyes. “Do you plan to leave Izzy in the dark, too? You know, I think it’s only the proper thing to do by telling us what happened in Venezuela, what exactly happened to Izabel, and what you intend to do to keep her safe. I know she’s your woman, but quite fucking frankly, you’re not the only one here who cares about her.”
I step forward, into my brother’s space, and stand toe to toe with him—I crack my neck. “Izabel is none of your business, brother.”
Niklas grits his teeth, and his nostrils flare as he inhales a deep breath.
I pop my jaw.
“You’re the reason,” he says, icily, “she almost died—brother.”
“There’s no time for this,” Gustavsson says. Then he looks at me and says with respect, “Niklas may have gone about it all wrong, but it doesn’t make what he said any less true—you’re not the only one who cares about her. All we want to know, Victor, is what you’re willing to tell us. Besides, considering the circumstances surrounding The Order, it’s pretty vital, in my humble opinion, that we know who from The Order saved Izabel’s life and set you free; we have a right to know how much they know, and how close they were—or are—to taking us down. It is the reason we will now be scattered and divided, is it not?”
Satisfied with Gustavsson’s input, Niklas takes a resentful step back. I do the same, not wishing to further this quarrel with my brother.
“I’d like to know as much everybody else,” Izabel says from the doorway.
Victor
Four heads turn in unison to face her; with difficulty, I manage to restrain the enthusiastic swelling of my heart.
“Izabel,” I say, and for a longer moment than intended, it is all I can say.
She is wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs tightly to her curves, a pair of black heels, and a black silk blouse, fully buttoned all the way up to the middle of her throat; a sheer black scarf is wrapped around the upper-half, perfectly concealing the wound on her neck. But no amount of fabric can keep the eyes of others in the room from zoning right in on the very thing she seems to want to hide. She is stunning, as always, but I realize that there is something quite different about her. It is not her dark auburn hair, shorter than usual, done up in springy curls that barely brush her shoulders, or the glittery black barrette that holds her bangs away from her face on the left side; it is not the long, black eyelashes that seem to sweep her face majestically when she blinks, or the light glimmer of her rosy cheeks. It is the power in the depths of her eyes, a fearless necessity, a darkness that can never again hinder or blind her, but will forever be her advantage—it is The Change. And it delights and troubles me just the same.
“It’s good to see you,” Gustavsson says, beaming at her.
He makes his way over and takes her into a hug, in which she happily returns.
Woodard does the same, moving more gracefully these days since he became determined to better his health.
“I-I hope you’re not offended I didn’t try to see you in the hospital,” he says, pulling away from her. “I-I just thought you might want time alone.”
She smiles faintly, and shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, then glances at the rest of us with quiet reprimand. “Actually, I appreciate the gesture.” She examines Woodard with a curious and impressed sweep of her eyes. “You’re looking good, James. I’m proud of you.”
Woodard smiles giddily. “Aw, thanks, Izabel.” He pats his stomach with his palm. “Lost nineteen pounds already.”
Izabel smiles, close-lipped.
Then she turns her attention to Niklas; she walks toward him. I—and Niklas, judging by the look of expectation on his face—thinks she is going to say something to him, but she passes him up and comes my way instead.
“Have you told them yet?” she asks.
I pause, thinking. “Told them what?”
She glances back at everyone else, and then her eyes fall on me. “About the bounty on my head.”
“No,” I say, “but I planned to.”
“What about the bounty?” Niklas says, stepping up closer. “We already knew there was one—we all have bounties on our heads.”
“Yes,” I say, “but things have become more complicated.”
“How so?” Gustavsson asks.
Niklas narrows his eyes, chews on the inside of his mouth; I will never get used to my brother looking at me that way, as if everything is my fault, as though I am the Devil in a suit.
Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am.
I leave them all, Izabel included, and make my way toward the window again. I can feel their eyes on me from behind, the anticipation, the impatience, and the resentment from my brother.
I inhale deeply, and fold my hands together down in front of me again. “I will tell you all about the bounty, the surprising and…concerning possibilities surrounding it. But first, I will tell you how Izabel’s life was saved.”